Bombay is incorrigibly sexy. It isn't sensual like Cal. But it sure is sexy.
I am of course, a fish out of water here. I'm big and ungainly and awkward. I speak softly and slowly and stammer ridiculously at times (I have authority issues). I don't ask people for their numbers or "mingle" much. I do the usual bit. And I'm friendly within limits. But I can't do the sexy cool thing. I will of course have to work with my inadequacies. I can't be sexy cool overnight now, can I? And I'm not particularly keen on attempting this sexy cool thing either. I'll just have to figure something out I suppose.
I'm two shoots old, and it was nice enough I suppose. I should be more excited, but I'm not there yet. I constantly question my life choices. Maybe this wasn't it? Maybe it is too early to tell? I don't know.
I like to read. I like to write. I like to watch films. I like to travel. But why do I want to become a filmmaker? I used to know, I think - but I don't anymore.
The people at work are usually nice. But I can't help feeling that, I'm gate crashing.

Today my phone battery is low, balance tottering on zero, work uncertain and definitely a fat day. Fuckety fuck.

New

Hello New Year. How are you? Firstly, I would have to say, you look pretty neat. 2010. And you're nice to say. Twozeroonezero. Twenty ten. I ushered you in, in a pretty happy state of mind, not feeling inadequate or incomplete like I usually do. I missed seeing the blue moon because some boy got drunk and fell down the stairs. I think he's okay now and I'm not particularly upset. Beginning of the year, I am happy. I am the same weight as I was in the beginning of 2009, which was a lot, but then I had lost it by April-ish and put it all back post September. But it's okay. I'm not fussy.
I feel well rested. I have many books to read, films to watch and lots of work to do. Which is always good. My love life, twenty ten, is dismal as usual. But only on paper, only statistically. I am surprisingly happy at my present state of being. It's uncomplicated, and I don't feel piny or whiny. In the room the men come and go, talking of Michelangelo. It's all good.
I started the year with a Bergman movie - Winter Light. The one in the faith trilogy I hadn't seen. It was accompanied by left over pizza and bit of coke. I love junk food and intelligent cinema. I revel in it.
Anyway, so I was watching that extra indie film with the DVD, Intermezzo I think it was called - an interview with the then 83 year old Bergman. The man had in him more passion than a 17 year old. I am so smitten.
So 2010, I will pause here. My movie marathon continues and must go and get happy. I wish you all the best. I hope you are peaceful and tolerant. I hope you are exciting and warm. I hope you are lucky and fun. I will do my best to make you memorable and cool. See you tomorrow.
Love,
Engee.

So long, so very long

Yesterday was like a mini 2009. 2009 has been excruciatingly long, with too many people and too many changes. Yesterday was long. I divided myself into many people - I did not particularly like one part of me during the night, but it doesn't really matter.
I went to visit an old friend. I walked a bit. It's brilliant in Cal now. It's a proper winter after ages. There's this lazy, wonderful sun winking at you through the dusty trees - there's a smell of oranges and cold cream - everything that makes winter in Calcutta a proper winter. I was trying to de-romanticize it as much as I could while walking down this lane - but I really am not frillying it. It was pretty damn it. Like this old, persistent lover, reminding you that, she's still got that certain something that no other boob job floosey can ever have.
But then there came a time in the evening where I was reminded why I left Cal in the first place. It's bloody small, and everyone knows everyone. Everyone goes to fucking Park Street in the evening when they want to go out for a drink. With talks of same and same and same.
I want my room in Pune, I want my frog pond, the hills. I want my flat in Bangalore, beer in coffee cups and shivering smokes in the verandah. I want my Delights Dosa and green benches and guitar in Xavier's. My Yeats classes, my Look Back in Anger classes. My Sudoku in Mirza's classes. My metro ride home. My auto rides to my many homes. Screenings. Editing at night. My millions of afternoons at Esplanade Mansions. My room in S1. The kitchen. The TV. My fucking life in a million fucking pieces. Cannot be. Is not. In Park Street. Drinking. Stupidly. With talks of same.
Fuck, I feel old. And I fill full. Stuffed. And I'm trying too hard to be profound. It's just one of the days. I can't articulate. I can't be simple and unpretentious. I'm vague and horrible.

Home?

So here's the deal. I'm back in Cal, I have a job in Bombay and it feels like I've left my entire life behind in Bangalore. Home is okay. I don't have my room to myself, but I surprisingly don't care. Right now, everyone's at work or something. There's the comfort of familiarity. Smells of frying fish, cold cream, aftershave. But this could be anywhere - because I'm not here in my head.
I guess an independent life spoils you. This is not the feeling I had when I came back home from hostel. Then I'd be irritable, I'd be dying for a smoke, I'd be bored without my friends around me all the time. It's not like that now. I know it's only been a day, but I miss the simple things, just the simple rituals of a simple day. I miss boiling the milk in the morning. Having my coffee my way. Kellog's Oat bites. Watching the news and VH1 while chomping on cereal. Cooking dinner. A smoke after dinner. Desultory, but still independent. It's not like that at home.
But, I'm at peace. I don't feel particularly irritable or restless or anything. Yes, I get mollycoddled a bit, and there are way too many questions first thing in the morning - but it's okay. These are my people and they love me. Why be a sourpuss about that?
Life goes on. I know Bombay won't be like Bangalore. It's unfair to expect that from Bombay. It's a different city, with different people - just like Cal is different. It's not better or worse. It's just different. And you get used to anything. So yeah. Note to self: Stop getting so goddamn sentimental.
Note to S1: Cook, clean, wash dishes, watch Glee, Grey's and HIMYM (you can order from Chung's then), go out for brunch, talk, C don't smoke alone too much, switch off the gas, do random dances, and stop spending so bloody much! :)

Govinda rules

Keifer Sutherland, superhit. That's how old I am today.
I have never been crazy about birthdays. I mean, I like them, but it always seems like a day filled with the pressure of being happy. It's a birthday, but why does it HAVE to be happy?
When I was a kid, I used to love birthdays. Not just mine, everyone's. I'd love to wake up on a cold morning (those days, it would be cold in Cal in December), and watch my parents put up streamers in the living room. Then there'd be loads of hugs and kisses, a card, a gift, the cake for later on in the evening. 21st would be the last day of school, so everyone would be superhappy, pushing all the desks to the corner of the classroom, putting up Christmas decorations and just doing all the crazy after exam before holiday things. We'd sing carols, stage silly plays, then dance on top of the desks. Some cool kid would bring her "deck" and that's it. Even the head mistress couldn't do a thing about it. D would get alu kabli and samosas, and I'd probably get Pepsi in a flask, someone would get something or the other, and we'd have a feast. If we got some pocket money, we'd buy orange sticks.
Back home, we'd have a party - which was fun, but even then, I was always a little stressed out. Everyone would be there. Right from Didu Mashi and Mesho Dadu to my dance teacher and best friend from the neighbourhood. I'd be bratty and nyaka and stress out about my "new dress" which I had to wear no matter what. The funnest part was when everyone finally left, the lights were dimmed, and Dada and I would sit and open my presents. Before I knew it, the day would be over - but I wouldn't mind terribly because Christmas and Baba's birthday would just be 4 days away.
Over the years, the wonder of happy birthdays did fade - but then again, you're not six forever. Presents make me nervous, too many wishes make me depressed, I feel old, I feel restless - I don't know - I just want the day to finish fast so that everyone can bloody relax. I guess I never know what to do with too much attention, even if it is all real, and born out of love. I'm always scared that my gratitude will not be enough - that I might seem ungrateful or unhappy. I'm not - I'm happy - I really, really am. And I am grateful for all that I have in my life. Okay, enough.
So I decided to celebrate Keifer in Bangalore and I am so, so glad. We had the funnest time last night - which had water pistols, champagne, fake bands, a Christmas tree (so so pretty), Chiniss bulbs, delish food and delish friends. We ALL got presents, and no-one got drunk or stupid, which you will realise after a while, is a GOOD thing. I was genuinly, completely happy.
I love this home, and it breaks my heart to leave. But, none of that now. For today though, thanks man.

Wake up, 'cause they said so

I was just thinking the other day while flipping through news channels that, if I were a journalist - I'd be very very tired of the world. And very very cynical. It has got to be one of the toughest times being a journalist now. In fact, it's a pretty tough time being an Indian as well. We're a democracy - we decide our own fates - or do we?
With all our idealistic youthfulness, we decide voting helps. Voting for the right people helps. But pray, who are these right people? And more importantly, how many of us know them? It's not just a lack of education that deceives us. Sometimes too much of it does. We are stirred into action by Arnab Goswami's in-your-face "journalism" on television. We are thrilled by Rahul Gandhi's deep dimples and well, serious insights. We are wowed by Sashi Tharoor and P. Chidambaram's eloquence. We light candles and we sing songs like it's Woodstock. We blog, we campaign. We become "responsible citizens". We hate the bad guys, we cheer on the good guys. We are, in a word, "jagoing". Because a big daddy of the corporate world told us so. The same big daddy who abandoned a small district in Bengal the moment he smelled trouble. See what I mean?
I don't mean to be cynical. I would like to believe that the words of Mahatma - "Be the change you want to see" - are not just words. That brand Mahatma is not just for the benefit of a pen company. Or that there's nothing beyond Mahatma that made India.
What is this country we are living in now? A country where it's okay to parade women naked, beat them at will, keep them uneducated? A country where a Dalit MP builds statues worth millions of herself instead of building schools or hospitals? A country where to become a doctor, you have to "donate" money to so that the principal can enjoy a nice bottle of Chianti or a rendezvous in Switzerland? A country that has ceased to have a mind of its own?
If we allow it - we're indifferent - we're just a bunch of complaining fools. If we don't allow it - well, we run the risk of being killed sometimes. Catch 22. I'm plain depressed.

I hate all this talk. I hate it. Fuck it. Just do things. Blog about it later. Make witty ads about it later. Send edgy emailers about it later. Clean the mess you're in first. Then you can take care of the world.

I hate deciding. I feel like a chump now. But oh well. I did decide eventually, and the ball is no longer in my court.
I saw Rocket Singh Salesman of the year yesterday and I loved it. I think people who have been in shitty jobs like Rocket's (15000 a month, without PF or Gratuity or dignity....ring a bell?) will appreciate it the most.
I need a BRAND NEW thing to look forward to. Like a snowing city. Or bagel and cream cheese. Or riding a bike (not cycle, motor). Or a fun boyfriend. Or a new TV series. Or singing on stage. You know what I mean? I'm beginning to feel a little jaded. Sigh.

On the Road - again.

So I'm officially a post graduate, beer bottle breaker, chronic train traveller and violent insect killer now.

We lived in a small hotel room in Pune, where all these boys came, drank and left beer bottles in the verandah and then I accidentally dropped one, which made the hotel owner think we were a bunch of rowdies. We were, but not that much also. Pune is dusty, indifferent and kind of depressing.I still like FTII though, much much more than my own college.

I was supposed to go back to my new crispy city after our sham convocation, but then Bombay called me again. Bombay has been totally fucking with my head. It just can't decide whether to like me or not. I honestly do not care. I just want to go back home and watch How I Met Your Mother. But while I was here, I spoke to some people, made epic journeys from Harbour Lines to Western Lines, ate Apple Chicken once again and bought a hat from Colaba.

I have a slight cold now, from all the pollution and travel and too much smoking. I always end up smoking way too much in Pune, and I don't like it.

Among other things, my old boss bitched about me, I wrote an emotional letter to a professor and I have a crush on this guy on my FB list, when I really, really shouldn't. I should sleep now. I'm still in Bombay and am wearing S's clothes. Goodnight.

It's done folks. I have QUIT!

Do you realiiiiiiiize?

....That I'm basically one big whiner? So, it's time. To stop. And move on with with whatever needs to be moved on with. End of the day, I plan to submit my resignation letter (the proper one) and go home jobless, penniless et cetera. Which is okay - I am going to do what a recent acquaintance calls "smelling the flowers".

I never thought I'd be a copywriter, but I was one for almost 6 months - and they haven't been altogether wasted. I have learnt a few things, and also reached level 35 of Mafia Wars (woohoo).

2009 has been a year of endless waiting. Nothing much happened, apart from the usual KLPD, but yes, I did shift to a new city with great friends, a lovely home and awesome weather - and for that I'm grateful. I never got to see Rahul Dravid though, and for that, I am sorely disappointed.
I could say I want something utterly fabulous to happen by the end of this year, but I don't. I want it to be status quo, and very very still, so that I can hear myself think. Right now, I must finish whatever work's left, so that they don't eat my head up about how "unprofessional" I am.

Today is Grey

I had a dream last night that my parents, my brother and I went on a road trip of some kind. We stopped by some dhabaesque place, tubelit in the evening, eating a thali (I'd never eat a thali at a dhaba, fyi - only tandoori roti, kaali daalish stuff) and my father walked out for some work outside. I followed him out and saw him at a paan dokan buying either paan or cigarettes. My father doesn't smoke or chew paan, so it was a little weird seeing him there. But I thought I saw something akin to a cigarette in his hands. So I took one out myself and lit up in front of him. But when I went closer, it wasn't a cigarette at all, but one of those Charlie Chaplin cigarette candy thingies. And here I am, in front of my father, smoking away to glory. So he's like, "Wtf! You're smoking?" and I'm like, "Yeah, I thought you were smoking", and he's shocked, devastated even, but I keep smoking, because I don't know what else to do. And then I say, making matters worse, "Look, I smoke okay? Just one a day. Maybe two. Maximum three. And those two months I was in Cal, I barely smoked" - and of course, he's still in shock - and I'm almost done with the smoke, but still not stubbing it. Then I finally do, and he puts his arm around me and says, "Look, I'm not stupid. You lived in hostel, went to college - you get exposed to all kinds of things - but this is terrible for you. This is not how we brought you up". And I'm just glad he's talking to me, so I'm still a little arrogant. We go in, and I sit next to my mother and she scrunches up her nose and says "You smoked or what? Smelling of cigarettes...". By now, I have nothing to lose, because my father knows, and I'm like "Yeah, yeah, I smoked. I do smoke, so get over it already". And my parents are suddenly looking at me like I'm another person altogether, and I feel like I'm no longer their daughter and my brother is just shaking his head in disappointment.

So yeah. Some road trip.

I'm pretty sure though, this is how the turn of events would be in real life as well, were it to happen. Maybe I'd get a whack on the head, additionally and be called something akin to "paka", which is a delicious little Bengali word with no appropriate translation. Over-ripe? Ahead of oneself? Meh.

December 6th, is my convocation. It's not in America or UK, it's not snowing, and none of my parents or family members will be there, but I will get a hat and a robe and a lame ass degree. So yay. I'm in love with the underdog myth, which is an indirect way of saying I'm in love with myself, but oh well - it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.

It really is a small world sometimes. Like our small school world. College world. Post Grad world. Work world. In these little worlds of ours, we really are separated by six degrees. Everyone, knows every fucking one. It is bloody scary.
I wish I could give an example (in fact I tried, but deleted it), but everyone would know who I was talking about, because you guessed it - Everyone knows everyone.

Anyway, I'm supposed to be working on some really boring stuff today, so of course I'm playing mafia wars. I discovered the joys of photolibrary.com, and I love it. I've been designing random things of late, like party invites, wedding invites etc, and I think I should just sell them (see Nic, I'd do it for money. I lurve money).

December is drawing nearer. I can't help but think of Delhi, the trip to Rajasthan, my pretty room with a mouldy verandah and cold sunshine, the sharp stars in Ranthambore. I think I vaguely miss it. But I've said this before, so yeah. Last year, this time, we were glued to Uttam's computer watching the news, and feeling some strange unidentifiable feeling. The world has not changed at all.

I miss Cal in winter too. Park Street, chinese bulbs, monkey tupi, impending Christmas. I miss college and choir and looking out of room 19 into the college courtyard at a big bright star when I wanted to zone out from the lectures. This one, below. I miss it.

Anyway, I am SO maudlin. I have an uncertain December ahead of me. I'd like to go someplace with snow, I really do.

Okay, anyway, it's been 2 hours since I've come to work and not done a thing. Time to get back.

I have lost a telephone
with your smell in it

I am living beside the radio
all the stations at once
but I pick out a Polish lullaby
I pick it out of the static
it fades I wait I keep the beat
it comes back almost alseep

Did you take the telephone
knowing I'd sniff it immoderately
maybe heat up the plastic
to get all the crumbs of your breath

and if you won't come back
how will you phone to say
you won't come back
so that I could at least argue

- Leonard Cohen, Waiting for Marianne

Bird on the wire

It's strange weather. It get's cold, then hot and then it rains and gets cold again.

Right now, I'm supposed to "reposition" an ad. Maybe I wouldn't have to if they just let me "position" it in the first place. But like many things, this too followed the general brief of - "Dumb it down" - and hence.

I needed a little bit of a change a few days ago, so I went out by myself to buy some books and generally strolled around the city. I bought way too many books, which I know I probably even won't have time to read, but still, it felt nice just to have them. I went to the Magazine store to check out the Persian cat, but he wasn't there. I quite like that cat. Then I went to another store to buy some face scrub and kajaal, because I needed it. There is no point to this really.

I wish sometimes, I didn't have any of the post adoloscent existential angst. I wish I could be as happy as it seems on paper without having to dig and analyse and mutilate. Or maybe, I wish that I could just channel it differently. Yes, I think that's what I would like very, very much. I don't like this vegetable at all.

On Saturday, same day as my solitary excursion, I spent the afternoon pleasantly stoned, as gloomy Saturday afternoons are meant to be spent. I had my yellow table lamp on, and the room was clean and toasty. I had a sudden urge to read Eliot - I hadn't for months now.

So I read The Selected Poems, the one with my mother's pencilled scrawls, and I felt all, "Aha, yes"ish. I read the last stanza of Prufrock and thought of Marcello, from La Dolce Vita, and how he couldn't hear the girl at the beach. And then of course, because we all think we're poets, I thought about myself. It was a pleasant stoning.

After reading his recent post, I wonder why I'm really stalling this quitting process. Maybe, because my Dad asked me to hold on for a few more days. Till I get something new. Maybe. Or like many things, I'm too afraid to take a chance. I'm too happy being miserable. Is that it? I don't know. I think I just like to not do anything. That's that really. I just like to sit on a wire, bobbing up and down, and watch as the world passes me by. And I'm quite excellent at it, if I may say so myself.

Look, look

Today, I just felt like showing off a friend's fantastic work. A real inspiration - a very cooky, hands on photographer. Got me used to the fact that Photoshop can be used not only to correct a photograph, but to enhance it - make it absolutely funky. And I've seen her grow as a photographer - develop different styles and a visual language of her own - so it feels great to share this link with you guys and let you in on what I know. Presenting the very talented Suenno's photostream.
Check out her sets and collections for more organised viewing.

Everybody Wants To Be Found

But nobody's looking. So after watching what I can easily say is an almost perfectly scripted film, I feel strangely liberated. It's almost relavant as well, but I feel more like Bill Murray than Scarlett Johansson. Bill Murray looks like a big sigh. Even when he's smiling. No? I absolutely love him.
I would like to write more, but right now my brain feels like fuzz. I am STILL working here, and I'm tired of being a whiny, irritatable/ting person with a sigh-like face. Maybe, I will update this later.

The letter that wasn't

This is what I'd LOVE to say:
Dear X and Y,
While it's been wonderful working at your organisation, where I downloaded hours worth of music, videos, played Mafia Wars and Facebooked like crazy, I think it's time for me to quit. I think this arrangement would suit both you and me, because you see, no wait, what am I saying? You DON'T see. You don't see ANYTHING. You're like 2 blind mice, trying to take my eyes out as well like some crazy Saw movie. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I cannot continue to romanticize my flaking wallflower existence anymore, because turns out, someone else beat me to it. The entire point of working in a small organisation is to learn more and do more - and stick to it despite a poor salary, no PF, no conveyance and no insurance of any kind. It would have been FINE. But you know, it's NOT, when your bosses treat you like shit despite working hard and making an effort to be, well, friendly. Yes, yes, I know, I'm making it sound like I'm some sort of a poor victim here (which incidentally, I AM), but let's forget the whining for a bit. I am concerned X and Y. I am concerned because your organisation is small, and barely staying afloat and you still faff around like you're in college. You send an inexperienced newbie like me, to go and deal with a client, because you stormed out of a meeting, because you felt insulted. You almost lost a client and sent ME, to salvage things? Like, seriously? It's been almost a year since you got this office, and you've still not done it up. Your generator doesn't work beyond an hour. You forget to pay your bills. You lie all the time on the phone and you're always making fun of clients. And the jokes aren't even funny.
And let's get to the work bit. I get it agencies can sometimes be slow. Sometimes there's a lot of work, sometimes none for days. But when there IS work, and you're making me do it, kindly acknowledge the fact that you have received my emails and actually READ what I have written. Because there have been times you know, when you haven't even opened an attachment and forwarded it to the clients. And it's not like you unquestionably trust my abilities - you're just frikking lazy man. Next time, I'll just write about Debbie doing Dallas and....oh wait, there won't BE a next time.
Anyhoo. Thanks for all the free internet and...yeah, that's about it.
Toodles.
Engee.

This is a blind kind of love

How else would you explain it? When you don't see what other's see so clearly, so evidently. How you'd just freefall into something so obviously dubious (obvious to others, not to you). How you'd just give up your most deeply guarded thoughts and possessions for that single ounce of love in return. My mom was right (moms always are). The only reason why blind love sucks is because, eventually, it hurts. Like fucking much. Not her exact words, of course, but you know what I mean.
In my defence, and perhaps in the defence of others, this is the only way I know how to love or live. I freefall into jobs, major decisions, relationships, crises, comforts - everything. I never think things through. I may give it a semblence of logic when I'm arguing my case, but seriously, who am I kidding? I'm never really thinking. Which is why, blind love is stupid, you lovestruck puppy you. Which is why, when you gain a little vision, you realise (sometimes much too late), that you are up the shit creek without a paddle. Life stinks. So get real. Get yourself checked. And yes, maybe get a little miserable before, so that you don't get miserable after.
So yeah, Tennyson would say a lot of flouncy little words to argue with my mom (en garde!) - "Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." - et cetera, and well, I agree. You all need a little bit of pain to get real - but 'get real' it eventually does. It'll be stripped of all its poetry and wonder, and be a hot little sore on your ass. Can you deal with it? If you can, go ahead, love and lose. FYI, people with sob stories about ex-es are painfully boring. It's okay a couple of times, but after sometime, it's like, "Meh. Here we go again."
Now, if for some reason, your blind love is luckily a bullseye (don't we all wish that?), then woohoo. You're the one everyone will compare themselves to and follow your lead, and end up really hurt and miserable because they weren't that lucky. But seriously, woohoo. So happy for you.

Sigh. I realise this sounds rather cynical, but really, I'm seeing much too much of it. Take care of your gooshy little hearts amigos, because, well...my mom said so.

Update: (Thanks Nic) -
See these -
http://luca.wordpress.com/2009/05/19/un-voices-campaign/
http://www.digitalbuzzblog.com/best-job-in-the-world-case-study/

Complain, complain

Today for a change, I was early for work. As always, there was no-one there. A little later the cleaning lady joined me on the steps and spoke to me in Kannada. I kept smiling like an idiot and saying "gothilla", and she kept playing dumb charades. After a while we both got bored. I went back to my i-pod, and she stared into space. About 40 minutes later the office was opened and here I am.
I don't really care much, but man, they are kind of piling on the rubbish, no?
Anyway, of late, I've been having more auto problems than ever before. So yesterday, after standing forever at this place, waiting for an auto to agree to take me, I felt this overwhelming rage towards the system (yeah yawn, I know). I wanted to write to the CM, the PM - the great god atop this bureaucratic mess! See - this is what -

• I spend 70 rupees everyday to get to work (which I don't even enjoy, but thassnotthepoint). I have to take an auto to get here, because there is no direct bus - and if I were to take the longer route, it would take me around 2 hours to get to work (yes that's right - I've done it). And believe me, it's not out of laziness that I don't leave my house at 8 (seriously, would you like to go to a workplace that makes you wait for 40 mins before opening its gates?).
• Now since I spend 70 rupees in going, I try and compensate by taking the bus back home. But what do you know? I have to wait for over half an hour sometimes (sometimes more) for the bus to show up. If I'm lucky, I get to sit.
• Next, I have to take a second bus or an auto to go back home. If I take a bus, I'll have to walk another kilometer upto home - which is okay, but I never know which bus to take because the destinations are all written in Kannada. Besides, they are horrendously crowded and one bus journey down, I just don't feel upto it. So I think, fine man, I earn - I can take an auto back - 30 Rs. But wait - these auto guys want to charge you 20 Rs more, or just click their tongues irritably and zip away. Did you know, an auto driver, cannot refuse to take you ANYWHERE - even if it is minimum fare? But who's stopping them? There's an auto stand nearby, but don't you dare go near those. They don't bargain. Flat 50 bucks, take it or leave it. They have a huge political flag waving over this pole near the stand. So it doesn't matter if a traffic police guy's standing there - you just don't mess with these guys.

So yeah, these are my woes. The roads are bad, the signages are not tourist friendly, and people will refuse to speak in Hindi or English and judge you for being an outsider. And language is a problem when an auto guy pretends not to understand you and take you down a longer, shadier route and let the meter run havoc. Oh and more often than not, the meters are rigged.

And I can almost hear the people say - if you hate it so much, why don't you just go back to where you came from? Calcutta. Hmm. Yeah, I remember having a fairly long list of grievances for my city as well. Dude, cities can be just plain rude. And human beings never stop complaining. Don't mind me if I roll one, and sit and vegetate for a bit. At least I won't be complaining.

Growing up

After a long and shivering phone conversation (I was shivering, because it was cold outside at 2.30 a.m.) my good bud K and I decided that we are finally adults now and that, it totally sucks sometimes.

We also decided that we like to make films the best, and that, the high of making one is so addictive that you cannot help but crave for it on days of nothing.

I decided that he is still a bit of a poet and needs to say bye to Cal, at least for now, because it is time.

Last year, in Delhi, when it was about this cold, or a little colder, I had a superbly lonely epiphany. And I'm so glad that it happened. And in Cal, for my two unemployed months, it happened again. Can you keep having them epiphanies? I don't know. Must check the Abrahm's Literary Terms book. Either way, K had his own coming-of-age story, which was kind of waiting to happen anyway. Good, good.

I have left this job mentally and emotionally, but the final act is pending. Once I do, it's going to be quite random again. There's only that much lipstick you can put on a pig.

Here There and Everywhere

This Bombay I tell you. I've been seeing too much of it of late. I don't mind it too much, but I'm starting to realise that travel, can sometimes be plain TIRING. I faked laryngitis for an interview in Bombay. But whenever I lie about some illness it usually comes true. Shifting back and forth from the sooty Bombay weather to the sudden crisp chill of Bangalore....hmm, it could happen.

I have a funky new haircut. I'm not saying it looks good on me or anything, but it's a funky haircut never the less. The funkiest I've ever gotten. I feel like a mix of that Do Co Mo chick (who goes Do co mooooo into a guy's ear) and short haired Izzy from Grey's. Inarguably, a wonderful well spent rainy Sunday. Walking down Cunningham Road, post haircut, in the rain, C spots this pasted randomly on a Canara Bank wall. Obviously, it warrants a click. Haha. I love it.

Post walk in the rain, there was some super lunch with all the flatmates at Fresco's and we all felt quite rich by the end of it, although our bank balances wouldn't necessarily agree.

Bombay was fun. Hot and horrid and traffic jammy, but for now, whatever. I have no expectations. It's just okay to float from one blissful existence to another without really committing to anything. I don't want to think about the future at all, so shush.

P.S. - try the Apple Chicken at Cafe Leopold's. Truly yum.

I have been nanowrimo-ed thanks to my room-mate. Since I am on a major positivity drive, I have decided to spend my baseless office hours into writing a novel. An anything kind of novel. And so far, it's been fun, albeit a little slow. Become a novelist here - http://www.nanowrimo.org. This is so trend-whorish.

P.S. I have an interview in Bombay, which I'm funnily not looking forward to.

Is fast becoming legen - wait for it - DARY!
I love. HIMYM is my new Friends.
I also love this. Oh click it already.

S- how hungover could they have been?
Jesushottie - about 367 thousand or so
- courtesy S, via Gtalk. Haha.

Nix

The answer to everything is zero. This, I have figured out. Everything without exception.

So, I have a fantastic beginning to the week. A powercut at work, a thanks-but-no-thanks letter from an organisation I wanted to work in (charming two liner, I mussay), a window which shows that MS Word has expired, and an assignment which inspires vomit. Brilliant. All Mondays should be like this.

My daily horoscope by Rick Levine is frighteningly accurate all the time. I mean, I know it's a lot of rubbish, because I used to write these fake horoscope thingies all the time when I was freelancing. But still, it's remarkable, how the bullshit someone writes can be so precisely congruent with the bullshit in your life. Oh well.

I really need a break from this blah-dee-dah life. Like a fantastic trip to Paris or something. Maybe, I should finally start working on the documentary with my cousin and stop obsessing about finances and stuff.

What I feel like doing MOST right now, is sitting in a veranda, peeling oranges, popping them in, while reading comic books. In some nice winter sun. In my shorts. And humongous t-shirts. And if anyone disturbs me, shoot them down with a gun.

Sigh. Batteries running out. Back to old pen and paper.