BH

Today I got to meet a director I always kind of wanted to meet. I wasn’t superbly excited or disappointed as such – but it felt a bit surreal, just being there in his room, jotting down notes and looking at all the cool posters on his wall.
For some weird reason I remembered this day my grandfather and I were in his Toyota - he was driving, I was in the front seat, and I said quite petulantly that, it was AmitA Bachchan, not AmitaBH Bachchan. Somehow the BH felt kind of unnecessary. Like a nose seemed unnecessary when you were drawing a face, because it would make it look ugly.
I found it strange and sweet and funny and sad that I should be sitting there, writing notes with a poker face, when all I wanted to do was be crazy happy and do a jig and tell my grandfather, D, look where I am, look where I am – look where I’m sitting and trying to keep a straight face. But I am not awestruck. I’m as petulant and snobbish and sceptical as I was as a 4 year old. But still, D, I wish I could tell you – you’d get it.

Barter

I'll give you brownie points and pinking shears if you can teach me how to whistle with my fingers and find the guy in the white car, I promise.

I'll bake bread and cakes and cookies for you every Monday if you teach me how to play chess, do advanced calculus and help me park a car.
I'll give you a deep tissue massage every day if you play guitar with me every day during the evening and not get bored of my lame efforts at the end of it.

I'll knit you a sweater if you promise to fold the laundered clothes and keep them in the cupboard.

I'll let you play any card of your choice if you can make me quit smoking without being judgmental.

I'll be nice if you are nice.

I'll be kind if you are kind.

I'll play if you play.

Let's bury the ghosts, next to the graves of our goldfish and childhood memorabilia. Don't ever come back. Don't call out in the dark, don't talk, don't watch as I ruin my life with every cigarette ashing.

My books are ordinary, my music ordinary, my films, my things, my clothes are all ordinary. Generic. Populist. Un-quirky. I'm staid, boring, domestic. I won't tell you brilliant things. I will butter your toast and flick television channels, wearing my cucumber face pack and floral dressing gowns.

I won't storm and brood and break things, I will decay like a dead rat. I will browse the internet for grandma's tales, because I won't remember any.

I will be lazy and negative, while you'll be fiery and brilliant. I will watch you light up minds, lives, thrill, charm, hypnotize. I will dig my nails into old leather couches and blink at ugly tubelights. I'll be jealous, proud and happy all at once. But I'll leave you like I've left every fascination.

I'm a sloppy leaver. I'm not as clean and efficient as I'd like to be. I'm sorry.

As long as the wheels are rolling, I'm happy.
So today, I woke at 4 and went to Poona. Not Poona really, but about 40 kms off Poona, in a little village. We had to check out some fort. It was a beautiful abandoned fort, nestled as always amidst dead grass, crumbly pebbles and crazy heat. It felt right, being there.

When I'm trekking, I'm usually very slow - but I'm also very alert. It's like my brain is doing some very serious math - which stone to step on, which path not to take, are there snakes here (FYI, there was one today, about half arm's length)...so it's good. I like it when my brain's working for a change. I was however, thoroughly unprepared for the trek - wearing of all things, a bright red patiala and floaters. It get's crazier. While coming down (shamefully holding on to my location guy because I was slipping all over the place), the two other guys up ahead start waving frantically at us. "Laal rang! Laal rang!" they exclaim. We take a closer look, and there are a horde of bulls standing right at the base of the hill, staring at my red patiala'd (and also red bandana'd) existence. I slip off my bandana, but what to do about the pjs man? So yeah, we take a rockier route and avoid being tragically impaled by the bull gang and finally reach our scorching hot Innova. It was kind of fun :)

On our way back, we chanced upon another abandoned fort, which was not on a hill or anything, but in the middle of a bustling village, it's old grey walls on the outside bearing a garish little Lux Cozy ad. From the outside it looked like a smaller neglected cousin of Shanivar Wada. Inside, there were broken walls and berry trees and tumbleweed and overgrown shrubs - and a house. The most gorgeous house ever. Broken, dilapidated, vandalized, but utterly beautiful - lit by sudden shafts of sunlight. The empty rooms bore a tragic yet resilient look - the same kind of quality that would attract a man to a woman, or a woman to a man. Kind of sad-hot. I fell in love.

But soon enough, we were heading back to Bombay. Needless to say, the wheels stopped rolling.

Something freaky happened as well. The old rusty radar suddenly came to life. Long distance heartache? Nope. Not anymore. Just a faint little beep in the distance.

Apple Pie

When something goes away, all that you can hold on to are the sentiments. The tastes and smells which you know will never come back. The feeling of once belonging, the once excitement, the once let's go. My comfort zone from first and second sem. My happy place to go to whenever. My old, quirky little hippie with tattooed peace signs and Buddha heads. You have totally broken my heart by going away.
Can you ever get your groove back, German Bakery?

I prefer the vampires to the poker faces at work.
I pass by this banyan tree near work and touch its dangling roots and really believe that they transfer some kind of one second magic in my fingers. If I keep touching the roots everyday for a while, I'll have enough magic in my fingers to make a leaf quiver.
I now know why 'Luck by Chance' was made - because casting people is tragicomic. The film industry is tragicomic.
My engeesenses are working over time - detecting strange vibes at work. You think I'm going to get fired? Gulp.
I got my meagre wages today. I always extract my pound of flesh by downloading stuff from office. I do it without regret. Haha.
I hate fucking technology on days like this.

Editors are crazy people who live in dark air conditioned rooms and probably get burnt to a crisp if they step into the sun. If you are a vampire, you could seriously consider becoming an editor.
I've been living in Prime Focus for the past week doing jobs of some vague unidentifiable nature and figuring out the secret life of vampires.

If you haven't read Kuzhali Manickavel yet, I suggest you do. But if you're boring and straighlaced and had a generally unimaginative childhood, you won't enjoy it much.

Industry secret - Genelia D'Souza (whose first name reminds me of the word 'genetalia') doesn't really have good skin. The soap doesn't really work. Neither does the make up. It's only the online magic tricks which make her look so beautiful. But I'm sure you already knew that.

I have very hairy arms. Must wax. I also have very short hair and a big head with quadruple chins. Am secretly glad am a part of the vampire brigade and never have to step out into the sun.
I absolutely love this. I'm drooling on it.

I'm at this point where I don't feel like blogging anymore. I have nothing interesting to share, and all I seem to do is whine. I'm bored of me.

I haven't taken out my camera in months. And whatever pictures are there, are all facebooky and lame. I have unfinished books, unread books, incomplete drawings, half written stories and so many of these little things that used to excite me - left alone just like that. It's not like work is that crazy. It's not like I have a whole lot to do. It's just that I don't do things anymore. I feel vapid and inarticulate.

"There is a marvelous peace in not publishing ... I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure."

J.D. Salinger was 91, and has said his final fuck off to life.

Crazy Heart

The Weary Kind - Ryan Bingham

Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your body aches…
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesn’t forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your lovers won’t kiss…
It’s too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world
Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zelvaxvTaUk&feature=related

Why did we have loadshedding?

When I was a kid, and everytime there was a loadshedding, I was told its Jyoti Babu's doing. To him then I suppose I owe all those haat pakha mombati evenings, where we'd sit in the north end of the house, Dada's room usually - and get whatever little bit of cool breeze we could. We'd wait all night for the lights to come back, so that we could sleep peacefully - but somedays, especially summer days, it just wouldn't happen, and we'd fall asleep listening to Ma's patient stories and the whoop whoop whoop of the haat pakha.
I wondered why the lights went everyday, systematically, for such a long time. Ma, Baba, or maybe it was Dadabulo who told me that, we lost power everyday for some time so that the poor people can get electricity. Our electricity? Our electricity. So it seemed like a very intricately wired process that Jyoti Babu had managed to organise. I considered it. So Shanti didi gets electricity when we don't? Y-yes, something like that. So it didn't seem that bad. Shanti didi barely ever had electricity in her house afterall.
Communism made easy. Jyoti Dadu - copybook, cult. We all knew him - whether we liked him or hated him. I stuck millions of pins into his Voodoo doll inside my head everytime there was a loadshedding. But I don't think it made much of a difference.

Excerpt from conversation with Bombay adfilmvallahs:
Me: Dude, Jyoti Basu died.
Ad guy 1: Who's Jyoti Basu?
Me: Uh...
(Ad guy 1 gets call - so fuck JB)
Ad guy 2: Oh yeah, he's that politican, na?
Me: Uh, yes.
Ad guy 2: Yeah, yeah - he was sick or something na...(fiddles with phone)
Me: Hmm. Yeah, so let's just edit, ya?

Sigh.

Haha

It's been more than a year since I've loved anybody to distraction.
Then I remember - N's little helping hand -
A woman and her boyfriend are out having a few drinks.
While they're sitting there having a good time together, she starts
talking about this really great new drink.
The more she talks about it, the more excited she gets, and starts
trying to talk her boyfriend into having one.
After a while he gives in and lets her order the drink for him.
The bartender brings the drink and puts the following items on the bar:
1 A salt shaker,
2 A shot of Baileys,
3 A shot of lime juice.
The boyfriend looks at the items quizzically and the woman explains.
‘First you put a bit of the salt on your tongue, next you drink the
shot of Baileys and hold it in your mouth, and finally you drink the
lime juice.’
So, the boyfriend, trying to go along and please her, goes for it.
He puts the salt on his tongue........salty but OK.
He drinks the shot of Baileys and holds it in his mouth........smooth,
rich, cool, very pleasant. He thinks........this is OK.
Finally he picks up the lime juice and drinks it.
1. In one second the sharp lime taste hits...
2. At two seconds the Baileys curdles.....
3. At three seconds the salty, curdled taste & mucous-like consistency hits.....
4. At four seconds it feels as if he has a mouth full of nasty snot.
This triggers his gag reflex, but being manly, and not wanting to
disappoint his girlfriend, he swallows the now foul tasting drink.
When he finally chokes it down he turns to his girlfriend, and says,
Jesus what do you call that drink?'
She smiles widely at him and says, 'Blow Job Revenge."

Thank you. :)

Mumble

So when you levitate to superstardom, drop me a line. Drop me a very long line from so, so high up. I promise to fling back something at you as well. Like a postcard with my drawings and ridiculous Haiku.
If you can cut through zombie talk, zombie smiles and zombie casual touch, then surely we'll manage.
There's this leather couch at work. It's yellow and half eaten by the dogs (there are two). The stuffing's out and flaps of leather stick out helplessly. I love sitting on it and I want to tear the stray flaps. And chew on them maybe - but that would be a little drastic so early into this job.
There's a tubelight which is always left on in office. Even during the day. I hate it. I hate tube lights. I hate waste of electricity.
Today there's an eclipse. I wish I could see it, but I don't have the necessary eye protection.
Yesterday I went to a restaurant. As always I had to fill out the feedback form. I wrote my name, my husband's name - or rather what I always imagine it to be - and what I do. I wrote another profession (junior copywriter, would you believe?) and it was nice. It was right.

I am listening to you, but I’m not really listening. I am there, but not really. Sorry. I wish I could be. I wish I could really mean what I am saying, because damn it, I say good things. I say the right things. But I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. I feel pain and humiliation and rejection. But I don’t feel acceptance and love and warmth. I support you uncompromisingly. Seemingly uncompromisingly. But I don’t invest any real emotions into my support. I’m not real. I’m so, so far from reality.
I wish I were making sense. Later perhaps.

I am good. I am fine. I am absolutely great. I'm that cockroach from Wall-E. Trust. Me.

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.