Of rekindled, current and messy affairs

Holidays usually make us bring out that oh-so-common line in our blogabulary closet- time to re-ignite the flames of my on-off affair with the television. (Ah, feels strange to use the full form, for a change. I know what you’re thinking, by the way!)

I was just surfing channels, which basically translates into going through the sports channels and then shifting to news if nothing’s going on. The next-channel-button-killing stopped when I saw a marquee on the screen saying- “Coming up- The US Presidential Debate”. I just happened to say to my brother, “Hey, this’ll be our first Debate watch right?”, and the remote was put down. With most phrases like “sub-prime crisis” , “the Georgia situation” , “the healthcare crisis” going over my head, the urge to move on to other channels was strong but, I thought it’d be a good idea to boast about it here. I kept on watching trying to get the nuances of the accent and also, the style of oration, while secretly admiring the lady in the last row, a glimpse of whom the camera had managed to catch while roving to capture Senator Barack Obama. A commercial break inevitably followed, and the remote was hastily picked up and three thumb-strokes later, the loud, boisterous voice of a news anchor struck me, with the words “Aakhir kyun roye Amitabh Bacchan? Jaan-ne ke liye, dekhte rahiye City60!” (Now why did Amitabh Bacchan break down? Keep watching City60 to find out!).

What happens next? A video plays with the original Big B delivering a few stirring dialogues from his uber-famous movie, Deewaar, and then shedding tears after the performance at a concert as part of his ongoing world tour. The same video is shown from 4 different angles, twice zoomed in, and another time in slow-motion with pictures of Amitabh’s (recently deceased) mother being flashed and another few times simultaneously with the original movie sequence. A thorough analysis, sprinkled generously with passionate questions asked by the anchor- “Aakhir kyun?” (After all, why?), “Kya mahanayak ko apni maa yaad aayi?” (Did the great actor reminisce of his own mother?) and others, ended that particular report. I quickly started the ride back to the channel broadcasting the Debate, but managed to catch a cue to the next report- “Aage dekhiye- Nana Patekar chhodkar film ki shooting, karne chale asli shooting!” (Up ahead- Nana Patekar picks up the rifle, leaving aside movie shooting.).

An intermediate channel was showing an interview of Montek Singh Ahluwalia, with the host being Karan Thapar. Two classy speakers, and I stopped by, only to hear more phrases go above my head (Liquidity crunch, anyone?) but with one Harvard and one Oxford alumnus on each side, I had to listen for a few minutes.

The Presidential Debate ended soon, and I had gained, apart from the knowledge that Estonia, Latvia and others were threatened by the re-emerging Russia, comfort in the fact that all this hullabaloo by some news channels to gather eyeballs was not going in vain, as my aunt came by to comment “Hey, is the Amitabh Bacchan report over? Why are you watching those American guys debating on Darfur? Switch over to the other channel, fast!”

Sadly, that report was finished. So was that programme. But, loyal viewers were not to be disappointed.

“Credit card. Mobile phone. Revolver. Akhbaar. Dekhiye kis tarah in chaar hathiyaron se kiya gaya ek ghinauna gunaah. Ab se bas kuch hi der mein...”

(How a credit card, a mobile phone, a revolver and a newspaper were used to commit a dastardly crime- we tell you in a few moments ...)

Garba in Ghatkopar, Disco Dandiya in Dombivli? Yeah, right! I’m interested!

P.S.- How long could I keep my (wrist-less, thanks to a few unhappy red ants) hands off that wonderful Shift+9, Shift+0 combination? Or the one at the start of this part, too...

Home Sweet Home...

Long time spent at a master’s. A bite in the canteen. A long way back cycling with a flat back tyre.

Back to the hostel. Watching friends blowing others’ heads off. Another long cycle ride. And back.

Mates sleeping, me readying for a long night. Orkut open in one tab, Wikipedia in another.

Chatting with friends not seen for a long time. Burning ROMs with Nero’s help.

Two and a half hours left for departure. Packing begins, drowsily. A pack of biscuits greedily gobbled up.

Long chats with Mom on the phone in the early hours of the morning. More biscuits being devoured.

A sip of water, a brief goodbye to the room, a hasty signature and a rickety rickshaw ride.

Long time at the railway station, spent peering curiously at strangers I seem to know.

A brief glimpse of a short crush. Three trains, four phone calls and a noisy boarding later, I’m in my seat.

A brief chat, an SMS home and another brief chat. Sleep at long last.

Little time spent with Dad, more in the waiting area and, I’ve boarded again.

More sleep, struggle for space to stretch notwithstanding. 3 phone calls, an SMS to a friend not seen in almost 9 years and a car ride back home.

Home.

A well-needed bath. A car ride to a sandwich-selling franchise. The beach.

The beach.

An unexpected wash-up, some shaking off of sand and 5 rounds of gol-gappas with Big B.

Big B. Long time, no see.

It’s great being back home. Bliss.

Eternal rain in the talkative mind

Disclaimer: The content that follows can only be described as one long-suppressed depressed whine. Any comments on the language/writing style/why-do-you-want-to-suffocate-us are unwelcome, as this is one long-suppressed, depressed whine. Any judgements about me are unwelcome, as this is one long, depressed whine. And, if I don't sound bad enough and you have managed to stay in that chair and continue reading this without controlling that primal urge to go for the Alt+F4 combination, you may read on, at your own risk, because (one last time, for good measure) this is one long-suppressed, depressed whine.

One great soul once told me, "You got a problem? Blog about it, forget it.".
This, of course, differs greatly from my not-so-great quote, "You got something good? Brag about it and don't let anyone forget it.".
But, then, I'm not a great soul, anyway. So, one wouldn't expect it from me. What one would expect from me, now, is a few, rather quite a few geeky jokes, some totally useless campus news and my views on them, and a few, rather quite a few whines.

My latest depresses period came about at the start of this semester- nothing new, just the same reasons I had some time ago (blogged about here). But, I had resolved to kill these issues with my personality off once and for all in the holidays (in December, and in July) but, to no avail. I couldn't force any of my friends to bear my depressed mumblings and I surely couldn't bug any of the so-far-very-patient seniors with that, too and thus plunged into some let's-call-it-useless activity for the past few days.

Playing Age of Empires (better known as just AoE) has become quite a fad down in Azad and, despite my repeated statements of not plunging into its elaborate plans to make me an addict, I just sat and watched the battles for hours. Playing AoE till three in the morning is bad enough, just blankly sitting, staring and asking dumb questions about it is pathetic! So, after getting quite a few rebukes for my indulgences between matches (Chatting in AoE is built for someone like me, but only if I could play and not just chat!). Then came the long hours sitting alone in the room...

You anti-social, over-idealistic nerd. You bhalu (bear). You retard. You over-talkative dumbo. You irritating...let's not go into the details, for preserving the family-reading part of this anyway-not-read page. Can't socialise. Can't drink. Can't smoke. Over-hesitant. Apprehensive about almost everything under the sun. Unrealistic. Impractical. Hypocrite. Haddu Ghissu. Argumentative. Irritating. Over-talkative...Ah, forget it!

What I've lost since coming here, and what I so miss, is that characteristic of being impuylsive, instinctive about everything. Don't think about it before, during or after it. Just get it done (avoiding the active voice for fear of copyright infringement) and forget it.
Before my instinctive answer to an invite to go out would have been "Yeah, where to?". Now, it's a highly apprehensive "Why?". Not a no, not a yes, not a when but a highly questionable why. Why? I wonder why. Where's that instinctive, impulsive, happy-go-lucky, forget-it-yaar Murty? Why do I now have to wrestle with a boring, grumpy, geeky, irritating, over-doubting, idealist Bhalu?

This was what caused my depression over the last fortnight.
This was why I posted.
Now, I'm done with it.
Now, I hope I don't sound like I'm in love- because I'm not.
Now, I hope I'm not speaking (a lot of) Greek and forcing people to up Oxford University Press' sales- because I'm not.
Now, I can continue to finish my box of Laddus, with zero regrets.
Even now, I don't like 'Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na' and still think my review- no- my VV was better than the very best.
Now, I can peacefully watch 'Into The Wild' and, maybe, decide to do a DV on it.
Now, I can stop irritating those who either ignored the disclaimer, or misunderstood it or have nothing better to do than read this.
Or, maybe, like my old self, I can continue to type on like a crazy diamond.

Ah, I feel good. I can do what I should.
Someone tell me how PTV thought of that quote right at the start of the post. How!

P.S.- If you have nothing better to say, just forget it and fulfill your desire of clicking on that red cross.

P.P.S.- Apologies to those offended by the last part. On second thoughts, Nyah na na nyah nyah!

Who loves Orange Soda?

Another late entry into the room, another tired look around, another slump into the bed; after the mandatory brush, of course.

Settling into the new academic session has been an experience uncannily similar to the one in the first year- new hostel, new room (Ah, the smell of fresh paint!), new fellow 'inmates', more luggage-shifting, new classmates, new professors- it's been another tough time settling in. A week into the year, the room was in some state of order, the new mess had nothing different in the culinary sense but the allowance of shorts was a welcome change. The batch-mates got used to me (and my amazingly irritating sense of humour), and I adjusted myself to the grind of classes (read: filling the last page of my notebook and the polished yet ink-tarnished bench with laterally inverted alphabets, a new passion). Yet, there was this sense of incompleteness, a sense of a certain disconnection.

(Evening) After another long nap, I get up to a (most favourite) wet garden outside, dampness in the air, and rain-drenched yellow walls. Frustration. A lazy, drowsy walk around the wing fails to remove that overwhelming feeling. Two hours in the Computer Centre spent lazily drifting between "Home" and "Profile" links suffer the same fate. I wash my face- vigorously- as if trying to rub it off my head, but its recalcitrant character doesn't fall to saponification.

(Night) It's a crawl of an evening, and after bugging a few friends with some (you guessed it right!) let's-call-it-unnecessary small talk, we were headed for dinner. An unsatisfactory meal later (Stuffed tomato? I'd rather not get started), my friends wisely choose to leave me at my room (for their own good) and solitude is easily one of the most potent vectors for the ghosts of the mind to use. Irritation. A sense of incompleteness. A feeling of disconnection. Puzzling clues. The mind's not getting enough exercise. What? Enough exercise? OK. Got it. A quick trip to the security guard, and I'm sitting, having Mom's delicious (Again, I'd rather not get started on those adjectives) laddus and chivda, with enough ammunition to handle those haggard beasts in my head.

Morning arrives, after a long-awaited good night's sleep. But, alas, the devils are laughing. How can it be? More frustration. A stronger sense of incompleteness. That feeling of disconnection attacking with renewed vigour. More irritation. I somehow manage to dawdle my way through breakfast and classes and return, tired and defeated, to my room. The door's being unlocked, lazily, and unlike what would happen in a movie (where my keys would 'accidentally' slip and I'd bend down and see...), I just happened to look down and my ghosts feared their end. Armed with a confident smile, I deftly opened the lock, and slammed the door open and there it was- crisp as a just-bloomed flower, like a raindrop on a leaf. I bent down (not on my knees, careful not to dirty that pair of classy black trousers) and held it with a sense of victory. And, as one would do only when he/she is alone in a room with little risk of anyone else watching, I paraded around the room, holding it as if it were the Jules Rimet trophy.

The newspaper had finally made its appearance on my floor and I quickly turned to the back page to rekindle my temporarily-stalled affair with Sudoku. Four and a half minutes for the easy level- I'm still pretty sharp.

P.S.- The title, as is quite apparent, has nothing to do with the post. It's just a tribute to one of my once-most-loved TV shows, Kenan and Kel.

Deep Thought

You ever wondered when your thoughts are reaching a level you never thought they were capable of? Ever wondered where exactly that place would be, what kind of atmosphere would be around, which people may be there, and what stimulated your mind into reaching the next level?

Well, most obviously, you have better things to do than that so I'd suggest you rather continue fantasising an evening with Catherine Zeta-Jones.

Sample this. A one-and-a half to two hour bus ride from the centre of the city to its vague outskirts, a bunch of (loud) strangers for company, overcast weather, a drab (so-called) summer, and just your empty mind for company. Doesn't exactly make for a great time, does it? But, over the summer just gone by, I realised I thought out my most deep thoughts in that very period. Devising damage-control measures after a few reckless comments, trying to build more torturous ways of wasting web space using this page, and, coming to the point for this post, devising theories.

No, not theories explaining why my ears are a little small (as done earlier by thinking the barber accidentally chopped them off once upon a time), or why my fingers aren't too long (because of me stunting their growth by placing them on an iron), or why two other toes of mine were longer than the Big toe.

Rather, theories like the great 'How 42?' theory (explained here), now well-known as Murty's Law.

Or, the latest one. I now choose this lowly-regarded piece-of-junk blog to state one of the most Idiot-I-always-knew-it theories which will never ever change the fact that the first thing you feel in your eye every single day when you get up is some solidified yellow thing.

When do you know a guy's getting older?
When he starts answering more questions than he asks.

And, before I'm accused of being a male chauvinist, when do you know a girl/lady's getting older?
When she asks more questions than she answers.

Now, before you head for that sink, just try and appreciate the effort put in to think about this on a boring, albeit visually appealing, and long bus ride.

P.S.- Possible names for the theory suggested.

P.P.S.- Don't call me names.

P.P.P.S.- Honestly, all the geeky jokes apart, think about it.

Got more to add: (comes here as it isn't at all related to the post) I totally adore Minissha Lamba and Isha Sharvani. Now, add Prachi Desai to the list. She looks perfectly pretty in the 'Rock On!!' promos.

P.P.P.P.S.- Yes, you may now head to the sink. Without falling four/six times on the way.

(Late edit) Even if I wanted to, I could never make money off this!

Plastic knives aren't a public nuisance

The past week was full of activity. In some relatively insignificant news, the ruling government’s continuing love-hate relationship with The Right’s opposite (which, some consider ironically, isn’t Wrong) took another handful of twists, a lady (who, again, some consider ironically, is half an illusion) took another step towards her cherished dream of leading this very country, another few hundred children were born, another brawl decorated our (some consider ironically) national game and the relationship with our neighbours, and a few more hundred children were born. But the one big news development over the last weekend (which, nobody considers ironically, dominated prime-time on most of our news channels) was the launch of (proclaimed to be India’s most legen-wait-for-it-darrry) chat show hosted by (again, nobody at all considers ironically) India’s most loved (at least if it is assumed that TV channels show what the people want) celebrity, who I shall refrain from naming because of possible notices being issued. The show’s first guest promised that whenever he needed an item number in his movies, the first person he’d call would be the host and played, as he does with any role, the good guest to perfection.

In some more small (compared to the big news, a drop in a glass of sea buckthorn juice) news, a family was out shopping in a city (wrongly conceived to be, on many an occasion, in Orissa, Kerala, Tamil Nadu and in one extreme case, Gujarat) southwards on the eastern edge of the country. After a not-so-difficult purchase of a pair of jeans, and another piece of footwear, one of them left the others at a pastry shop and left, mysteriously, to don’t-know-where. After 20 chocolate-gulping minutes at the shop, which included a few embarrassingly dangerous ones with the kid saying ‘Hi!’ to an unknown lady and smiling at her after he thought she whispered his name, with her (apparently) fat (quite apparent) boyfriend staring right down at him and his mom right beside him, they left for home. At around midnight, when the kid was busy with yet another Sudoku puzzle and his mom was trying to get a few forty winks (after some mentally draining attempts at the day’s newspaper’s Sudoku puzzles), his brother mysteriously vanished (again), apparently to take a phone call. He returned with a (now customary) warm hug, a ‘Happy birthday’ wish followed, and, a (now customary) kiss from mom, a (now customary) ‘Appi Baa-day to you’ and a few (always ready) tears from his aunt, and a (quite big) bite of his favourite chocolate cake later, the kid received one of the surprises of his life- his first guitar! The kid, happy enough to jump for dwarf planet Ceres, eagerly tore the zip down to show off the skills he had (visibly, quite badly) learnt back at his hostel. After quite a few totally out-of-sync notes, and a spattering of his (visibly, quite poor) knowledge of the instrument, he gently placed it back for a (one more?!) bite of the cake and started taking calls and replying to messages. He couldn’t sleep that night, in excitement, in total surprise and, most importantly, in simple love for his family. Even the fact that a few girls may miss ‘scrapping’ or messaging him their wishes (or rather give it a miss), or even a few close (guy) friends might do the same (which, in another show of endearing love, they didn’t!) or a million other not-so-positive thoughts couldn’t stop him from sporting one big (for once, not fake or Rishi Kapoor-ish in any way) smile in the darkness of the bedroom. Apparently, the kid was now officially an adult, which he seemed to like in some ways for the sake of a few acts like voting and driving, but just age can never determine that justly. So, the kid’s heart felt content as he went to sleep, one more day, as a kid.

P.S. - The kid wants to thank every single wonderful person who wished him on his birthday, and also those who forgot and those who chose not to.

P.P.S. – Sea buckthorn juice isn’t great, try Black currant; looks like red wine and tastes like heaven!

P.P.P.S. – The kid chooses not to drive in public interest and not (to quote his History & Civics textbook) to exercise his franchise, in private.

P.P.P.P.S. - Pizza Hut burnt quite a hole in the pocket and The Dark Knight is a nice movie.

Two experiences...

I’ve happened to have read two books over the holidays so far. One was a highly recommended, greatly controversial best-seller about a kid recently kicked out from school, and another, a highly anticipated book by a best-selling phenomenon, about a young suicide attempter and his story.

Two books which I shan’t compare but just recount my experience of reading them (Useless info- I just completed reading the second.).

The former.

All those rave reviews weren’t worth nothing. This, for me, wasn’t just a book but, a totally different take on life, in general. The protagonist doesn’t strike me as a delinquent juvenile, but as a disillusioned thinker, with a particularly world-annoying way of looking at the world (as confusing as the words are, that’s the best I can manage). The book, overall, just gave an amazingly refreshing perspective of our surroundings.

The latter.

Another masala serving from this exciting writer. This book wasn’t greatly spectacular, especially the plot, which was disappointingly over-filmy, I felt. It was his sheer originality and outrageous unpredictability that made his first book extra-special (and also, seemingly, a cult) and the second quality was the one of the few things I liked about his second offering. The original writing style remains but the fact that I could actually predict the next event left me greatly disappointed (even my ego, which would usually jump with joy in the discovery of my super-sleuth abilities, couldn’t suppress this feeling). But, nonetheless, I remained a fan of him, and considering my disappointment with this book, it is indirect praise for the author who will remain a phenomenon, I guess, and his next book will still be even more greatly anticipated.

Now, don’t think I’m also adding a book review (again, unless you’re totally hooked to it, it’s difficult to re-view 255 or 789 wood pulp products, compared to 180 minutes of celluloid) to this torturous waste of webspace. I hope the two accounts are self-explanatory of their purpose...

For those curious souls who were thinking of Googling these books (if they stayed alive through the post, or if they haven’t done it already!), I’d just give it away- “The Catcher in the Rye” and “The 3 Mistakes of my Life” (apologies to those uber-smart souls who were affronted by the previous sentence having guessed already)...6 hours of reading takes its toll...I hope an hour of soporific time-wasting and frantically following (daily) a certain 23-year-old Madeiran’s future can relax the mind now...Sleep can wait...

P.S.- Rupa Publishing rocks! Best-sellers at under hundred bucks- what more can you ask for?

P.P.S.- Apologies for the drop in readability over the last two posts...Maybe it happens when I try to get a little over-personal on the blog...The impassionate accounts are better, maybe...Comments anxiously awaited...