Le terres de sommeil

We'll be off to Delhi in a few minutes from now; me for the second time in four days. The last trip had the experience of a lifetime- something I must post about sooner rather than later. But, it was no ordinary run through the capital- it was a walk of life in the place where we used to live, through the tunnels of love, past private investigations, culminating in two songs on the city, which I hummed all through that fateful Sunday. I thought I'd miss R-land, and be longing for the warmth and comfort of my three pillows in G-104, but Flats 173- A to F, Paschim Vihar had something else in mind. And that's precisely why irony happens to be my favourite literary device, even with all my love for metaphors, alliteration and onomatopoeia.

I've just come back to earth after a marathon session reading the original Purple Cow, and am genuinely overwhelmed by the man's greatness. He's been blogging for about four years, now, leaving us blessed with scores of bites of heaven to browse through, and, boy, is it divine, or what! Leaves you wondering if practice can make you perfect, no matter how subjective the term may be.

We should be on a bus now, on our way to the capital. But, sleep is seductive. Sleep is sensuous. Ah, sleep is unrelenting. Sleep has too much in common with Chandramukhi! Sleep seems to be casting its spell upon me, now. Trinkle after trinkle of those silver anklets...

P.S.- No, Kondy. I did recall the phrase rather than looking it up on Google again.

Of big cats and rotting dogs

It’s amazing how sometimes you discover the most amazing things around very late. I discovered Sultans of Swing to be my favourite song after almost a year and a half in R-land, almost four years after I really got into English music. Another such example sits comfortably on a plank, balanced on the chair in front of me. I came to know of Tiger biscuits’ magic only in eleventh grade- at least a decade after it reached the peak of its popularity, not putting down its popularity now. At four bucks a packet, it is almost insanely cheap for a most satisfying snack. I just went by to the canteen to buy five such packs. For a change, after almost a full six months, I went to the cooler to fill a bottle of water, too. I’m finally living in my room. Now, all I need to do is pick up those fat books and start preparing for classes- I’ve been nothing short of atrociously poor this semester, and that isn’t saying much considering how bad my last four-monther was.

 

It’s also amazing that when you discover some amazing things or people at the right time, they don’t seem to last too long. I met Kaptaan only in the latter half of my first year here, and he left, finally, at the end of that eventful year. The friendship, respect, awe, fun and frolic those four months brought are some of my most cherished memories from the insti so far. Awe was the word for Njan Van Kalip and ARK- two of the most complete people I’ve ever met. It’s another even semester- meaning in a little over hundred days from now, many people I’ve bonded so brilliantly with shall be packing their bags for that hubbub that is the world, leaving behind memories I’ll always associate them with...

 

He was the first one who said to me that he actually liked reading my blog- for it was idiosyncrasy personified! He passed on so many legendary tales from his long time here- of people raising the bar high into the sky, of buildings going from zilch to zenith, and of incidents that had shaped what is status quo. He introduced me to corners of the insti I never imagined seeing, and to a plane of thinking I thought existed only in books and sages. Above all, he was great fun to hang out with. And I hope I gave him some useful advice myself. Best part- fellow Man United fan! Ole to that! To quote Douglas Adams with a Haddu touch,so long, ra, and thanks for all the fish!

 

P.S.- CBRI canteen rocks!

Where’s the party? It’s your birthday!

Only a day into the new year, and the blogosphere is abuzz with activity. That’s given enough time for me to ruminate for this very very special post. Of course, it’s another fact that I rarely think for a post!

 

The last post of the last year had an interesting snippet about it- it could be shortened to HHH! That was posted, as you could see, in the wee hours of 31^st December. New Year’s eve it was, and the campus was slowly filling to capacity again. I only woke up at eleven, after wrestling down my alarm clock and giving the other alarm’s snooze button a stern test of its patience. After the essentials, minus the luxury of a bath, I finally went out on my way to the mess, and the sun had decided not to come out of its warm blanket of clouds, and the eddying cold winds continued to tease the mufflers and wind-cheaters. But, unlike most others around, I was in the mood for a stroll, and lazily braved the cold to go to the gaanv (village) for a phone recharge, and to meet up with the masters down there. After an impatient wait in his room, spent rummaging through his table to find friends’ indulgences, old colourful scrapbooks and trying to find a way to untangle three layers of sheets, Lefty, His Wordiness (official winner) and I set out for a walk in the pursuit of Happinezz. Along the way, we gobbled up sweets with glee (me with especial glee as I wasn’t paying!) and I wondered how those two were slimmer when they ate like they did. Later, though, we did find what we went out to seek, and it was in hot sandwiches full of delightfully melted cheese. Our appetites were good for one each only, though, as a long night was to follow for all of us.

 

After that, I headed back to my room, and sat down to greet anyone with a green dot beside their name, while mine remained grey (invisibility rocks!). After an hour of aimless chatting, I heard a DJ start playing in front of the canteen, with crowd favourites like Hat Ja Tao Jat Ja and Maar Suttiya blaring out loud into the rooms around. I could even hear inebriated shouts and laughs as the Matkas danced their way to the toilets, where they puked uncontrollably, as I was to discover later (not sadly, thankfully!). After re-installing that perennial favourite, FIFA08, time was whiled away rediscovering my touch and Joga Bonito. That was till the Perusing Poet knocked on my door, and, soon enough, we were out having dinner. After a long meal, interspersed with passionate arguments on Ghajini and the varying degrees of the word ‘voyeurism’, we got back to our respective rooms.

 

They say what you do first on New Year’s day defines your year- I definitely hope it doesn’t come true, as I welcomed 2009 very solemnly, alone in my room sitting invisible on Gmail. But, apart from the various calls, messages, e-mails, scraps, pokes, and hugs that followed, the bright spot was the fact that January 3 wasn’t too far, and this page would be celebrating a year in existence (putting many others at risk!). As jobless as I am, I spent the last three quarters of an hour looking up bloggiversary posts of those on my blog-list. (Different story that I found two, at most) As clichéd as it may sound, it’s been a roller-coaster ride of a year blog-wise, and as it always is with most wonderful things, I find it very ironic that one of favourite posts (which can be found here), has no comment on it (although it's a very first-yearish post). Shape-shifting my way from characteristically quirky to whining grumbler to grumbling moaner (as Kaka puts it) to an overly long-writing bore, I’ve realised the best way to one’s true self, is through self (not to be confused with a traitorous Homeland Security agent on a TV show). 363 days in the blogosphere, and my blog has brought out 30 ways to blow your head off without suffering from side-effects like lead poisoning. I’ve not gone far as a writer, as I spent dreaming countless number of nights. But, then, life’s like that. And, in a spurt of nostalgia, and as mark of respect to the page that has spilled the beans on almost everything about me, I shall revert to the old name, ‘cause the geek still speaks... or rather types! Cheers!

 

P.S.- Dela, you’re next! (Goldberg style! Ah, I still love brackets!)

 

P.P.S.- I was waiting for only one song through the whole DJ thingy, and I wasn’t to be robbed of that pleasure. Ta ta-na-na-na tandoori nights... tandoori nights! Btw, Emotional Atyachaar is the song to be heard this year!

Holidays, Holes and Hope

It’s the end of yet another set of holidays, and, yet again, I find myself wondering how time flies by. December 5^th has turned to December 30^th, as after a cursed and delayed journey, I check back in to my room in R-land. It was another waste of 3 weeks, as I spent the days out leaving all those plans made early in the semester in shambles. The chance of a summer internship- abroad or otherwise- seems very bleak, considering the fact that I’m yet to make my resume. So does the chance of gaining any love and/or respect among any past batch-mates, considering the fact that I called up only one of them, and that too only once during my entire stay. In short, I’ve been a fiend of a friend, a shallow student, and worst of all, a sallow son. And what do I do to make up for it? Sit up at one in the morning to type it all out. The lessons learnt...

 

I also happened to catch two movies in the theatres during the holidays- Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi and Ghajini. Both were highly incredulous too many times to like, but the former’s music only slightly helped it stay afloat in my sea. The more memorable watches were the repeat watches of the Pirates series- you can’t get tired of Jack Sparrow too soon! Also, I posted on this page an incredible eight times, which reminds me I really feel Sushi’s absence in the comments pages.

 

Over 2000 kilometres apart, the irony is too good to ignore. Last night, I was sleeping at home with the air-conditioner turned on, and as soon as I got out of the bus a few hours ago, my feet froze in a flash, my jaw clenched close tightly, and my arms went all around my chest looking for a way to keep warm. Even the 30-second stroll to the canteen from the room was quite a struggle, with the swirling mist hissing and striking hard on my cheeks. A steaming-hot soup Maggi was what it took to wrench open my jaw again, and after that light dinner, I checked back into my room, to see that even with the heater turned on, the temperature was a measly fifteen degrees Celsius. I’m sure this winter is going to be tough on us 8’o’clockers from the Electrical department!

 

I know resolutions aren’t my thing (as stated here) but, boy, I need some prayers for the year to come! The competition is ever-increasing, the cut-throat nature of this whole process is definitely not built for someone like me, but, as they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get growing.

Loony List 1: Delicious Dishes Dug

First things first, merry Christmas everybody! It’s a relief of a holiday for parents, which means my face is administered a thorough check-up by Mom, and all possible remedies for those blackheads/ whiteheads/ pimples/ what-not are peacefully ignored as I go on practising my classy albeit slow rendition of N.I.B. by Black Sabbath on my guitar (whose story can be found here).

 

I’d been to my school yesterday, and the breathless wait notwithstanding, I shuddered when I reached the gate and in another one of the now-common panic attacks that I have, I feigned a phone-call and went past the gate some five more times, waiting for a mate to turn up to give me company. But, fate is cruel to cowards, and as I ran out of balance and patience, I mustered enough courage to walk till the portico and start running through the notice boards. Ah, nothing’s changed, I thought to myself as I ran through the list of school’s achievements. Cowardice still had me in its grip, though, as I didn’t dare to step inside fearing a barrage of teachers to wish, and catch up with. Wait a minute- this is what I had turned up for! But, I continued to stand, stare, feign a few more phone calls until one of the organising alumni turned up, and a few greetings and conversations later, so did the mate I was waiting for.

 

Unfortunately, I had conveniently forgotten the fact that school functions rarely begin on time- we had reached dot at half past three and there were only four souls to be seen in the hallowed quadrangle, and I looked at the stage where the morning assemblies were held, a smile on my face. Mate and I then proceeded for a walk around the school’s corridors, revisiting many an old classroom, and also commenting on what a disgrace it was to put class ten on the first floor alongside ten-year-olds. The old store-room, later converted into a room for the then-newly restarted class eleven had now been made the maths lab. Mate said he still felt like throwing around things in that room; for us, it’d always be the dump yard.

 

Old teachers were greeted, names forgotten and retold, memories revived, many a smile here and a smirk in jest there- nostalgia was clearly the order of the evening. Two hours later, spent roaming around in the grounds and the cycle stand, we went back to the quadrangle to see more excited pass-outs bumbling about, and a few girly shrieks were heard and ticked off. The teachers were definitely having a ball- some even posing for pictures with every single alumnus they met- God only knows when, or even if, you people will turn up again. I was disappointed to see the sea-change in one of my favourite teachers- the prim and proper (as in that wonderful story in class six whose name I forgot) lady was now a hasti-khilti friendly teacher. The earlier avatar was so much more memorable, I thought to myself. The favourite class-teacher was seen, too, and after a gasping exclamation of ‘Murty!’ she was lost in work and other alumni, not to be seen again for the rest of the evening.

 

The school in twilight and dark has always fascinated me, and as the clock went past 180 degrees, the alumni meet officially began. By this time, most other batch-mates had duly turned up, and after an initial measly four, it was our year’s batch with the highest strength, and also the highest level of complacency as we totally ignored the speeches, poems, woeful anchoring and the usual hullabaloo associated with social occasions. People from many a batch came and spoke about their colourful memories from school- no one, unfortunately, was in a comic mood, and as my erstwhile classmates continued to push me onstage, my reservations took over and I stayed put. Meanwhile, one by one, people went on stage, spoke something into the mike, and went to receive what-looked-like-mementos from the new principal. What’s he ever done that I haven’t in school, I muttered. Later, I found out, everyone was going on stage at random, giving their name and what they were doing now, and then went on to receive some tokens of gratitude. Pulling along a friend who said she still hadn’t overcome her stage fright, I went to those steps to the stage where I’d been so few times, but each being memorable in its own right. The friend went, spoke uncharacteristically confidently into the microphone, leaving me to follow as she went on to collect her souvenir. Yours truly put a spring in his step, jumped up to the podium, put his mouth to the microphone, and spake thus:

“Good evening, everyone! My name’s M.V.R. Murty and I’m from the class of 2005. Questions asked- What’s your name, batch and what’re you doing now? My name and batch I’ve told you already, and what am I doing? Well, at present, I’m embarrassing myself on stage!”

 

Most teachers who cared to hear in the front row either gasped, put up a contorted expression, or just said- Still the very same. He won’t ever change!

 

The principal said while handing me the souvenir, “I didn’t get a word of what you said. Still, hope to see you next year!”

 

Same here, Ma’am! Same here...

 

P.S.- Oh, did I forget? I’m scrapping the lists idea. I’m too lazy to make those lists. I’m too lazy to change the title as well.

 

P.P.S.- The accompanying friend later thanked me for helping her fight her stage fright. When asked if I ever had some, I quipped “Didn’t you hear me speak into the mic?” and smirked confidently. She said “No, obviously!”

All Apologies

I’m back again. I tried it all. I saw two riveting Bourne movies, felt too tired to watch Wall.E and saw one of my, and, as I found out later, one of Aamir Khan’s favourite movies- Forrest Gump once again. I saw four days of high-quality cricket- as expected in a clash between the world’s top two teams. I stared at Shambhavi for about 133 seconds but even good looks can’t save a show as doomed as G-Talk is. How can you expect a show hosted by too incorrigibly unintelligent, nosily noisy and irritatingly giggly chicks- one not even pretty- to survive my remote’s ungrateful juggernaut? I tried sitting online- visible, for a change- for four hours at a stretch and that too not in the happy hours. I even tried becoming a regular viewer of Saas, Bahu Aur Saazish but nothing worked. The only option that’s been left untried is that gleaming DVD in the back of the laptop case containing 3 seasons of bites of heaven in the form of that goddess called Cobie Smulders. I restrain myself from doing that because of my unspoken law of following a maximum of three TV shows at a time. Thankfully, Heroes has completed season three. But, two episodes remain for me to watch. I even went outside- alone, for the first time in these holidays. But, even that venture ended up in me either muttering about all the stupid people along the way, or humming Society by Eddie Vedder.

 

This overwhelming lack of zest has left me in a state where even my grammar has taken a beating. Good music gives respite only for a few minutes. Even the Sudoku is now done and thrown away with contempt. Television is a drag- even with over a 100 channels, although discounting the vernaculars, it’s probably six dozen. I’ve become the epitome of the lost geek- I lack passion for everything. The only thing that interests me apart from chatting with my family, is chatting with a pair of twins I haven’t met in nine years. But, they live in a time-zone that’s almost a mirror image of time here- an eleven-and-half hour time gap. Other people I’d like to chat with are either in situations where I’d rather not bug them with whines like this, or are never to be found. The only thing to look forward to seems to be the school alumni meet four days away. Even Douglas Adams’ sequels seem rather dull- I only read a chapter a day now, compared to a book a day some time ago.

 

The last way I wanted to post again was this. Oh, I had such brilliant plans. Or what I thought to be brilliant. The prevailing cynicism, though, now suggests that I’d be the only one who’d think so. OK, I’d let it out. I had planned to make seven lists of my top six for the year gone by- 42 things of the year. The last list, to be published on the last day of the year, was supposed to be my top six moments of the year. Others were the top six songs I heard in the year, top six movies seen, six things that I’d rather not have happened with me, six people to watch out for in the year to come, six dishes I totally dig, and six quizzes I’d love to do in the next year but trust myself to be too lazy to make. But it all seems like a worthless exercise now. I can’t believe how I’m able to survive without little or no passion for almost anything. The usual spring in my voice on the phone is now replaced by a morose ‘pata nahi’ for just about everything. Even the prospect of staring at the usually-mesmerising Parizad Kolah doesn’t sustain my interest for more than a minute now- probably because Navjot Singh Sidhu’s incessant, unnecessary laughter kind-of puts me off. I find Raghu’s blatant bleeping on Roadies more interesting. That and the promise of Premier League football may make for a better weekend. Or else, they might make for another long drag of a post.

 

If only I had that NDTV Imagine pack. Oye, It’s Friday seems to be a bit of relief from the mundane bunch of TV shows nowadays. So does Fantastic 5 on MTV. But it’s only a five-minute filler, as the name may suggest. Oh, if you’re really on the dole, then try reading the whole of the Tickr on MTV- you’ll realise there are more jobless people than you- a fact that may be comforting, in the right mood.

 

P.S.- Roadies this season so far seems to be heading for only one word- DUD. The auditions throw up stupid people, and the ones chosen are even more so. Plus, there’s no chick factor, either, yet. The Ahmedabad and Bangalore auditions, for instance, were a farce.

 

P.P.S.- Sometimes I almost feel people with exams right now are darn lucky. And, curse Microsoft for not putting Minesweeper in Vista Business. Now, how do they expect one to be busy?

Nostalgia, Nineties and New pinch!

I was thinking that I’m about to go crazy. I do that quite often. Think, that is. I had to wait for another day. A full two hours away. Jason Bourne gladly obliged...

 

It’s 1:47 a.m. as I start typing out yet another post- I’d made a note on the sidebar before I started the movie lest I forget what it was to be about. Dad just purchased that ubiquitous GRE preparation book. For Big B. I laid my hands on it a day before he could. The look of the packet gave away the fact that it wasn’t a second-hand copy. Boy, no! It was a spanking new 2008 edition cover. White and a shade of sea green whose precise name I don’t know- my vocabulary is limited when it comes to colours. I guess turquoise and fuchsia are as far as I go. (The fact that MS Word 2007 thinks it’s spelled right has me very pleased!)

The packet looked inviting, even more inviting than the bunch of The Hindu newspapers- Deccan Chronicle is entertaining alright but you can’t survive without a proper newspaper for more than four days. (May I gleefully add, I actually went through over half of the Sunday magazine supplement today- and I must say, it’s a most wonderful joyride!) The clock has just gone past 2 a.m. and my internet connection’s happy hours start now. I’ll just move over to the room with the router, and be right back. You may go and pick up a cuppa coffee, till then...

 

OK. I’m back. So, where were we? Yes, I’d just laid my hands on Big B’s brand new book, and opened it with little or no regret. The smell of a new book is intoxicating, highly pleasurable, and in this case, brought back some sweet memories...

 

The re-opening of school is this seriously amazing time- the holidays are long beyond a point, and even the fiercest of school-haters get bored enough to want to go back to school. Ah, back to school! The phrase was all over- on people’s lips, their bags, the stickers on their books. Oh! The best part about being back to school was new books! The long waiting in the non-existent queues, the ever-present heckling over the prices, and the overwhelming curiosity to see how colourful the books would be! The big fat ones were always eyed with suspicion, and although one would be very happy to see they were not going into his/her packet, the curiosity to hold even those mountains was always present in the back of the mind. It would be one long, seemingly longer wait to get home and scythe through those packets and lay our hands on the shiny new books! Oh, boy! The calls from the parents to wait till the haldi (turmeric) was applied were almost always disdainfully ignored- at least when it came to the books of that one wonderful subject. After all the covers had been compared- even those of Big B’s- our greedy hands would go straight to the English books- the readers, to elaborate. We’d finish off the whole book the very night- the Maths and Science books would lie untouched for most of the year, leave alone that particular night! But the English books were spared that fate- when the reader was finished being read, and discussed animatedly, sometimes even the main course book, better known as MCB or even MSB in some places, would be scourged for stories, if any.

I remember how my spirits weren’t so high waiting for the class 9 English books, having read Big B’s already. The change in CBSE syllabus couldn’t have come at a better time! Plus, it had stories by O. Henry, R.K. Narayan and Guy de Maupassant- a total joy for short-story lovers! The poetry section was classy- although the archaic language tried its best to make it difficult to digest. I also recall how classes 11 and 12, where I’d shifted to the A.P. state syllabus, were so very disappointing, with almost all stories being repeated, and very few good new ones. Big B had better ones, including the first-ever detective novel- The Moonstone- for full novel-reading. We had Treasure Island, for god’s sake! Brilliant book it is, but more than half of the class had read it multiple times years ago! Not me, though. But I sympathised, and thus, echoed the disappointment anyway.

Anyway, my favourite English reader was the one we had in class 7- not sure whether it was the one published by Oxford or McMillan. But it had some of the most brilliant stories- especially considering the fact that it was a class 7 book. The likes of Riding The Divorce Express, The Slaughter Of The Lamb (by Roald Dahl, I guess), The Monsoon by Khushwant Singh and Rikki Tikki Tavi by Rudyard Kipling are still revered greatly. After You, My Dear Alphonse was nice, too.

And, for the record, I screwed my chance of topping my school in the class 10 board exams in English, thanks to some unforgivable mistakes like not knowing what to fill in ‘He came home and took ___ his boots.’ I had no idea, for some reason, and guessed ‘out’. I got 95. My teachers weren’t too pleased. And, the state board? Don’t even talk about it. Class 11 boards- I thought I wrote a near-perfect paper and got 90. I toned down the language, shortened my answers, actually read a guide for English (a total disgrace, forced upon me though) and after writing the class 12 paper, said confidently- “I challenge you to give me anything less than ninety-freakin’-nine.”

 

I got 80.