I dream a dream

I have a glow-in-the-dark bedspread now. It gave me quite a fright when I turned out the lights at 23:52 last night. What makes it more qzxfjyi is the fact that it comes with matching pillow cases. The sheet set is ocean blue in colour which looks qzxfjyi in mine room with olive green walls, chocolate brown doors and VTU textbooks.

There's more. I have been dreaming questionable content since the bedspread was welcomed into our family. This afternoon, for instance, a gorilla in a black tux held out a wedding ring to me. Yesterday, the gorilla had only smiled. I could swear I had smoked nothing, with no intoxicating substance existing in a 200m radius (couldn't speak on behalf of that techie nearby though..he plays Vengaboys on full bass past 22:00).

Ah. Nights will be exciting.

That day

That day, he showed me art. He placed portrait after portrait and I looked at them. Somewhere mid-session, I learnt that when you see art, you react verbally: talk high of it or not. It did not happen with me, I only looked. And then I picked the ones I liked.

...

The parchment was quite like canvas. It sucked in paint, more paint. It absorbed nearly everything I blotted it with and then it could not.

It dried by morning next. I was up every other hour to check if it had.
A little cotton swab held as much red as it could and gave it all to the parchment.
Soon, my hands weren't just black.

I only had two colours.

F.I.E.N.D.S - 2

Hopped I, off another eatery clutching edibles of the sweet kind. Before you judge me a merciless binger, I'd like to hear what you know about three day long sugarless survival with four hours' sleep a day (night?). Not that sleeping longer would aid the XX chromosome's sugarless existence.

Yeah. So. The aroma of baked and frozen edibles from the 50 micron polythene bag was quite overpowering. With deliberate, quick footsteps of constant measure, I was estimated to reach residence in about 500 seconds. A sense of strange calmness possessed my being, as against the general anxiety observed in the last few months while manually transporting food under human surveillance. The polythene bag could sense it too; its contents moved about in an inharmonious fashion and I was forced to invest several seconds in relocating them during which my shoes chose to tread on something that wasn't tar or stone.

*crunch*

"Ey! Stop!"

Shoes chose to stop.

"You cannot see on what you are walking? It is not even dark."

I inclined pi/2 radians towards the ground to observe the trodden object: a visual aid with one of the elongated levers that rest on one's ears nearly separated from the rest of the frame. The object was picked up, handed over to its owner with a hurried apology: the frozen edibles came with a 'meltable' warning!

"What sorry? You know how much this spectacles is costing?"

I see you in a spectacle! But then I'm half blind..

Another apology. And an offer to manually re-fit the frame. It only required a few screw driver twirls anyway.

"I am getting only 2 paisa from every tablet I sale. With that I should buy everything for family members. You youngsters think everything is easy.."

Elementary analysis placed subject as a chemist. My grey cells have been programmed to fear humans clutching syringes and/or ingestible medication. But then irony had ordered the incident to occur in visible vicinity of 'Sharp Eye Care and Contant Lens Clinic'. Ignoring an adjective to a popular syringe attachment in the very title of the establishment's nomenclature, I darted in, invested limited finance in repair of the visual aid while its owner stood breathing on mine neck.

The frozen edibles had formed an emulsion with the baked edibles at 21 minutes past their time of expiration. The concoction, however, was consumed with glee. I hence urge you to not watch what you step on, particularly if you like consuming exotica that also provides food for business-idea related fantasy.

Crappy New Ear

I remember looking forward to 1/1/09 on 1/1/08 while attempting to solve a numerical on Heisenberg's relation at approximately 21:00 hrs (+5:30 GMT). Even sang (that's right) to myself a little resolution.
"I swear to Lucifer to do everything that can be done to make the year all spluxoroni (don't bother looking the term up)."
The resolution lasted eleven hours.

31/12/08, 23:50 hrs (+5:30 GMT). Iron-fisted subject called Failed Theory the next morning, with a state average pass percentage nearly equal to the minimum rickshaw fare in Bengaluru. Yet I sat sipping caffeine..slow, deliberate sips, parallely adding humour to vector analytical diagrams (a memory technique which eventually did more harm than help). A new song, a new resolution. You don't want to know.

The next day, a rag flaunting eight questions ripped my will to survive.

A lunch session with Ze-Worry including awesomeawesome chocolate mousse kept chanting 'Guilty! Muhahahaha'. The incident left a scar behind, as have many others..I am now forced to wear a veil. Little human offsprings call me Ninja.

...

PS1: The title? Yeah I know..

PS2: $%#@%@&^%)*&!!!!!

The test

Flustered, irate, confused.
Love it isn't, too obtuse.
Heartstopping? Not.
More of an excuse..
Confounded, I stand
Try and seek you in stars
Then turn back
To desolate, ignored yards.

Winding roads before me
Too big a quest.
Praying as I walk
I will not
Should not
Pass this test..

F.I.E.N.D.S

They are everywhere. They roam in light as majestically they strut around after dusk, ears on constant alert, sly eyes gauging profit 365/24 and hands..those hands seasoned with a raven’s clasp, prepared to snatch, to rob! Nay, I speak not of professional muggers or miscellaneous con-men but of those silent assassins, those amateur plunderers in sheep’s guise.

Yeah. So. I was on one of those blah-you-men-I-date-myself frenzies and chose to treat self at a popular fast food joint in the city. A slight drizzle through clear Saint Gobains and Bryan Adams tuned to perfection only placed life at perfect peace with the world, perturbed not even by pesky little siblings (twins, by the looks of it) engaged in belligerent tugging of a toy the joint gives away with certain edibles.

My burger and fries were soon gone, like most other good things in life that quietly make their way out of the cat flap when you’re out buying cat food and..never mind. So yeah..I’d eaten all of the burger and fries when mine eyes noticed another joint in the vicinity that sold great donuts, which when clubbed with the choco shake I clasped could conclude lunch on a very merry note. Off I skipped towards the donut store, choco shake in one hand, baggage in the other...when I was *gasps* ROBBED!

Pesky kid from the set of two described earlier sat at the entrance of the joint, looking all gloomy. The XX chromosome that governs most of mine thought, word and action quickly (and involuntarily) triggered its maternity gene, which happens to bear the trait of being nice to biotic offsprings. Gave the little creature a /*warm*/ smile and said, “Grab the toy next time, OK?”.
Species showed no visible reaction.

“Where is the other individual of your kind? And the biotic system governed by XX chromosome that parents you?”

“He spilled ketchup on his shirt. She’s getting him cleaned.”

The creature’s eyes slowly moved and fixed on the beverage in my hand. They brightened, almost as instantaneously as my reflexes triggered to grip the container firmer.

“Can I have that?”

“Umm..my lunch..”

“Its chocolate no?”

“Yeah well..”

I didn’t affirm the request, OK? I didn’t!
Off the choco shake went zooming towards the restrooms, to cause more stain (pain?) or to be gloated on, I know not..

*angst* Why me?
Again, why me? */angst*

You might want to take a note or two off this narration though, specially the implication of not displaying in public edibles crucial for existence and a mental note to not resort to unsolicited conversation with pestilential human offsprings.

*sniff*

Tangled Waves

Finally, frustration levels have reached high enough to blog again. Without citing an excuse for temporary absence from this vent-bin, I choose to start off with the root of frustration - A 10 station FM tuner I painstakingly constructed is in coma, as is the family radio and a similar functioning unit on my cellular device. They were poisoned with sub-standard FM waves.

The advent of FM radio in India, particularly in erstwhile Bangalore was to bring back the charm of 70's and 80's radio - serve humanity with knowledge and quality entertainment, mainly good music. For a while, it did look promising to sapien species from both Vividh Bharati and Playstation eras until extortionate cloning of radio stations took charge (what competition at that!), initiating a large percentage of junta to divert their finance, attention as well as gifting trend towards a new investment - the humble mp3 player. This gizmo was such a hit that even radio set and cellular phone manufacturers included its modular version in their merchandise, fearing its possible dominance would otherwise make their products obsolete. I do not complain.

A few days ago though, out of sheer joblessness, I decided to re-examine the previously defined detritus cruising the city over FM waves and risked turning on the radio. However, just when I thought the world was forever rid of Dard-e-disco and miscellaneous Himesh Reshammiya chants, a simple channel surf revealed thus:

...Zara zara hold me hold me hold me, zara zara..

...Haaaaaaaai, neev kelta idira Radio XYZ. Sakkat hot maga! (Ah, wishful thinking.. :D)

...Oh vary happy in mai haart dil dance maare..

..the relief stop for banking and investments. Call..

...Whitu whitu whitu whitu..whitu Rajnikanthu neenu.. (Blatant racism! Ennada rascal! :X)

...Idu Bengaloorina hottest radio station.. (by far the most popular claim, placed by a minimum of 3 stations at once)

...and eef you want that goody bag, message meeee. The highest number aaf 'messager' wins! (God save the queen)


How did 'music' on Radio dearest perish? And those fluent, charming RJs who once made radio great 'human' company..did they give up jockeying to turn Motivational Speakers for the Royally Challenged? More importantly, what happened to the purpose of allotting a plethora of stations - VARIETY!? A chorus of 'Chaliya Chaliya' on alternate stations 4 times an hour surely demands a better definition of the aforementioned purpose. If anything is certain, it is the fact that the spirit of radio has drifted away to grace a funeral.

Not that all is lost, for inches of the sail are still visible. There seem to have emerged innovations which are quite endearing, albeit only a few such. The breakfast show on Radio City, a hilarious feature called Ghanta Singh that plays randomly on Radio One, nearly everything on Indigo, and the Western Music Hour on good old Akashvani seem lifting. But that alone won't do, will it? We want 'Radio' back!

Post abandoning the attempt to re-examine FM waves, I choose to get busy with a C programming manual, only to hear a station feebly calling out a last resort, 'Kolle nannanne' (Kill me, girl).

Second door to your left. Be my guest.

Festive spirit

And how charming it is to get hit with a fish (in public!) amidst water-colour balloons, bhang, gulal et al! To obtain the needful, execute the following conversation with an arbit, multi-coloured yeediyat (nothing racist, nay) around the premises of a certain college in Bangalore notorious for its 'extravagant' Holi celebrations. Telepathy, please.

Him: Tomato?

You: Scoot in the other direction, snot rag.

Him: Egg?

You: Scoot in the other direction, snot rag.

Him: Vokay then, happy hole-ey!

You: Spank you very much. Shame to you.


And then..

PHAT!

SPLASH!

The side of mine shoulder still smelleth rotten. *sniff*
Mine tresses still drip purple. *grrr*
And the coward attacked me from behind before 'scooting' away quite literally, dodging a second look.

But this will not go unsettled, will it, Dowdy? The street will be stalked till thou art paid back in kind. Vengeance is sweet.

Consequence

The Nikon on the display shelf was the best bet ever, a fully loaded DSLR. I did not have the heart to look at its price tag as it would probably take months of fasting for me to afford it. Heart heavy, I walked into the store to buy new earphones for my wreck of a music player, with an unwilling glance at the Nikon while the clerk billed my order.

Wish it were mine..

'Ma'am, excuse me. Ma'am?'
The clerk was shouting.
'Congrats. You are our hundred thousandth customer and you get that beauty there absolutely free. All yours.'

All mine..

He kept beaming at me with an obvious mistranslation of the shock my face showed.

Minutes later, however, I was marveling at the pseudo-physical entity christened 'dumb luck' as I hobbled to work, clutching safe the Nikon. On the way to my cubicle, I cast half a look at Samuel, our team leader, the post I was once considered for. Boss never told me why I had not made it..he probably hadn't been able to come up with a good reason or didn't want to tell me about the call he had received from Sam's influential uncle. The promotion would have relieved me from most of my financial tight-knot..the student loan for graduation, the rented single bedroom flat..

I deserve it.

A call from Boss. 'To my cabin, please.'
When I came back to my cubicle, I was vaguely gathering what he had said. 'Samuel posted to Gurgaon..team leader..we thought you were best for the vacant post..'
Numbness.

I found my way back home alright, taking a triple extra cheese pizza and chocolate mousse to celebrate. Just as I smacked clean the last vestiges of mousse and readied for a take on the Nikon, my room mate Molly messaged.
'Hey I wont be coming tonight. He's taking me out for dinner and we'll be staying over at his place. I have the spare key. 'Night. :-)'
She seemed excited. He was my unrequited love.

Bitch. You stole him from me. BITCH.

At 2am, I heard Molly sobbing on the sofa.
'He never did love me, you know. Told me he had been using me to get to you.'
Spasm. What in Christ's name was going on?


In a matter of hours, I woke up feeling maniacal. If what seemed to me was true, I had just been activated to control nearly everything that happened to me. To put this theory to test, I stood before the mirror, closed my eyes and began concentrating hard.

Turn my eyes green. Turn my eyes green..I want green eyes..

Nothing happened. Probably only involuntary thoughts and emotional surges became real. That still remained unbelievable.

The day had more surprises. On my way back home, I humoured upon a list of self-centered thoughts, stopping for a quick bite at Carter's. The air outside was thick with cigarette smoke and drunk revelers lingered on the street although it was only 9pm. Choosing to ignore their catcalls, I pretended to be busy texting on my phone when one of the losers shouted a nasty remark across the street. My fist clenched; a surge of anger swept past like never before..

Kutte ki maut marega saale!

And..

Viva woes

There is a lot we do not understand. Most of what we do not understand at one point of time gets clear at some other point of time but there still would remain sediments of disbelief or vague hints of the past lack of understanding post the (un)specified time of understanding. If you were wondering whether I started busying myself with Ludlum's philosophy, you probably have never stepped into an engine-erring workshop lab.

For newbies: Workshop (06WSL18) is a compulsory subject in the first year of any engineering course in Karnataka (and in IITs too, I think) with the exception of a certain autonomous college in Bangalore. The syllabus includes designing fitting models which extract physical labour in alarming quantities and welding models which demand a fumbling freshie risk his looks. The warsht that could happen was probably this particular subject carrying 75 marks for the semester exams which includes a 10 mark viva voce (rapid fire question-answer session with the examiner). Why workshop was made compulsory for all branches despite it having least application in our chosen career stream has bounced over every taker's head from time immemorial.

Circa 2008, January the 18th. We yawn our way to the college workshop at 8:15 am in half tucked hideous khaki uniforms and leather shoes, carrying a 4 Rupee hacksaw blade which serves the purpose of cutting steel (yes, solid steel!). The instructor stands smirking like he has been nominated the next Ivan the horrible (or is it Hagar the terrible?) with the sneaky HOD and the wispy Vice Principal (VP) whom I last remember seeing on the first day of college. After a 'cordial' welcome of instruction shouting, we are made to take down the model supposed to be made - a quadrant of a circle which fits neatly into its hollow counterpart, both made from two steel pieces, for 30 marks; a welding joint for 10 marks and viva for 10 marks, all to be added to our internal assessment marks to total it to 75.

VP adds as an afterthought, 'Time limit ees 2 avars, that is exactly 120 minutes.'

Hue and cry greets this announcement.

Assuming his words could make things better, he states with a grin, 'See 2 avars more than yenaf if you have a good breakfast and come. You will get full 120 minutes for your work and nobody can take these 120 minutes from you'. His version of a certain 'Sattar Minute' speech that made waves last year.


Thus, we get to work; marking, punching, cutting (the thin blade wobbling dangerously, extracting a work of 317.55 joule/second from yours truly), filing and then welding. I choose to do away with the details because after all the effort, it looked like my strategy paid off and I got soopar looking models. ;) Just when I thought those marks were in the bag, I hear Hagar call, ' Roll numbar threeeeee. Viva'. I walk nervously to the external examiner, a man in mid-thirties in a crisp white shirt and sit down when asked.

Ex: Hmm. So roll number three. So what is your name?

Isn't that on the register next to the roll number, you near-sighted warp?

Me: Akshata, Sir.

Ex: Hmm. So which branch?

Me: Electronics.

Ex: Hmm. Aap kidhar se aaya hai?

Was prepared for this, considering five out of three people take me for a Northie. Took a second to debate between continued amusement in inducing more broken Hindi or get down to business and finish early for my regular dose of caffeine in the canteen.

Me: From Bangalore sir.

Ex: Oh. Originally from where?

Me: Coastal Karnataka. Karwar.

Ex: Ees eet? So Akshata, can you introduce yourself?

Me: Here's an alternative: Why don't you just scroll above and apply simple summation of finite series?
I am Akshata, branch electronics, from Bangalore, roots in Karwar.

Ex: Goooood. So, can you identify this device? (points to a lethal looking tonged instrument)

Me: Loading..27%..89%. Image of Dad using it to unseal a cough syrup bottle.
Cutting plyer, sir.

Ex: *grins* Six yellowish white teeth on each jaw visible.
See ma, in engineering level, we expect certain amount of technicality from you. Of course, you are right but even a 3rd standard child can tell me that no?

Me: Sir, it is a snipe. Used in sheet metal work. It has two movable jaws attached to the handle and the jaws are shaped for pinpoint precision cutting. Usually made of hardened steel, grade 4. Specification given by size of jaws in mm. No operator skill is required. Even a third standard child can handle it. (Without pause. Mujhse panga lega?)

Ex: *looks impressed* Good good. But I just asked you name no?

Me: Grrr.

Ex: So, can you identify and yexplain about this device? (points to a divider from a school kid's geometry set)

Me: What technicality do you expect from this, human? Sir, that is a screw-turn marker. Precision measuring instrument which can be used to measure distance between two separated planes, draw parallel lines or locate the center of a circle. It is made of mild steel, has sharp edges and movable legs. Specified by maximum separation measurable in mm. (Now talk about technicality).

Ex: Full Hajara Choudhary manual tip of your tongue aa? *laughs* See ma, in engineering level, simplification is the key. Why so much technicality for such a simple device? It is a simple divider which children yooze.

Me: Fuming. Yes sir. But you said yexplain so.. (yes, with the sarcasm and my best smile)

Ex: Vokay vokay. *looks at VP* This is the interest we expect in the subject, sir. So Akshata, what ees yoovar ambition?

Me: Law will sound out of track and might lead to more questions, making me late for coffee. Think..something big and complicated.
Research in satellite ranging and nano technology, sir.

Ex: Oho. What is that?

Me: Erm..adopting electronics for research in satellite ranging and nano technology. (source: Elementary Explanation Guide for External Examiners).

Ex: Ees eet? All the best. *takes register* Roll number three..three..three. *scribbles what looks like a nine* You may go.

Yay! Thanked him and fled. And it was only after I reached the canteen that I received this SMS forward:

'Trying to convince your examiner in viva is like fighting with a pig in mud. After a while, you realize that you are getting dirty and the pig is enjoying it'.

Bystander at the lychgate

And He made me a river, a tempest, a tide,
Coerced to run, night and day,
I lash'd at rock, flooded thicket,
Ached for sedation, yearn'd parole,

Bystander at the lychgate, I see you sob
Beloved departed, crypted, cremated.
I reach out to you, take my arm,
Alas but I only am a swift tide of water.

I bargain with Him, 'Let me stop
For a moment of solace, a word, a pat;
To comfort him with an 'all will be well',
And then I shall resume my vault to the sea'.

Yet He said, 'Slow down, not halt,
And haul his tear to the sea.
I steer fate; you run, he weeps
For you are a river, he a lover'.

Twinhood

This afternoon, there was a stampede in the cafeteria, caught in which I was almost killed but I managed to emerge out of it in a single piece, triumphantly clasping my catch -- a double chocolate cone for me and a double raspberry for Angel, because I like chocolate and she likes pink. She must like raspberry too, its pink.. I dunno..

And then we sat on the lawn. After we lunched on the ice cream, we lunched on more ice cream and then on soda with ice cream. Angel kept hers untouched till the ice cream merged into a homogeneous pink soda-ice cream solution. She did not tell me why, probably because she could not fit that into anything she talked this afternoon.

Angel talked and talked about how good she felt when the days were warm and sunny, like today. 'Because its only now that we'd enjoy all the ice cream', she said. And then she told me about how she wanted to fly. I tried to picture the two of us in a glider, against the springtime sky. It seemed a little obsolete. And I don't know how many seconds had drifted before I heard her sob.

Angel was crying and nothing I said whatsoever seemed to make a difference. I wished I'd be able to hug her or at the least look into her eyes just this once but that would not happen. As a matter of fact, I have never looked into her eyes ever. Angel and I are an oppositely directed Siamese pair, with the back of her head nearly joining the back of mine. This means that while we have each other to talk to all day, we can never lie down on our backs on the lawn and watch clouds, birds or air planes, among other tiny compromises that come along.

But we don't mind being this way, probably because we are used to it. Dad reckons medical science will evolve in a few years and we could be separated to lead normal lives but Angel always retorts that we are normal. At this, someone around always remarks about who would marry us. I then lose my cool and ask them to keep their fat mouth shut.

Angel's sobs had become more rhythmic. She would still not tell me what was bothering her. But I knew what had to be done, that simple trick which always set out world right. I patted her shoulder with my right hand and said, 'Angel, stop crying. No matter what comes, I'm always with you.'

She choked midway down a sob, paused and then giggled. All was well. Then she said, 'Thanks Esme. And no matter what I think all day, you are always on the back of my head.'


Credits: Sa, for 'Esme'. :)

The silver line

Bang on 8, she knocks at the door. For a reason unfigurable, she has never used the doorbell. And for a different reason altogether, she has never been late. Introducing Jaya, our domestic help, role model for multitasking and an icon in time management.


Jayamma's day starts ticking at 4 am (ouch) when she rises to offer prayers, cook for a family of four and attend to a household whose keepers leave for work by 7am. She then hurries back home, gets her kids ready for school and does not turn her back on them till they are well inside the school gate. When ridiculed of being overprotective of a 10 year old and a 12 year old, she replies, 'If they skip school, they will also be washing and sweeping like me, Amma.'


Past noon, Jaya goes home for a frugal lunch, having attended to not less than six households, followed by a siesta. Confirming her children return home on time, she insists on them completing school work before play and watches over them not wandering away in bad company. But her true woes begin after dusk when her slob of a husband returns home to beat her up and grab a greater part of the couple of thousands she makes a month. The meager remainder post thrashing manages family expenses and should also be saved to realize Jaya's dream of sending her kids to college. Owing to the inavailability of cheap liquor due to the Government-imposed ban, poor Jaya is fleeced more than ever for money which her husband places on gamble, only to afford branded liquor. Talk about investments.


However, despite being a victim of multi-dimensional harassment (all of which is too long to describe, even for an epic of woe), Jaya goes about her business as usual, pretending all is well with the world, humming a catchy Tamil number as she mops the floor clean. When asked why she has been looking peaky for a while now, she replies, 'I have stopped resting in the afternoon, Amma. The Malayali lady next road is teaching us to read and write. I am going there.'


Jaya he!

Captive

Past noon and I am awaken to hunger by a construction truck thundering outside. With a momentary shake to senses, I cast a sharp look around, just in case you know. Ensuring I'm the only living being for yards around (not counting pests, plants, insects and ol' spidy), I take wing to the lunch table.

I am formally served food on a white plastic table in the family's dining room. The people here take care to supply me with atleast three variants of food a mealtime, something I call good thinking because I'm quite picky, see. On landing, I have half a second to look at what's on offer before I hear a snatch of conversation through the living room window. Three voices chinwagging, flying past my dwelling, I suppose. Three voices of my kind!

Voice 1: Excellent. I see a mango tree. That should do for lunch.
Voice 2: But we've had it just yesterday. And they're off season!
Voice 3: Notch down, sonnova dawg. We've flown nine miles breakfastless.

I struggle to hold back the natural impulse to call out that I'm at lunch, that I have sufficient food for four of us (with dessert too!) before being slapped to the reality of living in a closed space the others cannot enter. As the voices fade, I begin to reflect-- on the freedom I never had, my bargain for confinement with the breeze that never ruffled my feathers..


However, 'confinement' is a strong word to call my existence, as I'm at reasonable comfort for a domestic pet. I am allowed to rise and retire at will, fed with the choicest of food (an extensive list derived from little mistress's prolonged research, which happens to consist more of her fancies than mine.. never mind) and left to my own for most of the day, much to everybody's good. My temper tantrums are humoured upon; I am fondled more than a newborn, grab more attention from guests than mistress's prized wall piece and have never been starved or abused. Instances of me hopping on the computer keyboard, perching on assignment files and snuggling into the black helmet on a cold day are treated perfectly normal, as are my attempts to sing (although I do get an occasional reprimand when they disrupt phone calls).

Not that I have no escape. I can flee at sunrise when the good lady opens the door to collect milk, or later when the good man leaves to work or even when the good (!) girl leaves the window open while draining cups of some brown liquid. But to what would I flee, pray, when I already have a life of comfort on hand with no threat to existence, when I'm not caged or trim-winged like my counterparts and when procuring food is a mere two second flight? The only thing I have not is the company of my kind for which I'm surely not fool enough to risk the world outside, mortgaging this freedom.

I may not soar high among tree tops or have tales of adventure to brag. I may have not gone places or dated and mated but I never, too, have flown nine miles in search of an unassured meal or lived and moved in stealth dodging predating eyes. My life may be predictable, listless, yes, but it is atleast definite.

Four plunges at the rice bowl, a bite of groundnut before I grab the sweet brown chunk and fly to the window..for a solitary gaze on the mango tree.

Captive, am I?

Mirror

On the marble case
A mirror gleaming spotless
Reflects, unasked, as vision
Shows all bare.

By blow it falls,
A thousand sharp pieces
Gleaming, bloodstained, shattered
Each piece, a face.

Spite, love, envy,
Triumph, plot. Blood.
Each piece, a tale
Still shows all, bare.

Branded blunder

Aksie's guide on how NOT to spend a mighty two grand INR.

For most of us non-earning students who need to to survive on a monthly allowance for 'material comfort', two thousand INR is a reasonably big amount. We alone know the labour it consumes to save up the dough by thrift expenditure, cutting on junk food, entertainment and other bare necessities to acquire a grand possession which our guardians refuse to sponsor. Hear then, my tale of woe with a warm heart and be sure to learn what I did. *sniff*

It all started off with my cousin telling me how happy she was in her 10 year old jeans which she has been wearing atleast twice a week from her college days and is still in perfect condition. Cutting short her chatter on plans of making it family heirloom, I inquired its brand. Levi's, she answered. Levi Strauss. I was politely disappointed, as I rarely do find right-fitting jeans and Lee was the sole brand my loyalty lay in, having invested on a lovely new pair the previous week. I was however tempted to possess (by her description) a snug, never wearing pair of denim clothing and decided on Levi's.

Then began the grueling, for Mum flatly refused to sponsor the novelty, her argument being most of my clothes never came out of their closet hiding and that I already owned too much denim anyway. Without losing heart, I began saving up moolah for grand Levi's, saying no to unsponsored junk and being my best at home for good bucks. At the end of several weeks, I had a slightly smaller waistline and more importantly, two grand!

The prospect of shopping for dream Levi's lifted my post exam-results gloom and Mum was glad to accompany me to the store, provided I stayed shut while she invested two hours on selecting a saree. Vokay then, off we went to Brigade's Levi Square. While Mum amused herself seeing the well arranged mannequins, I told the cheeky store girl what I wanted. 'Grey, light-flare and no elephant eared kinds please', I smiled. She was obviously too dumb for the joke, I guessed, as she rummaged around, suggesting me to go for skinny jeans (or whatever it sounded like, sickly clothing that clings to your legs) which were apparently in fashion. 'Try straight fit ma'am, more formal look'. Are you right in the head, girl? Are jeans even supposed to be formal? Finally she pulled it out, a possible ugly duckling, grey (thankfully not faded) but much to my displeasure, highly flared, elephant ear sorts I dreaded. Mum was pleased though as it stirred memories of 'bell bottoms' in her college days and asked me to try it on while she recollected what colours she had owned.

Trial woes. The 'regular waist' didn't even come up to my waist and forced dieting had put me between two sizes. It was nearly revolting, sliding down at the waist and flapping at the bottom. Mummeee. I look like a pheelaawar pot! Minutes later however, I was trying to hide my displeasure and buying it with grit teeth because I didn't want the trouble I took to earn it go waste, plus it carried some offer and with my dextrous skills at the sewing machine, I could be able to make it 'Aksie's Pair' (not to mention the joy of hipping around a Levi tag). Well, a week later I finally decided it could not be put to perfection. Gave up rebelling and agreed to wear it the way it was.

That day I learnt that something should never be settled for if its simply not right. That day I learnt that decisions should not be pressured upon but reasoned with. That day I learnt to give an ear to what Mum says, think on it for seconds atleast instead of flat rejection and then act because grownups get it right most of the time.

Finally, a few things I want to sort out with Levi Strauss & co.

Not every denim loving woman is a fashionista. Most of us are sensible mortals and still take jeans as comfort wear which we can leisure in. What do you have for us? Nothing! If key comfort is replaced by overpriced, hip revealing, clingy, flappy stuff, the brand will soon cease to exist because we pay you for quality. Keep a section with proper waisted, well fitting trousers and with sensible store people around else I may be forced to change my career path to teach you a thing or two.


PS: Dearest cousin, the next time you think something is good, please get it for me. :)

Who we are and what we do.

Tears (quite literally) in Bangalore following the sad demise of the historical MG Road boluevard and an 80-something year old building which housed the equally ancient photoshop GK Vale and Lakeview ice cream parlour. Another instance of a fragment of history, of time itself being amputated to welcome its modern counterpart. This time, the underground Metro.

Why tears, you ask? Alas, any heart would stir at an ambush, more so because it involves a century old green showcase dismantled. Because it is a quiet rendezvous invaded. Because it brings back memories, happy ones. Tear would then be little tribute to something as revered as a cherished memory, that lost love, the sole ambient light, dying melody. A farewell note.
Desperation. Frustration.

Who are we and what are we doing? Why are we treating inanimate-yet-truly-alive structures worse than parents being thrown in old age homes? Is it because some faceless visionary thought loss makes the heart grow fonder, that loss teaches us values? That, I gather, is the philosophical pretext debating with the anthropological pretext of modernization to obtain a reason to destroy; a debate which will not find a judge for eternity, both being lost causes. Philosophy does not teach mankind. It only makes visionaries. And destroys.

Why do we even create captions like 'live and let live' if adopting them was out of question before their creation? We are blinded hypocrites and happily so. This is probably the only conclusion drawn from the want of a subway station precisely under century old green boulevards (no, replanting trees elsewhere cannot replace the original), antique buildings and not a few walkable yards away. If non-livings are shown such 'mercy', one can only imagine the value life carries and what it would fetch in times to come..

The old man is dead. He will not return. Others are dying. We cannot save them. Many more will die. We will not take trouble saving them but indulge with grandeur on their graves.

May our dreams of evolving into another US or UK rest in peace.

(note the sarcasm)

Orkut's tale

You must have come across this blog through the aforementioned 'socializing' site, thus enabling its author to casually place you in the ranks of 'blog hunters' on Orkut, the activity being among the few eventful things that struggle to keep the site's 'charm' (I kid you) alive these days. Presenting, then, a brief piece exclusively on the long list of Orkut's messed up things and more importantly, people.


First things first. Orkut's beginning to stink. With a senior citizenish air, I'd narrate to you about times two years ago when joining Orkut was possible through invites alone. With less than 20% of today's populace, it housed a haven for intellectual discussions, interactions between activity partners, friends and purposeful communities. Long before the site's 'nobility' was starting to be admired happened a choking population explosion! Every Tom, Dick and Bihari who got wind of the site's existence had begun Orkutting on competition, delightfully hopeful of the profile feature titled Dating (women) and their female counterparts pooh-poohing at the supposedly kewlest online gather. Thanks to their active 'participation' in thumping numbers, Orkut's server suffered from an incurable Multiple Disability Disorder.

Then came the uber-kewlies, (more popular as Fraandship Scrappers with the average Orkut woman) who chose to stay warm and cozy within the boundaries of intellectual nothingness, SMS lingo and the sole approach line 'hiiiiiiiiii wnt 2 b frnd wid u plzzz', gleeful as long as they came across enough female profiles to try their luck, a motto the author wonders is adapted from the countless Brazilians on the site. With their signature style, desperate manner and approach, they take due responsibility for most fumes and irritability on the site. Soon, other genres were born. The spamming losers, fake profile lunatics, sex starved maniacs and their female counterparts (swearing removed in final edit, after debating). More degradation of the site's purpose.

That leaves out the normal populace who cherish the true spirit of Orkutting - catching up with friends, finding long lost ones, seeking true activity partners, participating in intellectual and evolved community discussions, conversing in 'understandable lingo' if not the Queen's English and more often than not cribbing about Orkut's lost demeanour. They keep the site's purpose alive with their effortless ability to outshine the rotten eggs in all manner, a feat that deserves standing ovation on the hour. Although this section seems to grow smaller in number by the day the author's assurance stands that it will not be wiped out, for a lone harp's note imparts bliss to all heaven, masking hell's despair (yes, highly philosophical indeed :P).


PS: Edited 14 times.

PS 2: Didn't want to repeat this after most definitions. So here it is, triggered to reach out to the needy and deserving:


WHACK!

Appointment with love -- The conclusion

Kindly read the following plot first:

http://cursed-soul.blogspot.com/2006/06/appointment-with-love.html

My version of its end:

Blandford stood stunned for a moment before reality came rushing to him. He felt he was being made to live someone else's life. Without waiting to register the happiest moment he had yet lived, Blandford dashed out of the Central, forgetting to thank the smiling woman and parting his way roughly through the crowd on the platform. Swifter than any aircraft he had worked with, Blandford ran in the direction he had seen Hollis go, temples pounding in excitement, adrenalin rushing to paralyze his senses. No, he could not hear, feel or see.. All he wanted was to get to Hollis.. fast.. faster and then he would decide what to do next. In a few seconds, he was out of the Grand Central.

Four minutes past six. The smiling waiter seated Hollis on the two seater table facing the huge glass window through which Hollis could see nearly the entire main crossing. Cars following each other, probably carrying people heading home after a day's work. The outside was slowly being bathed in gold as the sun bid adieu.. Had the woman told him yet? Had Blandford backed out like any other man would do, when he believed the old woman was Hollis? Every part of her wanted him to get through the test, seek her, come to her and the rest of the evening would be magical. If things went right, so would the rest of their lives..

He could see the restaurant outside the gate. Darting on the pavement, Blandford reached the main crossing. Cars were plying by.. the usual evening traffic. Now, fifty yards separated Hollis and him, fifty longest yards he had walked. 'God make this fast', he prayed.

And then he saw Hollis. Seated behind a glass window facing the crossing, she was looking directly at him. Blandford felt blood prick as it flowed along his temples and his throat went dry. Almost constantly, they smiled. He could feel Hollis' eyes gripping him, pleading him to climax the seeming endless wait. Finally, the signal on the crossing changed and Blandford took three steps across the road, the eye contact unbroken. He had barely managed to see the big black blur from nowhere speeding his way, when he felt his insides freeze. The smile had not quite left his lips... his eyes still open, Lieutenant Blanford fell.


Forty nine seconds later, Hollis saw Blandford's eyes close. In the few moments they had together, he had managed to mutter, 'I love you'.

The completion

Dear someone,

I wish I never see you again or correspond by any means. All your presence reminds me of is falling into a bottomless pit and every stroke of thought in which you feature gives me a sinking feeling. True, after meeting you, I haven't been the same. I never thought I could dislike a person to an extent that I would be forced into disowning him/her/it/you, but I was proved wrong.

How I wish our tracks never crossed.My life would be better then.I wouldn't have wasted endless hours in thinking up ways to let you know everything I meant in the first paragraph and dodging your response. Ah, now the burden seems to have lightened. After all those lies, pretence, deceipt and backstabbing I had to endure, this comes as a relief. And yes, I waste no time in blaming you for everything that went wrong (and taking due credit for the few things that seemed ok in the past). Mark me, not again, for I dread you.

Sometimes I pity your worthless existence, completely ignorant that your social circle you pride over completely detests you. Not a single friend you have for they all know how fake you are. Aye, Aksie knows best. Just count the number of people you have lost and you will know too. Gather your wits and throw the mask you wear else you'll lose the sole casket of trust you have. Come on, you don't need me telling you what the casket contains. Oh yes, this advice is offered only out of sympathy. Don't be lead into thinking I still care for you. That, I wrapped up the day I saw the corners of your mask twitch beneath your fake adulating grin.

The parting of ways. I have no regrets. Hope you happen to read this and get the message. Until then, if at all I respond to you, it is not by will. May Christ never cross our ways again.

No thanks,
Aksie.

PS: If the one concerned does not pick up the reference, I will find it funny.

PS 2: The others, ask me no questions and I will not lie.