THE PREVALENCE OF INSANITY

Why Music is cooler than anything else

2011-11-14T06:37:00.000-08:00

Music is truth.

A magic greater than anything we can imagine.

Does that explain Mozart writing symphonies at the age of 7? The bastard.

The only people I really envy are musicians. Everyone else, I look at and think, hey, I could do that. Banking? Maths and smarts. Got both. Law? Smarts. Check. Doctor? Don't like hospitals and blood and sick people and I completely lack empathy, but no problem. Good memory and some fairly decent genetics in the general cranial region. I'd be sorted at any other profession.

But music gets my goat. Right down to the last baaa.

I listen, and I transcend. I listen to the layers. Layers upon layers of instruments. Notes written for each instrument. Each coming together in perfect harmony. Premeditated. Me, I have to listen to a piece at least 5 times before I can even identify all the instruments. Another five listens to appreciate fully what each instrument is doing for the piece. Another 5 listens to get a feel of the lyrics. And another 5 to just let the song soak in.

And by 5, I mean 50.

Take this piece for example

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfzyUr78nhs

You've head it a zillion times, but mostly in its bastardized rock version. Listen to it again. How each instrument enters. And changes it into something beautiful. Something that has meaning and can move you, a hundred years after it was written.

No art will ever match up to music. Because it's universal. You don't need to have a keen eye. A trained eye. You don't need to have attended art school to appreciate a song.

Aptly titled What the Fuck (acrylic on canvas)

You can write like an angel, but your words will only be read by the educated. You can make a movie, but at some point, it's context will fade.

Only music is immortal. People will sing your songs. Your work will forever be remembered.

As long as there's Piratebay.

Oh how I wish I was a musician.

THAT'S OUR SONG!

2011-10-23T11:03:00.000-07:00

Ok, so you’re in love. Good.

Now, most people who know you and care for you and think they need to be part of your life are going to tell you a whole load of improbable nonsense about love and relationships and give you advice. This is terribly annoying, but it’s normal.

Remember, being Batman is the key to a woman's heart. Are you Batman, eh?

For the most part, they’ll tell you how to be an ideal boyfriend (Be thoughtful and caring and sensitive and shave and have six packs and don’t look at other girls have lots of money no you don’t look fat in that dress honey don’t objectify don’t drink too much don’t smoke be funny stammer charmingly like Hugh Grant basically be gay but actually straight) or how to be an ideal girlfriend ( Actually, I have no idea what to put here, cause nobody’s ever talked to me about this, unless you count that one time in prison..Never mind. Where were we? Oh yes. If chick flicks are anything to go by, girls give each other unreasonable expectations from their respective boyfriends )

All this advice is nonsense.

Here is some solid advice all couples can use.

Five ways to discover what your song as a couple is, A.K.A. “Hey that’s our
song!”

Five ways to discover what your song as a couple is, A.K.A. “Hey that’s our song!”

Look for similarities in your past. Did you grow up listening to the same sort of music? What was your favourite song? This doesn’t necessarily gy have to be a sappy love song. It can be any song. But it has to be a cool song. (If you are unsure if a song is cool enough, contact us. We are experts.) You may just find that both of you loved the same song. Congratulations! Now you have “Your song” and you can be excited and be romantic when you hear it played in public places.
Look for a song that you associate with a good memory- like that time both of you got chased by dogs while going for a romantic walk on the beach, and you heard “Show me the meaning” playing on a passing peanut-seller’s radio while fleeing. Pick your memory, slap on a song and there you have it.
Write her a song. Yes, it sometimes comes down to that. Or at least pick your favourite song and rewrite the lyrics somewhat so she goes awww. Ladies, you may do likewise (Although if you’re dating a guy who can go “awww” on a regular basis, please come talk to me. There is something wrong.)
You’ll discover it by a bizarre coincidence and the situation and the song will convince you that you are bound to be together for life. Do not panic if the song turns out to be something dreadfully ironic or gay or Lonely Island or all three. It is your song. Deal with it.
Pick awesome song. (You have the freedom. We suggest the Beatles. They did some killer stuff. Something? Golden Slumbers? Falling?)
Fabricate romantic moment (Yes, you can do this. Romantic moments don’t magically happen unless you’re in a rom-com and the director’s got one Y chromosome too many) Now, play song during romantic moment. Play few more times to ensure that it registers in partner’s head. Follow up in a few days time by listening to it in a public place, leaning over and whispering “Remember?” holding hands, being gay and fixing song firmly in partner’s psyche.

Or be actually gay. That works too.

Why “Hey that’s our song” is awesome.

It gives you an excuse to be PDAish when it’s played when you’re out together.

You can hum it under your breath as shorthand for lots of things (I’m sorry, I love you, I miss you, you’ve got lasagna in your teeth)
You can set the mood with it. (Wine and candlelight and a bed suggestively strewn with rose petals can also help)
If it’s a common song, it’ll make sure your significant other will think of you often. (Yes dear, with a face like that, these are things you must worry about. Sorry to be the person to break it to you.)
It can make you smile. (Because really, you cannot smile enough)

Pictured: Not Enough

Now go ahead and find your song. All of you, who’ve already got your song, go ahead and be smug. And if you can think of another way for these newbies to discover their song, post it here.

Remember, you say it best when you say nothing at all.

You’re welcome.

The beginners guide to acquiring a soul

2011-10-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

There are only two types of people in the world:

Those who like the Beatles.
Terrible human beings with no soul.

Now that I’ve made my position on this clear, you can continue reading, or declare that the author is an imbecile who is talking out of his nether orifice and go back to doing whatever it is soul-less people do.
Wait, actually, there’s a third kind.
The ones who haven’t been exposed to enough of the Beatles to decide.
If you’re one of those, then there’s hope for you yet.
Presenting

The beginners guide to acquiring a soul. ( cue Ride Of the Valkyries)

The Beatles were and still remain the most commercially successful band in all of history. And yet, they weren’t ‘mainstream’, lame, or Justin Bieber. Not in their time. Not now.

Here are five reasons why.

All you need is love

From the opening bars from La Marseillaise to the slow fadeout, this song is a defining moment in human evolution- a time when someone finally realized and put to music the teaching of every major world religion. It was written by Lennon in 1967, and he intended it to be a revolutionary piece. He wanted to change the world. To a place where love was the most important thing. This is your first step in acquiring a soul- leave your cynicism aside and consider, wouldn’t the world just be better if all you needed was love?

Let it be

Another great sentiment, another brilliant song. The beauty of it lies in the fact that despite their formidable vocal talent, they’ve made this song something even the most tone deaf gorilla can sing along to. And empathize with. Watch out for the underrated and mind blowing solo by Harrison.

Here’s the original.

Here’s perhaps one of the best covers. Chills guaranteed.

Don’t let me down

Lennon’s agonized wail. You’ll wish no one had let him down. You’ll wish nobody would let you down. You’ll scream out loud with him. It’s so wishful, written at a time when the band was breaking up and all their lives were changing. And still it carries a note of hope that’s endured over the years. It’s the last song the Beatles ever performed together. It marked the end of an era, performed on the roof of the Apple building in New York City. The lads from Liverpool came a long, long way, and right till the end they believed and hoped.

Something

It’s been called the greatest love song ever written. Even if you’ve never been in love, this will make you wish you were. Even if you don’t believe in love (Refer 3rd line of article) it will make you want to believe. And really, how many women wouldn’t want to be sung to like this. It’s not sappy. Just…real, you know. I know you’re a good boy/girl with family values and you’ll marry whoever daddy tells you to. But if you ever decide to rebel and fall in love and get cut out of the family inheritance and frowned on by formidable aunties in the street all that, dust off this song and listen to it again.

With a little help from my friends

Right when you thought all I was going to write about love and stuff that doesn’t exist, boom- With a little help from my friends. Because it’s about friendship and isn’t gay. (For our younger readers: This word is confusing, but you’ll understand someday. Until then, stay away from fashion designers…) It’s about the finer sides of friendship. It’s just such an awesome fun song to sing. When you’re drunk at a karaoke, (For our younger readers: Alcohol is injurious to health and you should never drink. Conditions apply) or in car on the highway or just generally in a happy mood and your friends haven’t stabbed you in the back. Yet.
Associate it with the best memories of your friends.

And now that you’ve listened, listen again. A few more times. If you liked how you felt, then congratulations- you’re experiencing the first glimmers of a soul.
Come back next week for more.
Or go ahead and explore the Beatles on your own.
If you didn’t enjoy the music, well. I pity you. Because, you know. People with souls experience pity.
I hope I never meet you.

Why there's nothing really wrong with Justin Bieber

2011-10-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

You’re going to read this article merely to spit upon it. That’s all right. But hear me out. Because this might just make sense.

Although you’ll probably hate yourself and the author at the end of this, you’ll feel liberated.

Maybe.

Around about when I was in the sixth standard, the Backstreet Boys were popular. Really, really popular.

So was N’Sync. And Westside. You know this, of course.

Now, back then, I was an impressionable child. And my role model was my older sister, a lady four years older than me and of great personal magnetism. She used to spend hours in the library, reading books far above her age. Many years later, she was a multiple academic gold medalist and voted best outgoing student in college.

Now, being a good little younger brother, I read all the books she did (I’ve consequently read several period romance novels, a fact I’m not proud of, but that’s another story), went to all the fancy plays and movies she did, tried to be a good student and finally, when I thought she could do no wrong, she unleashed the Backstreet Boys upon me.

Like this one.

I was a kid. She said ‘The Call’ was a cool song. It sounded cool to me. So I was a BSB fan. I learned all there was to know about Nick, A. J., Howie, Brian and Kevin. I had a favourite Backstreet Boy.

We listened to Black and Blue on tape (Yes, tape. Remember tape recorders? Remember using a pencil to wind and unwind cassettes when they got tangled?) until it wore out. And Millennium. We treasured the little foldout thing that came with the cassette and had all the lyrics in 3 pointsize (Visible only to very young children with excellent eyesight. Good marketing strategy, in retrospect)
And I could sing along to all the songs. I still can. If you play a BSB song out loud in any office with twenty somethings, I can guarantee that after the initial protests and bad-mouthing, more than half the people will be singing along under their breath when they think nobody’s watching.

Play this and look around you carefully.

The Backstreet Boys were addictive. They were an essential part of growing up. I was a dumb kid. I didn’t know what was cool. The songs were catchy and I could remember the lyrics and sing along and everyone I knew liked them. (Wait, I’m getting to the point. Sheesh.)
The point is (See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?) the Backstreet Boys were heralded as great musicians in their time. And even the smartest, coolest people I knew subscribed to their awesomeness.

They were like the Mozart of our generation.

Of course, a few short years after the craze had died down, the majority attempted to erase BSB and the boy band phenomenon from their collective memory using the Beatles, Floyd, Oasis, Led Zep, Metallica, Dylan, the Stones etc. The rest turned into child molesters and Radio Jockeys, but let’s not go there.
(Here’s a little something to blow the Boy Bands out off your ass. Literally).

Now, I suspect the same thing is happening with Justin Beiber.
While we, the cool grown-up people sneer at the Beliebers, (This is what Justin Beiber fans call themselves. No, it’s still not legal to assault them with blunt objects.) we ourselves were at one time victims of a similar craze. And mass media’s much huger these days, so these poor kids are sucked into this miasma of shame unwittingly.
You can be sure that, 10 years from now, they’ll burning (Or Shift+ deleting off Facebook, which is more likely.) the pictures of themselves with Bieber hair, assuming deep voices, growing beards and bulging muscles behind their ears, riding big bikes, eating the heads of live bats, and swearing that they never followed that disgusting fad.
Who knows, Justin Bieber may just reinvent himself like Justin Timberlake and survive. (I hope he doesn’t, because I want to be able to hate him for a long time)
So have a heart. Don’t write off those disgusting little children from the ‘90s just yet.
And while we’re waiting for them to change, let’s hope someone, someday, will get Bieber to do this.

The best advice you ever got

2011-10-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

Son, you’re growing up now. One day, very soon now, you’re going to hear the Jonas Brothers and hate them.

And suddenly, rock music will start sounding a lot better than noise. Don’t worry. This is perfectly normal. This happens to kids your age. Don’t be embarrassed. When you start feeling this way, come talk to me. I’ll give you some music that will help with the transition from boy to man.
Just about this time, you’ll also hear about these things called Rock Concerts. They’ll happen in our city. And you’ll find that all your friends will want to attend these things. Why, some of them may even be practicing these rock songs themselves. Don’t be afraid of them. Open your mind.

Some of them will form Hawaiian boy-bands.

Now, when you’re attending a Rock Concert, there are a few things to remember:

1. Always wear black. It helps to blend in with the crowd, especially if you have no idea who the band is, what they’re performing, and you can’t scream the lyrics tunelessly like the others.

2. Whatever you do, don’t go right up to the front near the stage if the band is playing Death Metal. Unless of course you weigh over a 100 kilos and hate your body.

If you look like this, you have nothing to fear, really.

This is because of a phenomenon called a mosh pit. It is not for the faint hearted. There will be many metalheads who have grown their hair long for the sole purpose of looking cool at concerts by tossing their hair violently to the music. If you show signs of weakness, they will pummel you to the ground with their freshly conditioned hair and masculine grunts.

3. Don’t be afraid of the women there. They only look scary. Behind the piercings, they’re people too. (Don’t presume to go up and hit on them randomly, though, they might have mad metalhead boyfriends. That would not be good for your health)

4. It’s ok if you can’t hear the vocalist over the distortion. Local rock shows are not about the vocalist. They’re about the bassist, mostly. Because rock is about bass. Which is short for badass. Notice how it’s always the bassist who is besieged by the lovely leddies after the show.

5. Occasionally, rock’s also about the lead guitarist with his awesome solos.

6. Every city has one epic drummer that everybody knows. Drummers are in general cool people who are not violent or tempestuous, having relieved themselves on their instruments. (This is not a dirty joke, son. Stop sniggering.) You should be friends with drummers, but remember that they’re extremely possessive of their sticks. (Seriously. Stop it.)

7. There will be many people consuming fermented beverages and mind expanding substances at concerts. You are encouraged to avoid these for as long as possible. They will not make you a better musician. Unless your name is Clapton. Some people will tell you that certain mind expanding substances may help you enjoy some types of music better. This is a myth. Music needs no supplement. (If you’re still doubtful about this, I know a guy in Saidapet who can help you conduct an empirical study…)

8. Avoid taking girls to concerts. They are not ideal for romantic dates, mostly due to the impossibility of conversation and the smell of sweaty rock-groupies. Unless you are trying to get her all stirred up with the loud music so she’ll do something to you that she’ll regret later. (This may work, but remember, you didn’t hear it from me.)

9. Beware of the toilets at rock shows. Bad things happen there.

10. At some point in your career of attending local rock shows, you will meet and befriend a man called Zombie. This is the sign that your education is complete. You are now officially a rock enthusiast.

He's quite nice, actually.

Go forth my son. Become a man.

And may your yellow shorts be forever shiny.

The House of Flying Shaggers

2010-12-13T12:12:00.000-08:00

I wake up late one night. I decide to pee. And find, at the washbasins next to the toilets, a bald man, with intense acne, staring at his reflection in the mirror and slowly stroking his head.

Why did I wake up randomly, you ask?

Because the guy in the next bed farted. Loud and long. And for the benefit of the deaf, his gaseousness smelled like the depths of hell. That is why I got up.

Many days later, I wake up to find a man who looks exactly like a dhobi sticking his hand out at my face. I was, understandably, confused by this. Dhobi dudes, in my experience, usually take clothes, count them, tie them in a bundle and leave. They do not attempt to shake your hand. But I'm a polite guy, so I shook his hand, and he introduced himself as…well I promptly forgot what, and said he was a new occupant of the house. When my friend Benjamin awoke, he asked me why the dhobi was sitting on the beds and watching TV. I swear I did not colour his judgment in any way. The man just looks like a dhobi.

Of course, dhobi dude isn’t a patch on G. B. This man is more like a mountain, a sumo wrestler in an old banian and loose shorts. Every night, he watches a serial called Balika Vadhu, while drinking Signature. More disturbingly, he weeps silently while watching the show, which at times involves a pansy man playing a flute while his wife looks on and sniffles.

If that wasn’t disturbing enough, the landlady recently threw out two upstanding young men from the house. She accused them of bringing women into the house at 2:00 a.m. and spoiling the good name of the house. They were understandably upset, seeing as the landlady’s son was most probably the one who committed this heinous act. To add insult to throwing-out-on-the-ear, she accused them of bringing the bedbugs into the house. How, you ask? Because R was consuming a rather nice bottle of red wine, which, according to our learned Landlady, caused him to smell. And his vile smell was attracting the bugs. This reasoning is yet to be understood by anyone.

My life, ladies and gentlemen, is a cartoon.

FRANCIS DOES NOT DRINK, SORRY

2010-08-09T13:55:00.000-07:00

He will only pretend to drink, occasionally. And pour the drink away when no one is looking. Just like today. When some strange desi daaru gave four people a serious buzz. ( For my fellow South Indians, Daaru is the word for liqour over here. Note to self: Why did the Bawa boy advocate it so vehemently? Does his family own the brewery? Look this up. )

The very same Desi Daaru caused them to sit on Marine Drive, at that really beautiful spot, look up at the sparse stars and drink it from orange Minute Maid bottles and laugh like idiots when it started raining. Huddle under a single umbrella trying to get warm, while smoking cheap chocolate cigars. And then hire a horse carriage to take them to Modern Stall on Roadside Which Has Kickass Shawarma for Dinner. All the while singing loudly through Colaba causeway in a fashion reminiscent of retarded squirrels. (Playlist included: Let's get it started, Baby by Bieber, the Flintstones theme, Something by Backstreet Boys and Hey Jude)

At the end of it, everyone's smackeroo, and I've laughed at their antics and conversation so much my stomach hurts. Like when one special lady sprayed horrible Brut deo into her face instead of onto her wrist (When you're drunk, understanding a nozzle is as easy as solving Fermat's last theorem). Seriously, when everyone else is in la la land, you don't need alcohol.

Here's to you, Sankara Special.

Now, if only I could do the whole night over without the alcohol and a certain Lady..I guess you can't have everything. Damn you, Murphy.

I am Miss Universe

2010-06-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

I wake up in the morning, not feeling like P.Diddy. Bad dreams. The phone rings, and it's the woman. I love waking up to her voice, but today she speaks for barely a few minutes, then she's gone.

Have you ever been in a long distance relationship? You're always wishing you could be with her, and the short span you DO get with her is like magic. It's like your birthday and christmas and winning every competition you enter, all that times two million. It's a glee that's borderline illegal. But the distance and circumstances that keep you apart isn't easy to handle.

The first time I heard the woman sing, it was an insane recording of her singing 'When you say nothing at all', on her best friend's phone. Then I brought her home, and I realized that it was the first song on my playlist and had been for the longest time. I just never noticed.A sign, right?

Then, out of the blue, the woman starts fighting with me. I don't understand where it comes from, or where it's going. I'm trying to talk it over, but she just won't let me. And I'm getting more frustrated and upset by the minute.

Then Waseem calls me. We were supposed to take a meeting at 8, and he had overslept, as usual. I was past caring. He says the meeting's been postponed and the others are at the beach. Let's go take some photos, yes? I had promised someone I'd go to work, and seeing the foul mood I was in, I almost told him to go hang himself. But as I didn't feel like working either, I didn't see the harm in taking the morning off. So I went. And in the car he plays Tu Bin Bataye, and I realize I can't be angry at the woman after all.

The others are in Arun Ice Cream, he said. So we walk in. And they're all singing When you say nothing at all. Joe's playing the guitar. I'm a little surprised, and I bow and wave. Then they move their chairs aside and

' the touch of your hand says you'll catch me whenever I fall'

the woman gets up from behind them.

She was supposed to be in Cochin, arguing pointlessly with me.

But she was standing there.

You should have seen my face.

Sippu

2010-06-20T13:26:00.000-07:00

Where would we be without friends?

The ones we grew up with, and became brothers with? The ones who are permanently inside your head.

The ones who join a little later, are not exactly like you. But you can sit with them in silence for hours and not feel in the least bit uncomfortable? Who you know you will be working with forever?

The ones who join you in college, and made that experience something you'll never forget?
From being together so much you can read their minds?
Hanging out so much people thought you were gay together?

The unexpected ones from the little village who can somehow get your weird sense of humor? The ultimate macho ones, who can play every sport, drive everything, be built like a house, can't sing to save their life and still have a heart the size of Antarctica?

The ones that edge in slowly,and you go from thinking that they're lovely helpful fellows to realizing they have the wickedest sense of humour in the world but will still help you so unreservedly you wonder if you deserve friends like that?

The ones you'd generally cross the road to avoid, but turn out to be the ones who can make you laugh fastest-even at yourself?

The ones who dazzle you with their ability to be fun and different and enthusiastic about a million things all the time?

The ones who started out as your friend's girlfriends but eventually became best friends themselves, on sheer awesomeness?

And of course, the woman who makes you smile everyday?

Where would you be?

Nowhere happy, that's for certain.

I have possibly the greatest and most eclectic set of friends ever.

Must have been Buddha in my past life to deserve them.

Or I'm just plain lucky.

BREAKING THE HABIT

2010-04-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, at a party, I witnessed the following conversation

Sharanya: Harish! Your hair! It's all weird and spiky!

Harish: Go check my DP on Facebook, it looks nice there!

Er, excuse me? I want to go back to the time where people's everyday physical lives were more real than their online avatars.

And also, social networking sites are taken so bloody seriously. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the real life. Although the lines are blurring there. Suddenly the internet, and in particular, Facebook is starting to annoy me.

So I deleted my account.

I should be able to reactivate it, though.

I wonder how long I'll last unconnected.

Sigh.

At 1:38 in the morning, only one person can keep me awake even when she's asleep.

2010-04-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

All right, I'm a sap. Sue me. At least I have a reason.

A reason so beautiful one of my best friends told me she's out of my league.

A reason so smart, she's going to be an architect. Just imagine.

A reason so funny, that even though everyone groans at the bad jokes, they still laugh.

Maybe because of the glittery eyes the size of Alaska, the dimple and the smile.

a reason so awesome all my friends love her too, and that's something.

A reason so unconditional she's made a long distance relationship last so long, so effortlessly.

A reason to be a sap, publicly on facebook, and not care.

That four letter word? For me, it's eleven letters.

I AM YOUR FATHER

2010-04-14T13:04:00.002-07:00

I used to be amusing, I think. Now I'm everyone's father. My, how things change. It's all Pradeep's fault. He asked me to be responsible. I didn't need that choice, did I?
Bleh.

A quick update, seeing as I haven't written anything for ages apart from the love note.

I took up the rather murky job of being the president of the Loyola Theatre Society. With much effort and swearing, we pulled off the play (Young Frankenstein, for all you creatures who call yourselves my friends and didn't turn up.) I apologize to the long-suffering people who put up with the whole process and stuck with me till the end. I'm particularly sorry for the star of my show though, his mum is going to hate LTS forever.

Sure, we ran into glitches. One particular porcine person forgot to return the costumes on time. Guess how much we're paying for that moronity. What's worse, he's got a big black car that was stolen away by a Gigantic romantic on the exact day when we needed it the most. And I had to summon him halfway from a really scenic spot on the ennore beach and foil his plans. (He went to the ECR after that for cornetto ice cream, but that's a different story). Our music director faked us till the very last day, and even played the theme from 'Jaws' to fill in for set changes. No one except my cousin (who happens to be a musician) noticed. And the director of course (What the FUCK is he playing Clifton! I want the FUCKING change in ten seconds da! Where are the FUCKING Cliffhangers da! Shiners, where the FUCK are you! Aaron where's the FUCKING chair da! Vaidhya give me some FUCKING AMBER da! Where the FUCK is AMBER da! FUCKING geniuses. Fucking morons mumble mumble...)

Oh, and how could I forget little miss squeak and the esteemed foreign candidate student fighting over a black dupatta. (The ultrasonic waves had dogs for miles around whimpering and running to mommy) My costume person decided to quit thrice. I'm a smooth talker, though, and she stayed. Nothing to do with the fact that she's my sister. No no. And make up. Someone suggested two very lovely ladies who painted my monster with poster paints and stuck beards made of cotton wool using good ol' camlin gum. The village elder looked like Santa on a bad day, and the director very nearly quit on me. So we made changes, and we lived through it all. Some of the cast loved through it all. I shall mention no names. Guhahahahhaa.

I'm almost done with college now, though. 15th April sets me free from Loyola.

So sue me, I love the place. And all the shit I got to do here. Or with Loyola as the excuse. And the insane freedom college gave me. Imagine studying in an engineering college. (Suckers!) or in a college somewhere far outside city limits in the middle of a forest.

And all the trips to 'Bangalore'. But Shh.

Loyola is awesome if you know the right people and know the way around.
For example, be like Clifton VerumDas. Epic power as president of the Enviro Club, with the degrees of hundreds of students in his hands, and unlimited funds. Which, for the first time in the club's history, he did not misappropriate. He lived life to the lees and is still smiling. For now. He's on the Dean's hit list. Your move, Rajadas.

Joe has a camera and a guitar.

Nasi is not in Bangalore, how sad. But soon the magic will come back to the city.

Dwarak is wearing track pants.

Harish Ramaswamy got adopted twice, and he ran away from home in his youth.

Waseem is awesome.

Cheta gave us lots of food, but not free.

George Kora would have been better with coconuts.

Sandhya is a Spazmaster.

Pavitra missed her cue by 2 minutes (one FUCKING responsibility da!)

Nishanth saw his cousin's apparatus.

And. Ok enough. To life.

oh, and was it a costly play Pradeep? Aw.

BECAUSE

2010-04-14T13:04:00.001-07:00

I saw her walking out of class. She had those eyes. And I thought " Wow, I should have been in that other batch." Then, later, when we were ragging Akanksha, and making her dance to some execrable Bollywood song, she looked in through the doorway. She had those eyes. Impulsively, I grinned at her and asked her to dance for us. She smiled at me, shook her head and left. She had a dimple. And she had those eyes.

Then, we were in the same batch. I walked over to her table and asked her if I could look at her work. And she said sure. I flipped through the book, but I was distracted. You see, she had those eyes. I took to sitting next to her in class, and discovered that she was witty and quirky and prone to pinching people and wearing Fabindia kurtas. And she had those eyes. I discovered that she was staying close to my house, so I invited her home, along with her friend. We sat on the roof and talked until it was dark, and when I walked her back to her hostel, I knew. But she didn't seem to notice at all. I thought I'd never see her again.

But technology is good, and we were found each other online, even though she lived in another city. I couldn't go to the same college as she did, it was not meant to be. I understood, but it was hard to accept. You see, she had those eyes. I never thought I could ask her out, you see, she was a goddess and I was an awkward boy who'd studied in a boy's school all his life. But I couldn't stop talking to her, because she was funny and quirky and crazy as ever and you see, she had those eyes. But my friends egged me on (Thank God for them) and I asked the woman out. She refused and refused and laughed me off. But I never give up, and by God, she had those eyes. Months later, on a trip that would decide my future, I saw someone who reminded me of her. And I asked her again. And she said yes. She was mine, and she had those eyes.

She lives in another city, and I don't see her everyday. But we've been together for almost three years, She and I, and yes, she has those eyes.

POLICE STORY

2010-02-07T10:40:00.002-08:00

Yesterday, outside Citi Center, I got pulled over by a Policeman because I had cut the stop line while waiting for the signal to turn right.

Usual story about how sorry I am, how I'll never do it again, how my house is in Santhome and my dad is in the government, and he asks for money. So I show him my wallet, which has exactly twenty five rupees.

He asks me if I have any dollars.

You understand my puzzlement. What Dollars, I say? I picture scenes from old Tamil movies where the pendant on a chain worn around the neck is called a dollar. I wonder if he thinks I have some sort of gold dollar on my person.

He asks again if I have dollars.

Foreign dollars. Wait, why would I have foreign dollars? Lots of people have them these days, he says. Well, kind sir, I regret to say I have no dollars. He looks at me contemptuously, swipes my twenty, scorns my torn fiver and send me off with a warning.

There is a lesson to be learned here: Your dollars are not safe anymore.

P.S.: Policemen these days have no cents. Get it? get it?

WHY I'M ALWAYS BROKE

2010-02-07T10:40:00.001-08:00

Money. I have other uses for it. More important uses. More important than eating expensive finger food. More important than drinking. More important than watching a movie.

My friends probably think I'm a stingy bastard who's always mooching off them. Sure, I mooch. I mooch like a madman. But I'd just as soon go home immediately after college, eat my mother's delicious hot lunch, go my really fun workplace, stay there till ten, come home, watch a movie and go to sleep. I rarely actually want to go anywhere. I have some retarded sense of obligation to my friends that forces me to accompany them to random spots and engage in random activity. And they end up paying for me. I've become some sort of amusement whore.

I need to reevaluate my life.

EVEN THIS

2010-02-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Some songs make me sad.

Every time I listen to Phir Dhekiye from Rock On in a car, I feel sad.

Today I listened to a song from Wake Up Sid in a car and inexplicably, I felt sad. Terribly terribly sad.

The strange thing here is that I am essentially a freakishly happy person. Life is miserable and unfair and hard but it's also ridiculously funny. So I laugh. But today, I couldn't. I sat in that car and felt shivers down my spine and I just couldn't.

Nostalgia, man. So many things in such a short span of time that will never ever be the same again. I love change but this is messed up, there are some things that I don't want to change, have never wanted to change so drastically and so... finally. It's terminal, and it's killing me. Today I can't blame shit on anyone, not Murphy, not God. Just people. People I love, people I hate. People who went and changed my whole life around, twisted me, moulded me, made me laugh, change my mind, laughed because of me, and now it's come full circle and it will never be the fucking same again. Everything's gone too fast and gone too soon.

C'est la fucking vie, and it's a twisted, cruel, thing of beauty. Smile.

A ROUND OF APPLAUSE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN

2010-02-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

It's just an inter department culturals, right? Ethiraj conducts some 30 of these things every year. Stella was having an inter-year culturals even as we had ours.

But every year, something spurs the Students Union of Loyola college to make a huge deal of Ovations, the inter department cultural fest.

This year, for example, Ovations had, among other things, a 60ft long stage, celebrities popping up every half an hour or so, a sound system that almost blew your clothes off if you sat too close, a global village,a stunt show and to top it all off, a really trippy laser show.

There were 31 events.

Of course, the show was awesome, everything went almost perfectly smoothly, there were no disputes and it was one huge extravaganza.

But that's usual. Me, I was fortunate enough to observe the human drama that occurred during the organization of Ovations 2009, and that my friends, was worth all the nonsense.

First off, there was Pradeep. Pradeep is the president of the Students Union. He is also the scion of the famous VGP and therefore has no earthly reason to push himself so hard to make Ovations such a big deal. When, out of curiousity I asked him why, he told me "because it's better than sitting in class". As good a reason as any, I suppose. Anyway, Pradeep lured me into the LSU by putting me in charge of a mythical 'cultural panel', and consequently dumping all sorts of random jobs on me and the other people in the panel. Some of these jobs included designing the brochure (all design work to be delivered in half an hour from time of asking, sometimes the previous day... just to make things a little challenging) also the website, the banners, the certificates and random collaterals. Rashan, a certain junior who is aspiring to become President of Loyola 2010 ended up doing things like typing out the Union car pass list.

Eventually, when the time came, Rashan wrote the rules for all the events, charted out the schedule, put everything in place for the department meetings and generally ensured that everything went smoothly. Enter Prem, the Joint Secretary, a person of subhuman intelligence who did nothing productive for the event. Prem becomes extremely insecure that a second year boy, the aforementioned Rashan, is doing lots and lots of productive stuff. He feels that Rashan is making him look bad. So, everytime he sees old Rashan, his blood boils and he disappears to call a meeting with the Dean of Students to discuss, along with the other 'elected members', everyone's specific role in the great scheme of things.

Other highlights include Karthik (the finance secretary), whose hair turned gray, quite literally, in the weeks leading up to Ovations, Naveen, the cool- headed, jovial Kumaran silks boy finally losing his cool and screaming at people, the evening college boys having problems with the cultural panel, Joe Jalma succumbing to the charms of.., Nasiga running around squeaking, Bala, the attendance secretary putting kadala for random women and giving everyone OD, Ramnath raising his hand, Ranjit's Pooran Song being sung on main stage, Santhanam asking Nasiga what she was doing on Saturday night, Sofie being judge for almost every event and Pradeep threatening to expel troublemakers.

Also, my department, due to something my seniors did at Ovations 08, was debarred from participating. My HOD decided that even though I was part of the Union, I shouldn't organize, so I spent most of the culturals sitting in class, texting reminders and instructions to the event coordinators. At the end of the day, no one knows who the cultural panel is, or what we did. Andrew, the Big Man from Advanced Zoology rose brilliantly to the occasion and coordinated everything perfectly, though.

Finally, however, I DID get to say "big bald man dancing on stage" in the microphone, when the Dean danced when everything was done.

So it's ok.

ALCOHOL, I SAY!

2010-02-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

Watching people is by far the best pastime on earth.

I was at 10 Downing Street, (the pub, although Mr. Brown is undoubtedly funny) on thursday. Drunk folks are very funny. Especially when it's karaoke night. If you're a music connoisseur, avoid the place like you'd avoid an upset bull. If you are a connoisseur in people, do come along. You will see amusing sights like:

1. Man in striped shirt dancing, his belly causing the stripes on his shirt to turn into waves.
2. Very drunk man grinding with the Karaoke screen.
3. Chappie dancing MJ style, and getting chinese lady to grind with him.
4. A couple so drunk they were making out in the middle of the pub. Then the waiter brings them the bill and the guy is very confused because his bill was something around three grand, but the girl is too far gone to care.
5. One family friend who didn't recognize me, so far gone that she was exercising her rights under Section 377.

And that's just the beginning. Inebriated people singing is something you should not miss.

But hey, to each his own.

"I'll be off a second later, and go straight to the theatre!"

2009-08-16T11:10:00.000-07:00

Metroplus Theatre Festival 2009, Chennai.

I seem to be writing against theatre a lot, philistine that I am. This time, however, I have nothing against the play. The play was visually brilliant. Aurally fantastic. The sets were gorgeous, the lighting was divine and the actors were par excellence. The problem: the play was in Korean.

The language was not the problem here, for there were subtitles. Sadly, the people seated in the balcony of the hall could not see these subtitles, (the screen blocked it from view completely), consequently having no idea what was happening. It does credit to Chennai that some sixty people can sit through a Greek tragedy interpreted in Korean (Medea) , and not make a single sound. Shows you how many people understand Korean.

There were four of us who could not see the emperor's new clothes.

Later, as the lights came up, we asked the rest of the audience what they understood. Some looked sheepish, others looked down their long intellectual noses at us ( As if you need subtitles for something so beautiful dah-ling) and one aged caucasian person told us that we had witnessed something of great beauty and had just ruined it. He went on to say that all Indian audiences disgusted him. When we took up this statement with him, the organizers brushed us off, asked us to drop it. Lovely behaviour from the staff of a Newspaper that claims to be the most dignified, intelligent and honest journal in our country, don't you think? And yesterday was Independence day.

Did Jai Hind just become Jai Ho?

CASTLES IN TIME-SPACE

2009-07-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

John Lennon once said " Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted". Which justified most of my vettiness in my life so far. But what d'you know, I've recently started doing stuff that was both pointless and not particularly enjoyable. In essence, I have become the prototype person from Loyola.

Yesterday, I built a sandcastle. Ok, in my defence, I tried to. I had with me, at this point, two grumpy women and a hyperactive giant. One grumpy woman helped with the sandcastle. The other one sat around on the sand. The giant consistently tried to sabotage the castleworks.

Now, all was going well (at least as well as the circumstances would allow), when ye olde fortune teller shows up. Not the creepy fat lady with the little stick, no sir. Not the one who tries to tell you that your wife will look like Aishwarya Rai (Poor lady, she's been invoked so many times by the fortune tellers that she went and married Abhishek Bacchan, who incidentally looks like my friend Waseem). So, this fortune teller of ours was a guy. Ordinary sort of chap. With a nice green parrot. Now, I've never had my fortune told before, and I don't ever intend on having it told again. (I'm the sort of megalomaniac freak who believes that he writes his own future, and the future of his minions, thank you very much) but yesterday, Giant and Grumpy Woman 2 decide that they want to know their futures. And mine, in the bargain. So with my sneering disapproval, little Mithu comes slinking out of his cage, picks a paper to predict my life, and sneaks right back in. The fortune man, who up till now has been quite normal, looks at the chit and breaks out into a veritable torrent of classical tamil, most of which even I cannot follow. After his first effort, he wants me to pick a card with my own hand. I refuse downright, so Giant does it for me. the man goes wild again, and I realize that he has just predicted that I will have two wives (?) and that I will be a millionaire after I'm forty ( I took very strong exception to that.) He also predicts that Grumpy Woman 1 should have been born as a guy (If she had, she would have raped at least ten women, but since she didn't, the world is safe) and that Grumpy Woman 2 is going to have problems in the near future. Giant's life is supposed to be somewhat like mine, with the whole millionaire before forty thing, but with an additional warning that he should avoid the company of younger people, and hang out with older people instead. Needless to say, this worried him quite a bit.

By the time this inanity came to an end, the castle was coming along decently, but it required a bit of water to make it a little more solid. So Grumpy Woman 2 and Giant are enlisted to fetch water from the sea (which is barely ten feet away from where we sat, just out of reach of the tide) Unsuccessful attempts are made at fetching water in a rubber slipper, bare hands and a coconut (which looked suspiciously like someone deposited a little.. er.. white substance into it) until I spot an empty water bottle and they go to fetch water in that. Thereafter we are treated to a sight of Grumpy Woman 2 running away from the waves very nimbly, while still trying to fill the bottle. Giant is more effective, and we build quite a bit. Then one whole section of the wall crumbles, Grumpy One gets hungry, and we leave. But not before they take amusing pictures of me, and kick down the castle.

I grin and bear it. Vaalkai is a vattam.

A WEIGHTY QUESTION

2009-05-21T13:02:00.001-07:00

The impossible sometimes happens, you know? Fat people always wish that they would magically get thin. Doesn't happen, usually. Fat people tend to get fatter. Some get used to the fatness, some try to get rid of it with the good advice that's so freely available (even facebook is doing it -Check out the 5 tips to get rid of belly fat ) but most just passively hate large portions of their bodies. I used to think that people just made fun of overweight people at their expense, but it turns out they were making fun at their expanse. The reason I can write so insensitively about fatties is because I'm one myself. No, seriously. Stop laughing.

I suffer from what I call 'The Fat Hangover'. Between my sixth and eleventh standards, I was a fat boy, of middling height. I do not kid with you. Being fat usually has a lot of strings attached but thankfully I didn't experience much of the social trauma of childhood fatness. In my school, if you had half a brain, the kids would let you alone, didn't matter if you were fat or had bad eyesight. If you weren't smart, then God help you. I knew a kid called Andrew Shirley (yes you read that right) who had his glasses broken at least once by every guy in a particular gang. But the less obnoxious fat kids like me, the ones who passed the exams and whose homework was copyable, we were left pretty much alone. (except old Murtaza, of course. There are always exceptions) So everyone was used to Fat Francis, everyone including Fat Francis himself. Then, suddenly, somewhere between 11th and 12th, I grew up. From a portly five foot seven, I went to a gangly, gawky six foot nothing in about five months. My body didn't know how to handle this. It was almost as if all the fat in my body went to my extremities and caused them to elongate (Stop laughing, I know what you're thinking). So, all of a sudden, I was a tall skinny boy.

Unfortunately, in my mind, I'm still fat. This mental image is helped by the fact that I still possess a considerable belly.

My peculiar predicament struck me rather forcibly just a few days back when I made a passing comment about how all the skinny people in the room seemed to be holding a conference and one of the girls told me that maybe I should go join them. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why was she mocking me, a poor fat boy?

I'm an outcast. The fat people think I'm skinny. I think I'm fat. I don't have a psycho-morphological group of my own. Is there anybody out there who feels the way I do?! Help!

Bangalore bemusement

2009-01-30T04:06:00.000-08:00

It all starts with the cold. It makes me reckless. (Did you know that cold stands for common obstructive lung disorder?) It's the 13th, the day before the pongal holidays. I have a cold, and I'm delaying Jerryd, Jason and Clifton, who are downstairs waiting for me in Jason's car. It's just one of those days. Murphy decides to hide all the handkerchiefs, and I run down, sniffling, and we're late for class. The magnificent three decide to bunk class, because their Prof. isn't going to let them in anyway, but I soldier on to class, nevertheless. I am an incurable optimist. I also believe in the constantly gullible nature of teachers. Predictably, I have forgotten what day order it is, walk into the wrong classroom and scurry away when I realize my folly.
Further contemplation results in my concluding that the first two hours are free, and contemplate going to the lovely Loyola canteen. However, one of my classmates informs me in passing that I've missed attendance because that idiotic professor Riju decided to take over my first two hours. I inquire as to why she is wandering around when she's supposed to be in class, and she says he let them go after taking attendance. I find Riju taking class in the preview theatre, beckon him out, and ask for attendance. He looks at me, asks me if I'm ill, and tells me he'll give me attendance. I wander around, discover that I have no further classes, and hop into the car to go home with the trio.

That's when they tell me they're going to Bangalore. I say, "I want to go to Bangalore too!" So Clifton says, hey, why don't you. This is at 11:45 am. By the time we reach my house, at 12:00 pm, I've decided I'll try to go to Bangalore. The trio has their tickets all booked and ready. The train is at 1:30 pm. I call my father. He says, as your mother. I call my mother and tell her my father gave the green light. My mother grudgingly says ok. I pack my college backpack with some stuff (I only forget my handkerchiefs, predictably, because I have a terrible cold). Ten minutes later, I'm in the auto with the trio. We stop at an ATM, because I have only a hundred and fifty bucks (fifty of which belong to Benjamin). The ATM tells me that my request could not be processed at the moment. I figure I can draw some cash at the station and we continue on. At the station, I brave the queue and the loud woman who wants a separate line because she's a lady (yeah, right) and get a ticket to Bangalore, Rs. 96 only. Unreserved.

Then, I line up outside the ATM in the station, only to discover that the IOB network is down, and I can't withdraw money from anywhere. Murphy giggles. I find a TT and ask him to give me a confirmed ticket. He scratches himself and tells me to go away. I look around the train and find that the unreserved coaches are threatening to explode with the force of humanity contained within. I slink into the trio's compartment, and sit with them, convincing myself that when the TT comes a-checking, I can get myself a confirmed seat. Suddenly I realize that my phone's battery is low. Really low. I message my sister in Bangalore and inform her that I'll be staying with her for a few days. She says ok, very hospitably, and my phone switches off. Now, I don't know exactly where her apartment is, only the vague order to get off at Cantonment station and take an auto to BEML gate. I have exactly 67 bucks in my wallet, and the need to pay for a confirmed seat. I have no charge on my phone. Even if I did, I have no balance (give me a break, I'm a college student. It's in my job description.) The trio will debark at East station. I will have to alight alone at Cantonment, alone, with insufficient money for the auto, no communication device, and the possibility that ATMs in Bangalore may not work as well. And a terribly limited knowledge of Hindi, and no knowledge whatsoever of Kannada.

Yes, laugh. Considering my history, the most probable outcome of this situation would be that I debark at Cantonment station alone, get kidnapped by a gang of hungry autowallahs and spend the rest of my life in a dark room writing witty statements that they can paste on the rear windows of their vehicles. But no! I transfer my sim to Jerryd's phone to see if I can contact my sister. My sister messages and says I cannot stay with her because she's at work and there's no one at home to open the door and she has the key (she works in a soulless investment banking corporation and child labourers in match factories have better hours than she does). And then, things get better. Yes, you read right, better! The TT comes around and gives me a confirmed seat for a measly 15 bucks more. I reach Bangalore east and debark with the trio and go Jerryd's aunt's place. I stay with them, (God bless them), for the next three days. They didn't even seem to notice that Jerryd had brought along an extra friend with no warning. At their house, Jason somehow manages to set up a working Internet connection on Clifton's retarded laptop. He claims that he will go mad without the Internet. We watch several movies and much stand up comedy. The dog falls in love with Jason, and follows him around and drools all over him. Predictably, Jason hates dogs. He is forced to unleash all the toiletries packed into a pretty baby blue vanity bag and clean himself. The weather is brilliant, the night is as cold as a Loyola-lecturer’s heart.

As an alternative to this sedentary behaviour, Jerryd takes us to his cousin's apartment, where there is supposed to exist a table tennis table and a badminton court. We go there somewhat late in the evening to discover that the table is already in use, and the most active player has one arm completely wrapped in bandages. We sit around, waiting for the game to end, when a posse of old aunties come in and curtly order us out, saying their yoga hour could not be disturbed by our bouncing. We walk out and wander around the massive building. When we return to the multipurpose hall where the table is, it is shrouded in darkness. We are wary of entering. We are unsure as to what the aunties may be doing inside the darkened hall. We are innocent boys after all. An aged uncle vigorously taking his evening walk on the terrace assists us and enters the hall to unravel the mystery. There is some noise, and aged uncle exits, saying there was a power failure, and that the aunties were practicing yoga in the dark. We are not convinced, but we say nothing. Later, the power comes back on, and the aunties exit. We proceed to play for a long time, and later Jerryd's cousin takes us out to dinner.

The next day, Clifton and I go to meet my sister for lunch. We find our way to her rather decent apartment, and she then takes us to a restaurant called the beach, where the buffet is quite good. I did not see her after that. Bloody corporate sellout. We return to Jerryd's house, and go sightseeing on Brigade Street. You know what I mean. Jerryd discovers that the Cafe Coffee Day on the sidewalk is a very good vantage point. After he has his fill (of coffee, of course), he begins to window-shop with a vengeance. We walk into every store on that street. A hawker of spurious ray bans follows us around mournfully, but we do not succumb. We even visit Garuda mall, the site of my previous astonishment (ref: when I saw a fashion show by the students of Mount Carmel College) but it does not amuse nearly as much.

The rest of the trip... we'll I've written plenty now. Suffice to say that I somehow got a confirmed seat on the way home, reached Perambur station safely and proceeded to my grandmother's house to celebrate my uncle's fiftieth birthday.. But that's another story.

YOU KNOW WHAT THEY CALL PRETTY GIRLS IN CHENNAI?

2008-11-18T01:39:00.000-08:00

Tourists.

Seriously, it’s just not fair. I was in Bangalore last week, and the sheer volume of passably pretty, quite pretty, and oh-my-god women struck my staunch Chennai spirit as unfair. Here we are, a bunch of decent, unpretentious guys just looking to, well, look, but alas! There is no one to look at! Maybe it’s the fact that I studied in a school reserved only for males, and consequently never had the chance to meet any pretty women. That’s what most people (read women who have illusions of prettiness or are feminists for some creepy reason) would argue. However, in the course of the several culturals I participated in, I never did notice anyone who managed to fit the above bill.

But Bangalore! I was on Brigade road, on my own, as my sister had deserted me to go earn her living, and being bored, I watched people. As usual, I was lounging around, sniggering at ye olde “dudes” wearing funky, get this, DUPATTAS around their necks, and others wearing aviators at eight in the evening. I spot the occasional artsy desi boy being intellectual and teaching a firangi chick how to eat methi paratha. Probably a prelude to teaching her the positions in the kama sutra. I spot a Sardar guy, big as a house, strolling around in a baby pink turban, perfectly offsetting his skintight black tee and jeans. Oh, and aviators. And then, all of a sudden, the women! They spring up from nowhere and begin strutting their stuff. I am innocent Chennai boy. It startled me. So many hot women in one place at the same time! In Chennai, you can go for weeks without seeing a pretty girl. I’m talking pretty, not hot, just pretty. Hot? Forget it. Once a year, at the most. Of course, I’m talking about my own age group here, 17-20. I know plenty of very hot women over the age of 21. But my age? Nada.

Anyway, the next day, I’m in Garuda mall, this monstrous place somewhere off brigade road. They’re having some mall celebrations kind of thing, so there’s an oddly misshapen stage in the atrium with the traditional annoying MCs trying to be funny and failing. I walk around, and, as usual, gravitate towards the food. I buy a sub, which sticks to the roof of my mouth, and watch people. Once more, a surfeit of pretty women. I spot a couple (actually, the entire food court is covered in couples) where both the guy and girl are on their phones, ignoring each other. Classic. Another couple, the guy talks nonstop, and the girl gazes disinterestedly towards the digitally connected couple. I spot a congress of sardarjis plotting to kill Sonia Gandhi. I see that the price of lime juice is 40 bucks, and leave immediately, my sensibilities offended.

I head towards the rest room, but am foiled by cleaning crews on two floors. Finally, back on the grond floor and now in a slight hurry, I run into a guy. I apologise, then do a double take. The boy was wearing boxers. And a formal shirt. And a tie. I gasp, turn around, and there are five others dressed weirdly. The pee very nearly froze. I thought I had wandered in on a gay orgy and ended up looking nervously over my shoulder the entire time I was in the restroom. I escape back into the crowded atrium, when suddenly the speakers begin blaring “eye of the tiger” and the aforementioned gay guys start coming onto the stage. (no, not coming like that, you pervert). Turns out the oddly shaped stage was in fact a ramp. Ah well. So, I figure that explains things, and wander away to the coffee shop outside, where I find a nerdy guy with a supercilious expression singing “country roads”, and people asking him to sing ‘leaving on a jet plane’. I wonder why everyone in the city seems overtly sentimental, and wander back into the mall. And just in time to witness the most unfair thing I have ever seen. Another fashion show. This time around, girls. No, wait, amazons. Like Wonder Woman? Yeah. I watch the whole thing like the deprived Loyolite that I am. And after it’s done, I begin to walk away in search of a bookstore. That’s when I hear it. The MC says “and that, people, was the team from Mount Carmel college”. They were college students!! You should see the girls in my college! Lets just say my college has males and non-males. Then you will begin to comprehend how grossly unfair this world is. Aargh.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

Just wanted to rant.

Have a nice day.

WHY I'M BETTER THAN CARLOS LINNAEUS

2008-11-04T02:38:00.000-08:00

Carlos Linnaeus wrote the 'Classification of Species'. He invented taxonomy. He was a bleedin' chemist, for Christ's sake. He missed out on all the humour of life studying the spineless creatures of the earth and giving them strange names like Rana Hexadactyla. (Which, incidentally, is the name he gave to the common frog)

So, here's my own classification of species. You may find yourself in here. If you don't, please don't be offended. Notify me, and I'll do the needful (i.e., spit in your face and tell you to get a life)

The following will certainly hurt public sentiment. Please feel free to be hurt.

Mallus:

The bane of the human race. They multiple like… well, Mallus, and aim at taking over the world through extensive copulation and the consequent spreading of their genes. (Henceforward referred to as ‘GENEocide’) Distinguishing features include tendency towards coconut oil, migration towards hapless arab countries, mispronunciation of the vowels of the English language and an inclination to speak very very fast. Acquisition of large quantities of wealth through aforementioned aents, ungils, chetas and chechis in the Gelf, and income generated through ownership of large coconut orchards and plantations are the main obsessions of this breed. They are subdivided into two categories:

a) White malls: this breed spreads itself across the world, passing itself off as a genuine member of the race that it infiltrates, due to its flexible skin colour and racial characteristics.

b) Black malls: Highly intelligent owners of Parotta shops and teashops in various cities around the world.

Goltis:

This breed is known for its repeated offences against the human eye, indulging in the worst combination of colours known to mankind. Apart from this, they are pretty decent, despite having a language that sounds barbaric, and food that requires an iron stomach for processing. They are ever Reddy and also possess large amounts of money, but not nearly as much as the Mallus.

Bongs:

Too intelligent for their own good. End up inhibiting progress and imbibing alcoholic substances. Generally broke all the time, and talk loudly and vociferously, giving the impression that they have the customary roshgulla permanently lodged in their mouths.

Northies

Applies to anyone who lives north of the Cooum. They pretend that Hindi is the only language in the world, call everyone south of Bombay “madrasis” and generally have negative IQs. They have never been known to learn any other language, despite living in other parts of the world for large parts of their lives. They are uniformly loud and obnoxious.

Maadus:

Abbreviation of the Marvadi. They hoard wealth like the Mallus, wear worse clothes than the Goltis and spit paan out of their swanky Mercs. Also known as “Seths” they are primarily moneylenders and businessmen. They originate in Gujarat, but are found wherever there are people in financial distress. They infest the sowcarpet area in Chennai, and their children are known for their firm grasp of marvaadi insults.

JUST SO YOU KNOW..

2008-11-02T23:20:00.000-08:00

One wonders, doesn't one?

I've decided to try a little free-association writing. For the uninitiated and plain stupid, that means writing without thinking, simply allowing the pen to move across paper, and eventually words will come, words that have been hidden in your subconscious. You may argue that almost all my work would then fall under this category, but hey, who cares. I am sheer genius, so it matters not.

So, anyway, I've decided to be randomer than usual, and cloak this randomness in a mantle of superiority and artsiness. If you don't understand, it's simply because your intellect does not match mine. A classic case of the Emperor's new clothes.

Speaking of that, I went for this play a while back. It was the last performance in the Metroplus theater festival and looking at the reviews for the previous plays, I was expecting something spectacular. But the emperor foiled me. It was a play where a man discovers his wife is being unfaithful to him, and takes the suit that her lover leaves behind and makes her pretend that it is their honoured guest. Bizarre, to say the least, without including several scenes where the husband in question has a bath, and then oils his upper body in time to a rising tempo. It made no sense whatsoever, and later I discover that it had overtones of apartheid and suppression. The fact that much of the play was in Gujarati or something may have added to the confusion. Why they expect a Chennai audience to understand Gujarati I have no idea. But then, Bloody North Indians! (He he! I shall come to this later)

Anyway, here's the crux. We walk out, extremely disappointed, and find a board outside the theatre, half of it for positive, and the other half for negative feedback. The positive side had maybe five comments, most of them guardedly saying "good!" but actually meaning "I'll understand it after looking it up on Wiki, but until then, lets appear intellectual!” The negative side, on the other hand, was absolutely covered. People were writing over each other’s comments, deploring the moronity of the play. I was proud of Chennai that day. So many honest people!

And next to the board stood a girl, a few years younger than me, handing out the markers to people to allow them to relive their irritation for having wasted a hundred bucks and two hours in the theatre. (Of course, a few young couples were looking pretty satisfied, as the place was pitch dark the whole time. Young people these days… Humph!) So my friend Neil and I ask the girl, did you like the play? And she says, “ no, I didn’t have the opportunity to watch it, but if I had, I’m sure I would have loved it!” So we tell her “ Uh-huh. Trust us, it was pathetic” She gives us this LOOK, and says “ Oh I’m sure I would have enjoyed it. I like abstract plays” And all I could think of were the emperor’s new clothes.

Coming back to North Indians. I have recently begun discriminating against everyone. I classify and discriminate. It’s nothing serious. I do it to pass the time. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. So, if I happen to call you a bloody oily mallu, or a red underwear-sporting Bong, or a Blaedy uncivilized Panjaabi, it’s not personal.

Have a nice day.

TRAVEL II

2008-07-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

We skulk out of college, two large, suspicious looking men. We catch an auto (four auto guys ignore us, one almost drives over my toes when I suggest a decent fare, and the guy who finally took us, well, the son of an owl charges us 80 bucks), and we go to Central station.

Why? Because the next day is a culturals in Coimbatore. I like culturals. Nitish, the other large person, likes Coimbatore. Simply because he grew up there. Of all the strange reasons, I ask you…

So there we were at Central station, minus Rs. 80 ( Nitish comments bitterly, "another 40 bucks and we could have gone to Coimbatore") and we stand in a line to buy tickets. We're going to travel unreserved. The queue is short and very soon I am in possession of two tickets to Cbe, Rs. 125 each. Now, we have two hours to kill. You see, the train is only at 2:00pm, and there we were at 11:45 am. All because some ass told me that the queue for tickets would be horribly long.

Our gigantic friend has not had lunch, and neither have I. So we go to saravana bhavan. Why? Don't ask me, ask him. I hate the bloody place. It's an antithesis of everything a restaurant should be. There is no peace and quiet. There are men in dark grey shorts running around cleaning up spilt sambhar and almost poking decent customers in vulnerable areas with the blunt end of their dirty mops. The waiters either have too many teeth, or look like they're going to spit in your food before they bring it to your table. ( they probably do, too). The floor reminds one of toilets and hospital corridors. Phlegm blocks the washbasin drains. The kesari looks radioactive. The green chutney was probably invented to repel superman. And worst of all, two entire walls are made of glass, so I can see a fat, black, hairy man on the other side of the restaurant dig his nose vigorously and then smear the results on the underside of his table.

So yes, I refuse to eat and wait till Nitish is done with his mini meal, dosa and idlis ( I'm probably leaving out a couple of things here). Then we go to Marrybrown on the ground floor (What? We're growing boys!) and eat a burger and fries and the usual nonsense. While we're there, four men dressed in white shirts and dhotis come in and order dosa. I don't blame them. I wouldn't go to saravana bhavan either, given the choice.

After we're done eating, we go sit on the platform that the train is supposed to arrive on. Nice and early. Should definitely get a place on the train. First come, first served, right?

Wrong.

Very very wrong. Turns out, in the Southern Railways, it's more of first push/kick-out-of-the-way/elbow-in-the-wrong-place/poke-in-the-eye, first served. So when the Kovai express whistles in, A thousand people come rushing on to the platform and scramble for the doors. Nitish and I try to push our way in, but we were both too well brought up for our own good. I step aside for women, as does Nitish. The husbands, brothers, acquaintances and suchlike of the women immediately sneak up and deposit themselves next to the women. So, ten seconds later (I swear it was ten seconds, not more) every single seat in the unreserved compartment is full.

So we shoulder our way into the next compartment. And the next. And the next. They're all full. There's no standing room. We couldn't even put our suitcases on the floor and sit on them. We finally decide to lean against a wall and look cool and uncaring. A few minutes later I catch Nitish looking at a little girl longingly. I am shocked. However, he hastens to explain that he was only wishing he was that small. You see, the kid was sleeping stretched out on the seat next to it's father. Approximately one foot tall. Here we were, one six two, the other six four, and we couldn't find enough space to breathe. I haven't fit on a bed since 12^th standard. Nitish has probably slept on the floor of an empty hallway since the age of ten. Probably.

Time wears on (it's an eight hour journey) and we get hungry. Ok, so I eat every two hours. Mind your own business. So we push our way to the pantry car, where they are making hot parotas. I drool and rush forward, but the giant grabs me by the collar and points towards the other end of the pantry car. I can't take my eyes off the parota, but a large hand whacks me on the side of the head and points insistently. I look. It is the TTE. The dog has been eluding us since the beginning of the journey, when we realized that we had to purchase a berth each or die standing. So we run towards him frantically. He looks alarmed ( So would I, if two tall, menacing guys charged at me down a narrow corridor) and a railway guard comes running from one of food storage rooms, looking important. He sees us and goes back inside. We reach the TTE and explain what we want. He listens to us politely and then says that he doesn’t understand Tamil. We explain in terrible, probably offensive Hindi. He nods sagely, consults his clipboard for a long time, and then gives us two tickets from Salem onwards. Not very helpful, seeing as Salem is only a short distance from Coimbatore, and half the people will get off anyway and we’ll get place to sit. But still, we buy the tickets for safety’s sake, and wait another ten minutes while he calculates and writes a bill. As soon as he’s done, I head to the parota end of the pantry car.

Predictably, the shutters are down and the parota man has disappeared. I can still smell the kurma from the other side of the shutters. It very nearly makes me break down and weep. I curse Nitish and five generations of his family, and go and buy four packets of hide & seek to comfort myself. The only consolation is that we find a little space at the end of the pantry car and can finally sit. After a while, a guard happens upon us, decides we look dangerous and orders us out. He fingers his gun as we quickly scurry away. This time, we find place to stand, right near the door. I stick my head out like a dog in a car, and for a few brief moments, all the frustration of the trip is gone. Then there is a massive splash of sprite on my face and I see Nitish grin like an idiot from the doorway upwind. I ignore him for a while. Eventually, we reach Salem and find our seats and play word games for the remainder of the trip. We reach Coimbatore at around 11:00 pm, and we get an auto to my uncle’s place, where I’m supposed to stay. He has hot, yummy food. Thank god for unconventional bachelors who can cook. I fall asleep reading a book on the corollaries of Murphy’s law.

The next day was good.

WIMBA WUCK-A WIMBA WUCK.

2008-03-24T11:52:00.000-07:00

Whoo hoo, ladies and gentlemen.

A whole year of college, and I realize that I've learned practically nothing of any importance. That said, I'm having the whole college experience thing that old farts talk about when they get together and reminiscence. I'm sure you've heard them too " back when I was in college.. that was in '72.. you remember that guy? long hair? yeah that one.. whoof! what a character! when he.." blah blah blah.

It's true, though. College is full of 'characters'. Allow me to describe a few I've met so far:

1. Benjamin:

He sits next to me. He is in every single one of my classes. Professors sometimes confuse our names, seeing as we're always hanging out together and we have silly Christian names. He seemed normal enough to begin with, but within a few weeks, he revealed his true colours.
a) his main preoccupation is with all things disgusting
b) he visits regularly a site called ratemypoo. com. No prizes for guessing what's on the site.
c) He goes hyper when women are around.
d) When we decide to cut class and go for a movie, he will agree, walk to the gate with us, then decide not to go, get into a share auto and go home.
e) his current obsession is with dead babies.
f) Beware of the Benjamin.

2. Sreeram

Sree is short. He is well rounded. He keeps his head shaved most of the time. He is a Mallu kshatriya vegetarian. He can debate the hind leg off a donkey. His favourite pastime is sleeping. He occasionally comes to college, but somehow gets away with most of his crimes, owing to the fact that he gets proxy attendance from Ben or me, knows most seniors on campus through his mallu heritage or his association with the Loyola Society of Debaters, and anyway it's not like he cares about college. I love his attitude. And did I mention his accent? It'll make a Punjabi blush. I see him rarely these days.

3. Nitish

Nitish is HUGE. He is. They should excommunicate him, or hire him to play professional basketball. He should not be allowed to roam free and make people feel small. But such is life. Nitish has a chin like a caricature of Jay Leno. He looks like a geek. He is one of the smartest people I know, somehow managing to top his B. Sc. Maths class. I'd rather eat broken glass than read maths, so I have great respect for him. Despite the fact that he's a small town country bumpkin, he's still pretty smooth with the women. And he demonstrated to me that the world is way too small for comfort.

4. Harsha

He's short and fair and looks like a cerelac baby with a beard and bad hair. He wears thick glasses and talks in between swearing. He succeeds in creeping out the aforementioned Benjamin, in the process creeping out both Nitish and me. After one of his extended bouts of sexually-oriented rants, when I asked him if he thought of anything else, he says " yeah! football and communism"

I rest my case.

5. Arun Sarkar

He's a lot like me, which makes him extremely weird. His distinctive factors are the strong Bong accent, his socialist views and his exceptional knowledge of the world around him.

6. Padinjarethazhakal Cherian Cherian (a.k.a. P.C.)

P.C. knows everyone. He's from Kochi, but somehow, WHEREVER we go, somebody knows him. Actually, everybody knows him. He looks like Igor, Dr. Frankenstein's helper. Maybe the appearance helps. (I'd NEVER forget that face!?) P.C has extremely esoteric tastes, discussing Kafka and Batman in the same breath. You got to hand it to him. He makes extremely interesting conversation. It's easy to ignore the body odour, dandruff and spit when his sense of humour shines through. He claims to be a failed mamma's boy, but we know better.

I'll update this. Right now,I'm extremely sleepy, which is why this post is bad. Apologies.

THE WALRUS SPAKE...

2008-01-15T23:27:00.000-08:00

For all of you who requested a new blog, sorry. I couldn't write (block.) But I took the trouble to type this out. I hand wrote it eight times.

I've been meaning to put this up for a long time. Every year, on valedictory day, the School Pupil Leader of St. Bede's (a.k.a. Head Boy, for all you barbaric ignoramuses) delivers a valedictory address. For those of my faithless readers who didn't know, I occupied the above post in my 12th standard. So, on valedictory day, it fell to me to deliver the valedictory address. What follows is what I said that day. Sadly, the effect was spoiled by my esteemed friend Immanuel, who, though a brilliant student and excellent human being, has not grasped the fact that school audiences dislike 20- minute- long reminiscent speeches. Hence, not many people actually listened to my speech. But I took a lot of trouble over it. I'm hoping someone, somewhere, will appreciate. :D

VALEDICTORY ADDRESS

~2007~

Rev. Fr. Rector, Rev. Fr. Headmaster, Rev. Fr. Administrator, Rev. Fr. Dean, Assistant Headmaster, Teachers, well-wishers, and my fellow students of the class of 2007. Greetings!

As of today, we are no longer children. We are men. We have crossed 14 years of study and play, troubles and triumphs, growth spurts, mood swings, homework and holidays. 14 years of growing up. Some of us have spent the entirety of these 14 years at St. Bede's, others, fewer.

But St. Bede's leaves us with a legacy, a legacy unique to each individual. For some of you, that legacy may be courage, the focused determination springing from fighting the challenges of school life. For others, a competitive spirit, others, ambition, the drive to succeed, and for all, a deep desire for knowledge.

Friends, we're all in the same boat. I don't know what the future holds, not for me, not for you. I just hope that, as I grow older, I don't forget all those wonderful experiences I've had here : participating in, and winning culturals, becoming the SPL, the fun we had during classes, playing basketball after school, eating everyone else's lunch, watching the inter-class cricket tournaments and finally, I hope that you and I will never forget this, our school, our Alma Mater.

My dear teachers, on behalf of my class, the class of '07, I thank you for moulding those weak kneed children into the proud, fearless young men you see here today. Thank you for lighting the fire in us. Thank you for being you, and for being there. We can never repay the debt we owe you, we can merely acknowledge it. Please pray for us, that the fires you lit will burn, and burn brighter.

My friends, the time has come, to say farewell to all, the school we love, the friends we trust, the familiar way of life. Today is a new beginning. Your journey has begun. Godspeed.

OUTRAGE

2008-01-13T21:40:00.000-08:00

AS YOU CAN SEE....

2007-09-23T02:15:00.000-07:00

I have large quantities of time to waste during the weekend. I could catch up on my sleep, but hey, why waste time sleeping when you waste it in other ways.

Several friends asked me to update this blog. Highly pointless, no? Half the people who read never comment, so I never know they've read it, till they tell me.

But me, I'm a fatalist. Such is life. (I wonder how many people actually got that.)

SO. Yes, news flash.

I am, contrary to all expectations and to the great displeasure of my honourable father, NOT DOING ARCHITECTURE. I am studying (ok, there isn't much to study) B. Sc. Visual Communication at Loyola College, Nungambakkam, Chennai.

Heck, atleast its a B.Sc. degree, not a lousy B.A. (no offense, all my friends in B.A, but I'm desperately trying to justify myself.)

Before I move on, I shall say random things about Loyola.
1. My class is supposed to be co-ed. I'll just say there are guys, and non-guys.
2. A few seniors tried to rag me, but they were shorter than me, and I laughed at them,and they let me go. But first they brought me to this huge dark guy, with long hair and a full beard, the kind of guy you'd cross the road to avoid, the kind of guy you'd think would pick you up by the ankles and bang your head on the pavement just for fun, and for a few minutes there I was quickly bringing to mind everything I learnt in my ten years of practising Kung-fu (stop laughing, of course I know Kung-fu). But then it turned out he was a hilarious comic, given to much play-acting and laughter. Danny, college champion of the loyola part of the radio one contest. (I was a finalist. Really.)
3. My seniors are actually nice guys.
4. They will probably beat me to death for the above observation.
5. The college is over-run by Mallus.
6. The canteen is marginally ok, and so are the professors, for the most part, though the B. Com guys say otherwise.

Yeah, thats about it.

News flash two: I work at an advertising agency called Rubecon. I go there every afternoon after college finishes. I'm a creative copywriter. I can't tell you who we advertise for, that's confidential. That's why I'm always occupied after college. Sorry.
Its a LOT of fun, believe me. Also, everyone likes ice-cream, so we order from creamy Inn almost everyday. I don't know why I mentioned that, though.

Ok, I'm bored of writing.
Shall post more funnier stuff later.
People-specific posts.

TAGGED

2007-08-05T07:23:00.001-07:00

Jean tagged me.

I let her, because She begged. I'm magnanimous.

So anyway, here are the rules of the game:

1.Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
2.Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
3.Players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

EIGHT RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:

I make vocalize weirdly at irregular intervals. I still haven't figured out why.
I tend to write before I start thinking why I'm writing what I'm writing.
Some people think I'm very random.
I dislike cleaning my room, but I prefer clean rooms.
I speak in small sentences, but write in long ones.
I hate crowds.
Contradictorily, I like rock concerts.
I dislike three corridors and four staircases in Loyola College.

I said I wouldn't tag anyone, but what the hell.

Sheila
Barghavi
Manvi
Meghaa
Jay
Devathi
Murtaza
Madhuri

REMEMBER

2007-07-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

You have to remember.

You HAVE to.

In the end, You'll have nothing else, just the memories.

You may lose touch.

Or we could stay in touch all the time.

But, it will never be the same, You understand? It'll NEVER be the same.
We can have reunions, we can sit around and talk and sing kumbaya, but you see, it can never be the same, exactly the same.

Everything and everyone is going to change. Will change. Its the law of nature.

Don't forget. Don't forget how it was, the times we had, because, that's all you have.

Memories.

Don't forget.

Remember.

TRAVEL

2007-07-01T10:52:00.000-07:00

I stand in the pouring rain, no umbrella, no raincoat, friendless and soaked.

Nasty share-auto drivers career past wildly, ignoring my franctic waving and splatter my cargoes with puddle-mud.

Finally a nice guy slows down. The Relief. I practically run towards the auto, when suddenly he decides I'm not depressed enough, and takes off, leaving me bewildered, sinking deeper into the pothole of self-pity and misery.

It takes a further half-hour to find a share auto that stops and transports me to a bus-stop. I decompose there for another three-quarters of an hour, waiting for the suddenly-infrequent 29C to make an appearance.

When it does, its full. When I say full, its an understatement.There are atleast a hundred misbegotten sons of misfortune inside that big green bus. I jump on anyway, being a little teeny weeny bit desperate.

Hanging from a bus by one hand, something I promised my mother I'd never do, the rain washes me clean, and the wind gets me high.

Sheer Adrenalin.

Eventually the bus begins to empty, and only five people are left.

One man, his teeth stained with paan, stands at the door. Suddenly, he begins to sing. He looks so marvadi, that I expect it to be in hindi, but guess what, he sings a raunchy item number from Gemini.

Another sits at the back, cursing the rain blurred surroundings, softly but vehemently.

At home, hot food.

LOOK

2007-05-16T11:29:00.000-07:00

A lone paper bag is blown erratically around, executing graceful pirouettes over the rooftops.

Big eyes follow the path of the bag, nose squashed against the clear glass. A name is called, and the little feet skip away, squeaky on the polished floor. The bag dances across the rooftops, unapplauded.

La Marina, food court at citicenter. Big Windows. View point.

THE ARTIST

2007-05-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

The smooth forehead creases
The eyes squint just a bit
The fingers twirl the brushes
And a little paint is spilt.

Inside the messy studio
Sits the artist all aglow
With creative fires burning
Along with her ego

One finds the subject flinching
Beneath her forceful glare
His nervous ears a-twitching
As she sketches him with flair

But beware of intruding
On the hard-working artist
She's quite capable of hurling
An insult with her fist

WHAT MAKES ME LAUGH IS...

2007-04-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

I'm basically a nice guy.

At least, that's what I like to think.

Its just that I find people amusing. Very Amusing. And just because I laugh at these undeniably amusing people, I'm supposed to be nasty. Yeah, right.

Don't YOU find these people funny?

Which people, you ask?

These people:

1) Mall Crawlers:

This strange species can be divided into two types
a) The exceedingly rich and bored children, who slouch along in a lazy, really chilled out style with this 'Yeah, I'm cool' look on their collective face. They Really, Really crack me up.

Guys:

Attire: black t-shirt with designer things written on it,

Appearance: Gelled and spiked hair, or totally uncombed and falling all around the face hair, with shades hung on some part of the body, mostly high on the head, or on the front of the collar.Slouch replaces walk.

Accessories: Lots of bands, watches, etc, on one wrist.

Girls:

Attire: Spaghettis, mostly. Clothes do not fit properly,supposedly showing off perfect waists, but most of the time, not-so-perfect waists.

Appearance:hairstyles variable, but undeniable leanings towards sensuality, sometimes sadly misconstrued.

Accessories:Several Piercings, with strange (ear/nose/eyebrow/eyebrow raising) rings and studs in those piercings.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;

Generally:

Expression: Bored
Voice: drawling, also bored
Language:English, with Accented or 'cool' tamil, and a smattering of hindi.

.........................................................................................................................................

b) Wannabes:

pronunciation: Wanna bees

These people 'wannabe' as in want to be like the rich kids.

Boys:

Attire:Fake branded T-shirts.Lurid colours, like pink and fluorescent yellow. Symbols of dragons,
pictures of wrestlers, Sania Mirza or Two scary eyes are popular.

Appearance:Strange hairstyles. Stiff strut replaces walk.

Accessories: lots of jingly stuff on both wrists.

Girls:

Attire: Lurid coloured fake Tees or Lurid Salwarish things.

Appearance: stringy hair, or bushy hair. Half-run replaces walk.

Accessories: JINGLY, Luz stuff.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Generally:

Expression: Excited to be here.

Voice: Squeaky or aggressive.

Language:Girls speak bad English when boys walk past, otherwise typical madrasi tamil in hushed whispers and lots of pointing and giggling. Boys, LOUD and brash.

.................................................................................................................

More to follow.

AND THEN..

2007-04-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

Today:

.I didn't go to church
.I went to the School of Architecture and Planning and they said they weren't registering for the NATA this year. Wasted 170 bucks in Auto fare. This moronic expense, however was completely not my fault, and can be laid at my father's door.Also, it wasn't my money, it was my best friend's.
.Most of my friends ditched me.
.On the way home, I saw a dog that was methodically crossing and recrossing the road, and stopped to watch it for a while.
.Then, I found out that the old lady, Mrs. Doreen, one of the neighbourhood constants, the lady who taught me catechism, had died.

Tomorrow, I shall go to church.

WHAT IF....

2007-04-07T12:39:00.000-07:00

What if They created It? The Exilir of Eternal Life. A Virus perhaps. Engineered in some secret underground laboratory echoing with screams and silences.

The cure to all disease. Un-killable soldiers, regenerating like the Wolverine.

What if it was placed on a pedestal in the middle of Times Square and anyone who wished could walk up, plunge the syringe into themselves and become immortal?

Imagine, if you can, Living Forever.

Imagine working to make both ends meet, working everyday, forever.

Imagine watching the world go by, isolated by your foreverness.

Imagine the silence, when everyone else is gone.

Imagine living and living and living, even when life becomes intolerable.

Imagine watching the end of the world.

Would you inject yourself, and feel eternity in your veins?

Endless happiness?

Or just plain endlessness?

No wonder J.R.R. Tolkien called death the Gift of Man. He imagined a mysterious place over the sea, where the Immortal Elves went eventually.

I don't want to die just yet, but I don't want to live forever either.

DO YOU?

THULASI

2007-04-04T20:04:00.000-07:00

The stark yellow light from the bulb
Shines on the Thulasi plant
Picking out the leaves
Delineating them
The veins in them.
A slight breeze,
The plant moves slightly.
As if shifting in sleep.
It stands alone
On its stone pedestal
I pluck a leaf and chew it.
Tthe green juice oozes over my lips.
The taste fills my mouth.
Almost suffocating me.
The smell is overpowering
I spit it out quickly
And rinse my mouth.

The maami walking past
Bows slightly.
And I feel like a desecrator.

GRIPE GRIPE.

2007-04-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

Great men are instinctively intelligent. They blow soap bubbles, yes, but nevertheless, they somehow manage to rule their respective worlds.

Twenty seven years ago, in the era of the beatles and illusionistic drugs, there lived a vagabond,who initially inspired fear in the hearts of many due to his imposing appearance.
then,, he cut his hair and had a french manicure and fooled the people around him into thinking that he was the chairman of Pepsico, thus making millions in questionable business transactions. Most of these were slightly illegal and the parties in question could not prosecute.

I presume he lives in the cayman islands now.

Most of what I write seems slightly nonsensical, but sensical stuff doesn't seem to sell at all.Take for example my previous blog : both my most faithful readers told me that it was highly boring.

Levels of insanity seem to be going higher everyday.My house is off this beautifull avenue. Unfortunately, uneducated louts seem to think the walls of the avenue are the perfect place to empty their bladders. And there is this guy. His body is almost completely covered with a bedsheet. He wears it like a cape. He hasn't eaten in weeks,I think. My friend Waseem theorizes that this guy is causing the dissappearance of the neighbourhood cats. And dogs.
He lives on the urine stinking avenue. Initially I thought he was trying to stage a breakout from the Women's detention center which forms the right wall of the avenue. (yes, there's a women's detention center for naughty women.Very creepy)

Strange things continually happen to me. I was riding the cycle home from class. Going full pelt and feeling the wind in my hair and stuff. Then out of nowhere this fool comes right onto my path and in his terror swings his hand wildly. He gave me a black eye. Dirty %^#*!@ It hurt like hell, and on top of that, it blinded me for a second, giving him time to make good his escape. Unfortunately, I was blinded in the middle of the road, see? So suddenly, where there was an empty road, I find a road full of irate drivers giving me the finger. I ask you!

I think I shall give up going out of the house. Lock myself up in my room and stay still. Breathe deeply.Become sage-ish.

Nah. Who will all you jobless people laugh at, then?

Sigh.

DO YOU REMEMBER...?

2007-03-24T11:44:00.000-07:00

When we were children, a long time ago, (read ten years ago,when I was seven or thereabouts, for all you math geniuses) there were lots of kids in the colony I live in, all approximately the same age, give or take four years.

To say we had fun is an understatement. It should be recorded as the understatement of the century. Yes, I know I've already written about my childhood, but this, this is different.

This is about the ingenuity of a ten year old girl. My sister, Sheila. The one who, in later years, listened to a lot of Backstreet Boys. (refer previous posts)

Sheila was the oldest 'child' in the colony. Other older children were 15,17, 21 etc and were considered by us, with all the arrogance of youth, to be exceedingly old. Hence, my statementhat Sheila was the oldest 'child'.

When the exams were done, and time lay heavy on us, the long boring hours stretching endlessly before us, the thought of summer classes never crossing our collective mind, we turned to Sheila for entertainment.

And the idea for the 'Programme' was born.

Granted, its not a particularly brilliant title, but hey, we were kids.

Alone, unaided by parents, directed by Sheila and Shannu (a.k.a Sharanya, the other oldest child), we made a programme. The success of the first programme, led to us hosting at least one every summer for the whole colony. Every family used to attend, and the neighbouring terraces and balconies would be full of interested and benevolent parents.

One particular programme was particularly memorable. Sheila had decided that the play we were going to perform was to be 'Cinderella'. I, of course, was prince Charming. And my other sister, Sangeetha, was the esteemed idiotic Cinderella. (come to think of it, Cinderella must be the most beautiful,spineless,moronic heroine that Hans Christian Andersen could think of) There were also sundry interestingly coreographed dances by the dancers (the girls) themselves. But seriously, I can't think of any other set of average 10 year olds writing a whole script, dialogues, narration et al. The practice sessions were always held at my house, almost always disasterous, with all other parents kicking their children out of their houses so that they could get some rest, while my saintly mother welcomed us all in, and let us make hay (and havoc) in the house.

So we practiced the play. It went well. Brilliantly. The penultimate scene included one Allen to be the flunky and give an announcement. This, the poor fellow forgot. In front of all those people, he stood tongue-tied and happy. We hastily pulled him off-stage and the last scene began. In this, I come into Cinderella's house, make her sisters try on the glass slipper, then see that it fits on Cinderella and carry her out dramatically. Everything went fine until I picked up Sangeetha. The idiot must have eaten a nice hearty tea, and then followed it up with a couple of heavy stones. Damn, was she heavy. I almost dropped her.

And then I dropped her.

She landed with a crash.

Everyone was laughing, applauding and hooting in general.

But Sangeetha? She got right up off the floor, picked ME up in her arms, smiled wickedly, threw me to the floor with elan, bowed gracefully to the delirious audience., and floated off-stage in her angel-costume.

It still hurts, you know. Ugh.

2007-03-23T04:58:00.000-07:00

Music!

Almost everyone I know listens to music. Some kind of music.My family,we always have music playing at home, at least when my dad's home. When I was younger,it was classical,piano and violin masterpieces.Now? Now WE play the music: Sheila (my sister) and me. Thankfully we share a similar taste in music (maybe because she heavily infuenced my tase) so not too many arguments on whose playlist is on.But that is NOW.

THEN?

In sixth,or eighth standard,I was inflicted with Backstreet Boys. Not a lot of BSB.Just one cassette.I was forced to listen to it day after day,month after month until the casstete itself decided that enough was enough and committed suicide.
A few months ago, Sheila downloaded a song called "which Backstreet Boy is gay?" which has a line that goes : our main fans are 12 year old girls who think we're cute..or something like that.I can still remember every word of those peurile,disgusting lyrics,which,now to think of it,make next to no sense,unless you're a little on the queer side or are a twelve year girl.
Yes, I know its just a phase,but excuse me??it was one LONG phase.Its very sad.

Sheila still hasn't apologised.

Now almost everyday I listen to atleast one death-metal track,at my friend's house. Not out of any desire of mine,believe me.Those songs are basically noise under the guise of "symphonic black metal" or some allied shit. You wouldn't believe the number of catergories noise is divided into : acid metal, death-metal,freak metal,plain old WIERD metal.Add some really sick metal to that,and you have a whole category of sound you had rather not approach except when armed with earplugs,and even then only when absoluely necessary. Personally I'd object to metal even if I was stone deaf.Come on, if Beethoven wrote his best music after he had gone deaf,surely these morons can attempt something approaching music.Even if they have negative IQs,they still have the God-given gift of hearing. Atleast,they claim to.
My friend claims that you actually need to get USED to metal. You're supposed to accquire a taste for it.You have to keep listening and eventually you will see the beauty in it. I ask you!!
You'd think these so called 'artistes' atleast make up for their obvious lack of talent with some decent lyrics,wouldn't you?

But no! They insist on singing Sicko stuff,most of it Antichrist.Oh,yeah,don't even go anywhere near those videos,unless you're seriously into sado-maschoism and suffer from an unpronounceable and criminally dangerous brain disorder. How can they look their mothers in the eye,I wonder.

Clean up music!

DEATH TO DEATH METAL!

My opinions on tamil film music,I shall keep to myself,not wishing to be TOO explicit in a public forum.

A.R. Rahman, however, is pure genius.

THE THING IS...

2007-03-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

.My sister ate a cheese sandwich today. It looked like a banana.

.I found my favourite pair of shorts today.It was on the terrace of the house next door,and had apparently been there for over 3 months.I am contemplating wearing it anyway.

.I wore a checked shirt to church today,but nobody checked me out.I shall stick to T-Shirts henceforth.

.There was cat excreta on the steps. I cleverly stepped over it,but the cat was unimpressed and hissed at me.

.I polished my father's shoes and somehow my nose ended up black.Now my nose is red from excessive scrubbing.I think it would have been better off black.At least it didn't hurt then.

.I read the newspaper.It has scandalous pictures.

.I am writing this out of desperation. Can someone please tell me how to make a sandwich?

.Can someone please make a sandwich for me?

.I'm hungry.

umm..stop global warming?

WEEP, MY BRETHREN!

2007-03-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

Someone I know,

Is insane no more.

He was insane that day

Two feet away

Grinned at a cow

And said bow-wow

But today?

But today he smiled

And that spark was gone

Insane no more!

The spark,so dim

Was gone!

I mourn for him

For all those who left the spark behind

Who will never see those stars again

The stars of the insane.

Its fading,comarades!

Hold on to your spark,or you'll drown

Don't get down when they frown!

Don't let 'em fool you!

Madness is your birthright!

Its a Gift!

Don't you go losing it!

Stay! Stay!

Burn! don't fade away!

THOSE WERE THE DAYS MY FRIENDS..

2007-02-22T22:11:00.000-08:00

Thad. Thadam. Udhh.

"Adi you freak! stop hitting me!"

No respect. In front of two language teachers: one,the formidable and redoubtable Mr. Keith,the other,the softer than iron Mr. Scarlet (!!), that stupid thug Aditya Ravi hits me.Or rather whacks,thumps, bulldozes,scratches and wallops me.

Now don't get me wrong,I aint no wimp,I've had my share of school fights..The thing is,I don't fight until I get angry.

But this hard-headed,horrible hippopotamus finds it amusing to attack me on sight.Unfortunately,I never seem to get angry and hence break his teeth,because the expression on his imbecile face always leaves me laughing.

It still hurts,though.The bugger's strong.And he has long sharp nails.

Lunch time during 11th and 12th are normally boring,if you're not part of a gang of around 12 and hang around some moronic git's bike and talk about "figures" and wether or not Vijay is cooler than Ajith.(personally,I find both of them rather insipid). I,on the other hand,eat lunch with the school genius (Ill mannered Yelavedthavan,a.k.a Immanuel Ilavarasan),who, although an interesting conversationalist,lacks in speed and good food. Most of my lunch is invariably guzzled by the ravenous Abdul Azeez (who's picture you will find in my orkut album) during the morning break,so I tend to gravitate towards the canteen.

And thats when Aditya strikes.

He appears from behind,without a sound,and hits. Hard.I yell,and gleefully he continues to hit,till I fend him off with curses and blows and those nice friends of his call him away to play hand tennis. (yes,hand tennis. On a cement bench,with a bunch of onlookers)

Occasionally I join his gang for lunch,and most of them invariably bring chappatis and naan and puris with nice nice sabjis. Its like a north-Indian food fest.Free to all.That is,whatever is leftover after Adi plunders the lunch boxes.

After devouvring everyone else's lunch,he then proceeds to the canteen,where he pounces on unfortunaes who carry eatable things,like puffs,samosas,fruits,paper etc. He eats indiscriminately,then returns to lunch spot,where the gang is starting the game. After a few rounds of 'tennis' he wanders off to find and hit me,or drags Sundeep to the canteen to buy him more stuff to eat.

According to Sundeep,he's had his stomach replaced with a septic tank.

I agree.

Especially after watching him eat at Siddharth's party.

I'm not going to miss Aditya's fists.

But I certainly will miss LUNCH AT ST.BEDE"S!!

THE END OF AN ERA....

2007-02-21T21:21:00.000-08:00

Today was the last day.Unofficially.

I'm going to miss it.

The school. My teachers. My FRIENDS.

A few,I've known for fourteen years.I'll never forget them. A few I won't miss,but then again,maybe I will.

I'll miss John the most. John was/is the VSPL.

To tell you the truth,I had the time of my life this year.

Almost every other Head Boy/Girl is averse to the VSPL,but John and I,we were like siamese twins.

The nicest guy,in every sense of the word.A professional.I'm going to miss it,the professionalism,the Anglo-Indian accent, the wacky sense of humour.

The era is ended.

Its no big deal. Its just one of those things.

I'm going to miss it.

IN THE ABSENCE OF THOUGHT...

2007-02-16T04:59:00.000-08:00

I hate the mixer in my house. It hates me.I shall never use the goddamn screwey thing again.

All I wanted to do was make myself a chocolate milkshake.You know,with a bit of coffee.So i measure out beautiful spoonfuls of milo and nescafe and stick it in the mixie and switch it on. It goes vrrrrrrmmmm,for maybe three seconds before my precious milkshake comes pouring out the sides.

I hurriedly switch it off and take the holder thingie out,and horrors! The cap thing is stuck. I screw and unscrew and pull and push and tug but the hateful cap will NOT budge. Its still sitting there in the kitchen.

My favourite t-shirt is wet,hanging over the back of a chair.My milkshake is imprisoned inside that stupid machine.I'm very bloody pissed. There are puddles of almost-milkshake all over the kitchen.My hands smell of coffee.

I'm supposed to be writing my valedictory address,for the valedictory day,on tuesday.Instead I'm smashing away at the keyboard,trying to get rid of the frustration that arises from the realization of the fact that,I,Francis,will never be able to operate a mixie.

Its not helping.

I think I shall go onstage,with the whole crowd (200 complete jerk-offs) staring at me,and I'm going to say,

"Six long years have I yearned for this day,
The day I shall see the last of you!
You sadists and morons and complete cretins,
I have seen the last of you!
You shall plague me no more with your books and your pens,
Your classes that inspire yawns
Your unshaven jowls and sweaty spots
I look upon with scorn.

Farewell!Farewell!The time has come
For all of us to part
Forgive me when I say this,
But I'm parting light of heart."

And I'll leave to the roar of applause.The crowd echoes my sentiments.

The frustration is gone.

BEWARE!!

2007-02-07T23:58:00.001-08:00

I inch away from foaming mouth
Gnashing teeth and hissing throat
I scramble frantic through the throng
With the agility of a mountain goat
For on my tail there is a beast
The scariest by far
It presides,majestic, at every feast
Your life it can make or mar.

A terror indeed,this beastie thing
For it a hundred school bells ring
It stalks the children by the light
Devours them for an imagined slight

Beware beware!

Of teachers.

REQUIEM TO 2006

2006-12-31T06:06:00.000-08:00

Two thousand six AD has been eventful,to say the least.Of course,if you define an event like the definition I found in my Mathematics-vol II text,then everything is an event.

Lets just say its been interesting,shall we?

A whole year.

Wow.

And I don't have anything to show for it except an increase in height and the number of blogs on blogspot.

Also,a dramatic increase in:

the no. of pimples on my face (twenty seven)
the no. of words in my vocabulary (two)
the amount of time I spend on the phone (reason undisclosed)
the wildness of my imagination (hmmmmm..)
the no. of people I have been forced to order around,manipulate,blackmail and sweet-talk in school (reason:Goes with the badge)

Moreover,a dramatic decrease in:

my cranial capacity
the tightening of my synapses
the sweetness of my disposition.

I loved this year. I love you jobless people who actually read my blog.I love life.

HERE'S TO 2007!!!

*fireworks go off,people scream*

La di da. Does life get more boring than writing cliche blogs on new year's eve?

If it does,don't tell me.

I prefer to wallow in self pity as the sorriest seventeen-year old in this city.

See ya next year,guys.

The only possible trend is upward.

Smile.

THOUGHT PROCESS: DisJoIntEd

2006-12-29T21:52:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had this feeling that your world is small? Infinitesmally small? That you're a nobody?

Ever had that feeling?

Trust your instincts. That feeling is very true. You ARE a nobody. Who cares?

..........

Not me. Who is a somebody?

Mr. Bush?

Just because he can affect the lives of almost anyone on this planet? Face it,our so called 'leaders' rarely have IQs higher than those of brain damaged,drunk hippopotami on a full moon night.

India. Third world. Developing. Bullshit.

Our president is one of the foremost rocket scientists in the world.Our prime minister is a brilliant economist.

True,one wears eccentric blue shirts occasionally and refuses to cut his hair,and the other can't wait to get back to teaching brilliant undergraduates who will eventually get jobs in the US and rewire its economy,but that doesn't alter the fact that they are SOMEBODYs.

Take the hint.

>>>>>>>

Its strange,people always seem to read deeper meanings into things I write and say.

I'm very superficial.Nothing I say has more to it than its face value.Really!

Take the hint.

THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE FOOLS IN THE DAYTIME.

2006-11-04T21:23:00.000-08:00

Three urchins lurked at the corner of nimmo road. there was no other word for it. lurked. A lone school-boy appeared round the corner. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings,lost in his thoughts.The urchins shifted,mumbled and nodded.They each spat in turn,and made various grunting noises.They lounged against a broken stone fence and tried to look cool and comfortable.One of them reached into a dirty plastic bag on the ground and pulled out a lakshmi vedi. The school-boy was almost there,walking slowly,dragging his feet in the piles of paper strewn all over the road,remainders of a boisterous deepavali.The largest urchin,who looked like he was just out of kindergarden,(but was probably eighteen and the local dada),lighted the vedi and held it in his hand cooly,to show he wasn't scared.Then he casually flicked it into the lunch basket of the school-boy.The school-boy didn't notice.The urchins waited with bated (or in their case,baited) breath. the fuse burnt out and then it exploded, blew away most of his basket,and burnt the school-boy's hand.The urchins laughed and ran away.The school-boy gave chase,but they were fleet of foot and not burdened with 20 kilos of school-books.

That school-boy was me.

Moral of the story:Don't carry a lunch bag.Don't carry a school bag.

FLASH.

2006-09-30T19:57:00.000-07:00

two cycles fly down a steep slope,
no brakes.
just me ,the wind,and the rainy sun,
and the slick tar slides past with a shwoop..
leaving me alone for a minute,an interminable minute..
and i saw it!
the Rainbow!
perfectly clear,distilled,undiluted beauty
arcing across a grey sky
over the big blue hills
the big blue lake and the colourful boats
The Rainbow!
It shone and shimmered
then the clouds blew
and covered it..
but i saw it
!and i shall never forget.

EVER.

THE BALLET OF THE BALL

2006-09-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

All right.

I shall recall highlights of the party.

. noodles
. friedrice
. chicken
. dessert (of which Waseem got none)
.the most hilarious hairstyle I have ever seen
.Suma and her friends letting down their hair and head-banging
.Convincing Nivi to drink Waseem's pepsi
.Abhimanshu dancing like Prabhu Deva (I think. He was good.)
.Thariq doing creepy ,groin-thrusting moves.
.Someone sending Waseem a hilarious message (never mind that)
.Burning my tounge.
.My ingrown toenail being stepped on sixteen times by Waseem ,twice by sundry dancers,and once by me.

And more. later.

KODAI!

2006-09-07T03:51:00.000-07:00

PART ONE: THE JOURNEY.

A mildly drizziling night.I step out of Waseem's red swift and walk onto the platform of egmore railway station.Its friday,eleventh august,2006.The train is waiting to transport two carriagefuls of slightly unhinged boys from St.Bede's to a place called Kodai road,from where two buses will take them to Kodai.
In the wierd shadows of the station,the boys look grotesue, in their flourescent football jerseys and ripped clothes.Probably this is some definition of 'cool' which has escaped me.Everybody gets onto the train.Waseem's grandmother nervously askes me why there are so many ladies on board.I tell her they're parents. but it actually turns out the ladies and gentlemen and are also passengers on the train.A lady in my compartment spends the whole journey talking loudly to someone on her cell phone.No one sleeps until three in the morning.The next thing I know,theres a commotion.Station is approaching! I wake up the sleeping teachers.Everyone gets down from the train except Aaron,the quietest boy in the school.Mass panic among the teachers. Suddenly Aaron is spotted walking sombrely down the platform.He says he jumped off. A jubilant owl in the tree suddenly shits all over my shoulder. I leave my bag with Waseem and go to clean it off. I return to find that a car has run over my bag,but nothing happened.We pile into the waiting beautiful airbuses and ride the breathtaking Kodai road.They play an extremely stupid movie featuring 'risk' Bhasker.We stop at a wayside place for breakfast.Its beautiful.Unfortunately I don't eat much,because theres a big insect in my pongal.No one else eats much too.Because they don't want to take the risk of throwing up all over the place.'Risk' Bhasker hasn't inspired anyone.Now back into the bus and Imsai Arasan.I slept through the whole movie.I got a nice picture of Waseem sleeping with his mouth wide open,though.

BEAT THIS,MR. EINSTIEN...

2006-08-08T03:59:00.000-07:00

The planet-atom theory:

1.The world as we know it is actually infinitesmally tiny.
2.We are the atoms in the world of higher (and waayy bigger!) beings.
3.The sun and the stars are the Nucleii.The planets are the electrons.
4.If atoms of our world are observed closely,we will find that the electrons are actually crawling with living things.

This is probably the outcome of studying way too much chemistry and watching The Matrix way too many times.But still,I think the idea's pretty interesting...

Lil' kid with microscope:

oooooh! whats THAT??? (in a dee-dee voice) *prods electron*

people of planet:

AAArgh! huge aliens! run! *planet disintergrates*

Call it the rantings of a an overworked imagination. Call it whatever you want.But if it was true.Mindblowing,ain't it?

Pretty amusing too!
*prods electron and grins*

SUNDRY INCIDENTS..

2006-07-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

The monkey
School.A pretty useless place to go if you want to accquire knoweldge.But fun otherwise,if you avoid the teachers and master the art of bunking.That particular day,I had been able to do neither and hence felt as pissed as a..um..toilet.Needless to say,when the bell rang,I was first to the door.Unfortunately,the chem teacher felt like a toilet too.*some censored stuff here*. I walked home totally dispirited and drooping,with my ears bleeding slightly. I dragged myself up the two flights to my house,and suddenly! Ah! what beautiful sounds.My brother and his lil pals are playing my favourite game! I ran in and they all pulled me into a chair for a tournament against me. The tension was mounting.Everyone is looking intently at the screen,watching me kick junior ass.We had our backs to the door.Which,incidentally,was open.Wide.There was a big sackful of ripe mangoes under the dining table,which my periamma had brought the previous day.The stage was set.
Suddenly Abhinav says,monkey.Huh? What? "Look behind".We all turn and look.A big monkey looks back at us.We stare some more.The monkey cocks his eyebrow.We freeze.The monkey freezes.My brother,like a hero quickly skips into my room and locks the door.Let me explain.The computer is at one end of the hall.The door to my room is right next to the computer.My sister's room is across the hall.The monkey is in the middle.The monkeys in my area are known to bite humans.A lot. Now there are four kids left with me.Sherin,my bro's classmate and the aforementioned highly observant Abhinav,Harish and Nirmal,the neighbourhood kids.Abhinav is six.Nirmal is 8,Harish and Sherin are as old as my bro (11). I tell them slowly to crawl to my sister's room.They go,one after the other.The monkey looks amused.He sits down to watch the performance.I slowly crawl to the room too,then slam the door and lock it.Split silence.
The seconds tick away.Then there is frenzied banging on the door. The monkey!We back away from the door.Then the monkey yells "let me in!" Oh.Its my brother.The kids start crying.I think,anything is better than this,and rush out yelling like a drunk red indian,waving a stump.The monkey was gone.I saw it sitting on the tree,eating my mango.
I always lock the door now.

WHAT WILL THE PAPERS SAY..?

2006-07-10T03:55:00.000-07:00

will the newspapers say...

The eminient mordern architect and interior designer,Sir Francis John Thomas,passed away at his mansion yesterday.Sir Francis became famous in the early 2000's when he obtained the contract for 3 houses on sunset boulevard owned by leading actors.Later he designed the palace for the council of 24 and was knighted for his outstanding contributions to architecture and the science of rubber-bands (don't ask..)
OR
Francis Thomas,the only man to have succesfully launched 2 buffallo and a giraffe into orbit,passed away on a trip to the moon sometime in the future.The exact time is unknown due to time warps and knotty space traffic.FJT also had the distinction of inventing the flying sofa and the automatic blurbomatic.He is also said to have exhumed dead bodies and experimented on them with deodrant sprays.The world is indeed sad to bid goodbye to such a versatile genius..
OR
Mr.Francis Thomas,the only octogenarian pitchaikaran in the shining city of London passed away yesterday.He had the dubious distinction of having a close friendship with reputed film director Waseemm (note:two "m's"),celibrity authors Neil and Ajooni.He also knew the late Raj B,the greatest carnatic vocalist of all time *snigger* and several other eminent personalities from his childhood days...

DISCOVERIES...

2006-06-27T04:47:00.000-07:00

DISCOVERIES... Screams of laughter.A balloon bursts.Sounds of children running around.Generally having a ball. I stand outside the in the landing and listen to the sounds.The sounds of a party in full swing.My fifth birthday party.Outside,the rain continues to thunder down on My World.My World is so small.But I'm smaller. I watch the rain trickling in twisty rivulets down the walls of the landing.The bizzare and disturbing green walls of the landing.The rain is coming in through the grill at the top of the wall.What a fascinating grill.Alternating diamonds and circles.The rain makes a puddle on the floor. I look up at the cieling and become spell-bound by the sight of the rain flowing along the Cieiling.I wonder how it does that.It flows,and becomes a fat drop,and then,plop,it falls on my upturned face.It tastes nice.A little salty. I wipe a little of the rain off the bizarre green wall and taste it.It tastes the same.Salty.Slightly green. I run up the stairs to the terrace.It's raining so hard,I can't even open my eyes.I absorb the rain.My pin-striped brown shirt absorbs the rain.My dark brown shorts absorb the rain. I lift up my face,with my eyes squeezed shut.A little boy on a vomit green,unobtrusive,anonymus terrace.King of My World. The rain tastes so nice...

MY EXPERIMENTS WITH TRUTH..AND LIES

2006-06-15T02:02:00.000-07:00

Today ,we had chemistry practicals .The first practical classes of the academic year.The lab had been repainted and tiled and had lotsa new fittings.Unfortunately,they forgot to upgrade the teacher.Or the lab-assistant.
We filed into the lab like good little penguins,and got lots of unintelligible and unintelligent stuff shouted at us by the esteemed Mr.Chinappan,the partly bald and scurrying labbie.What a jerk.After around 20 minutes of this moronity,Mr.Sundar Jhonson,the Chemistry teacher and Chinappan's deity strolled in and gave us our "instructions" in his beautifully modulated voice.Oh well.Identify the acid and basic radicals of the mixture of salts. Predictably,I get a mixture of white salts.Identification? Will the salt confess if I apply the goodcop-badcop routine? Or should I just use the good ol' Mumbai-police interrogation methods? Oh no! They want me to torture the poor thing with acid! And burn it! Confess! Confess! Who are you? Stupid,dumb salt refuses to talk,so I begin the interrogation. First the dil.HCL. Bubble! Aha! Mr.Carbonate!With an evil laugh,I pour a few varities of acids on the salt and burn it ingomniously at a bunsen burner.I thrust it deeper and deeeeper into the flames! AAAAAAh! I drop the facade of ruthless interrogator and hop around the lab clutching my burnt finger.So much for theatrics. I settle to being a model student and carry out the tests in textbook order. By this time everyone else has finished their salts and mill about me with helpful tips (try using a dry test tube,don't..) With lots of help from Krishna,I finally figure out my salt.Now I have only one little test to do! The Brown-ring test! Hm..First the salt solution,then some ferrous sulphate solution,then acidify that with dil.sulphuric acid,then dribble hot concentrated sulphuric acid down the sides of the test tube! Everything goes fine until the last step.Then I pick up the dropper of con.sulphuric acid.Suspense.The whole class holds it's collective breath! Will I do it? Carefully,I dribble the acid down the outside of the test-tube.It burns my fingers.I scream and thrust the test-tube at the unfortunate Krishna and run for the tap.The acid burns Krishna's hand too.He thrusts it at someone else and pursues me.The someone else drops it promptly.And everyone tramples it to minute pieces.Enter Chinappan,who has been lurking in his lair all this while.He squeaks.Everyone points at me.Krishna prudently withdraws.I look try to look innocent and fail miserably.
I am dragged before Pontius Pilate and questioned.I tell him I have a bad cold and I coughed and dropped the test-tube.He believes me.But of course I can't report my salt so that he can write it up in his big green book.As a punishment for breaking the test-tube,I have to straighten out the lab before leaving.By now,I'm throroughly pissed.I wash the remaining test-tubes vigourously.Unfortunately,the idiots have gone and installed all-new super-powerful taps in the place of the Old Drippers.Large arcs of water rise from the basin and slosh all over the lab.
I switch off my tap.Replace my test-tubes and flee before the Lab-rat can come upon the scene.Let tomorrow take care of itself.I've had enough for today.

THE CURSE

2006-06-13T04:10:00.000-07:00

What do you think is the worst curse possible? Avada Kedavra? Crucio? Uh-uh,I don't think so. According to me,the worst curse possible,is the curse I'm under... T H E C L U M S Y C U R S E

Believe you me,nothing,but nothing,is worse. I'm convinced its a curse.I mean,no one else in my family is clumsy,just me,and my two left feet.It's definitely a curse. A very malevolent, snigger-inspiring ,embarrasing, foot-in-the-mouth curse. As an outcome of the curse,I can never open the fridge without something either liquid or very sticky from falling out.I can never carry a glass bottle without dropping it.If I ever have the misfortune to throw a projectile (however small) inside the walls of my house,it will immeadiately hit the most valuable thing in sight and reduce it to smithereens.(I'm thinking of presenting a paper on the way " Francis-thrown objects curve in space-time to smash hand- made pottery" at the next scientist's council..) The bathroom is my enemy.Just last week,when I was singing and using the soap as the mic,it slips out of my hand,hits the cieling,and then,leaving a thick trail of soap down my towel and lands on the floor.I promptly stepped on it and slipped,and banged my jaw on the tap.After finishing my bath in a hurry,just as I was leaving,a thin shower of cement from the dent on the ceiling fell on me.Whats the point??! Life sucks.If I walk to the bathroom in the dark,I will stub my toe atleast thrice,and bang my shins atleast once.I will drop half the glass of water I am drinking on myself.I always end up feeding my clothes as well as the table every time I eat.A demented two-year old with a death wish would be a neater eater.If I yawn and stretch,I will knock something down.If I carry a candle,it will drip hot wax on me.If I try to pour hot water into a bucket,it will fall on my toes.The Curse. Forget dancing.Forget playing an instrument.The only thing left is to play the fool.
Someone find me a wizard!!

AAAARRRGGH!

2006-06-13T04:04:00.000-07:00

EXAMS!!!!
The torture has already begun! People all around me are studying like freaking maniacs and leaving me bewildered..they're all chanting equations and formulae that I'm sure I've never heard before! The chemistry book is giving me goosebumps! Physics is applying the laws of gravity to the contents of my stomach! I'm going crazy! Everyone is predicting dire consequences if I don't get my act together! Where did the St. Bede's I know go? Where did all these studious guys come from? I thought I saw them last year making paper planes with their books!
HELP me, somebody! I'm starting to recognize those formulae and I keep dreaming about school! Is 12th supposed to do this to you??
IS THIS LEGAL????!!!
HELP!!!!

WHY ME??

2006-05-19T11:39:00.000-07:00

Note: The following passage is a rant.Pay no attention to it.

I live on the second floor.Of a two storeyed buliding.Its a nice house.I like it.The problem,you see,is my neighbour.Or rather,neighbours.Plural.My flat is located on a kind of cul-de-sac. (A small private road with a dead end,you ignoramus!) It looks out onto another block of flats opposite.Its flanked by two flats (duh),which are actually connected to it,so the flats allow unbroken 6-block commuting over the rooftops. The problem is,all my neighbours are as territorial as the central african babbon,which screams at intruders and urinates on them from the treetops.Never set a foot onto a terrace which isn't yor own or you're sure to be pissed on.Or worse..With all my experience at avoiding rampaging landlords and talking my way out of tight and seriously fatal looking situatons,I'm sure going out as an undercover agent for the CIA would be a breeze. In my "area",danger lurks around every corner.

There was this old lady (she died last year.) we used to call amm'amma (no clue as to why) who made the baboons look positively hospitable and polite.No kid was ever allowed to even walk in front of her house,let alone enter it.Invariably,the toys (i.e.,balls,frisbees etc) that we played with always landed on her terrace.Then we would mount recovery missions that would make Tom Cruise hang up his hat.The whole hog!Two girls to distract her.(for some reason she thought that the girls were innocent darlings!)Three guys as watchout.One guy to do the deed.Timing.Everything.But now and then she caught us,and then came the interrogation.And the pre-invented lies.And goof ups.And screaming parents (shudder!). And if we didn't turn up at her house for over a week,she'd go and mount watch on her terrace,convinced she was missing something (She was.We used to retrieve our stuff that she had taken and kept on the table in her hall.Funnily,she never used to notice they were missing.).
Then there is the fat brahmin priest who chants so loudly at 5:00 in the morning that the mullah from the local mosque is drowned out.Recently he's unleashed his equally fat and equally loud son on the unsuspecting neighbours.Needless to say,no one uses alarm-clocks anymore.
And the foul mouthed old lady in the flat opposite who comes waddling out on her athritic feet to steal the tennis balls that fall near her verandah,screaming bloody murder.The words she uses! I'm no saint myself,but even I havent heard such language.Shes a brahmin too.She must have picked up the language from her servant-maid,with whom she fights regularly,with the whole colony out on their balconys watching.(we egg them on if it looks like its stopping :p)
And the wife of the DMK guy next door with her teeth looking distinctly vampire-ish and her cock-eyes who frightens the shit out of kids and adults alike.She feeds around 20 cats everyday,with fish guts.If that isn't disgusting enough,seven of those cats relieve themselves in and around my flat.And they let the rats live.And thats only the beginning...

SEE? See what I have to live with? Why me? Why me Lord? What did I do to deserve this...? Help!!!!

SUNDAY _

2006-05-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sunlight in my eyes. *yawn and stretch*.SUNDAY! Day of rest! Maybe,just maybe,it'll be better than yesterday..I contemplate going back to sleep,but hey,why waste time sleeping when you can waste it in several other ways? I leap out of bed with all the grace of a 2-week-old corpse and step on my sleeping sister's footshe screams "I'll kill you,you little freak!" Talk about getting out on the wrong side. I hastily leave her to settle down and go wish my mother 'good morning' who tells me that we're going for the 9:30 mass (we always go for the 12 o'clock mass coz it lets us sleep late).Me:"9:30 mass?? why?? the choir sucks!!" Amma:"we're going to anna nagar for lunch."(thats my maternal grandma's house)Me:"Hey! I have tuition at 3:30!"Amma:"I know,you'll get back by then.Now go and have a bath,you're stinking." I go and get my towel,wondering how come I'm stinking when I've just woken up.Just as I enter the bathroom and lock the door,the phone rings.My mother picks it up.Silence for a minute,while I contemplate which song to sing,and finally decide on 'in the end.' Then my mother bangs on the door.Amma:"Hey come out!"Me:"But I just went in!"Amma:"I know,but your father's stranded because the bike's punctured.You'll have to go pick him up."Me:"Now??"Amma:"Stop stating the obvious and come out!" I come out of the bathroom and stop stating the obvious."okay,so where is he?".Amma:"Near the market."Me:"on the smelley canal road??"Amma:"I told you to stop stating.." Me:"..the obvious.Okay.I'm going." Then suddenly it strikes me. I have to take the TVS champ!! A brief history of my sister's TVS champ: It used to belong to my aunt before she infected my mother with it.My mother very quickly bought herself an Activa and left the TVS to my sister,who rides it occasionaly.Very occasionaly.In order to start it,you have to push it for a couple of hundred meters to warm it up,and then run another 500 meters to start it.After it has been started it will make enough noise to make an exploding volcano sound like a whisper,and belch huge gouts of black smoke to create a smokescreen so that no one can see where the sound is coming from,causing widespread panic among pedestrians.It will then move along at a whopping 20kmph at full acceleration and stop every 200m or so. By the time I start the bike,I'm halfway there.Not bad.I reach the spot,and my dad tells me I have to wait here while he goes to fetch a mechanic.Talk about a waste of time.I sit there for half an hour,on the banks of the horribly smelly buckingham canal,being chewed by massive mosquitoes.Finally my dad returns,with a grumpy guy who looks like he could be older than .The mechanic looks at the bike,snorts,and spits paan at my at feet.Then he crouches and looks at the tyre.He pulls out some misshapen tols from the folds of his lungi and removes the tyre.He says he has to take it back to the shop to fix the puncture.My dad suggests that I ferry him back and forth while he goes and buys the vegetables.He kicks the bike and it starts immeadiately.I get the old guy to his shop and back,and he spits vigourously all the while.Finally,when we get back,its 11:00.No,I can't go for mass now. Away to my grandmother's house!We ride there in the blistering sun.Relax and talk to a lot of relatives.Everyone asks me what I want to become. I want to reply "Anything but a dumb loser like you!" .And this is wierd because I like all my relatives,but then,the last straw and all that,you know.Lunchtime!My grandma's the greatest cook in the world (second to my mother,of course).I gorge myself,and everyone follows my example.My little cousin announces that she is going for a drawing competition now.Everyone is invited.I announce my departure,and I leave with my dad.Back through the heat! Finally we reach home.The key?? Wheres the damn key?? My dad phones my mother,whos still in anna nagar."Wheres the key??" mom:"Its in my bike! didn't you take it?" dad:"Okay,you had better bring it now." mom:"but sangeetha's taken the bike!" dad:"where?" mom:"To see Divya paint." "But my tuition books are inside the house!" dad:"So is the toilet."So THATs why he was so upset! I can see my books through the window but I can't reach it.Dad is in a really grumpy mood by now (understandably).I leave for tuition,where I endure the kindergarden jibes of Sunil and his brainless,moronic peeps for one and a half hours,while at the same time working out maths.And trying to keep my stationery from being stolen by Abdul the kleptomaniac,who sits behind me.Talk about multitasking. I come home to find a dog on the steps.A big one.What is it with me and dogs?? He charges and I perform some acrobatics which would have got me an olympic gold.I run all the way up to the terrace and jump onto the tank.The dog growls,and goes and lies down beneath the tank.Shit.I can't stay there all day,so I jump,hit the ground,and keep running.Naturally,I trip over my feet and fall flat.The dog seems to be enjoying the show and grins at me encouragingly.Then he giggles! Huh? I look up.The terrace next to mine is lined with giggling girls. Better than saturday?? Wishful thinking.
STAY TUNED!

ONE OF THOSE DAYS..

2006-05-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

Whats your favourite day of the week? Mine used to be SATURDAY...

I wake up to my hysterically screeching mother.At 6:55. Barbarians run my school..expect me to be there at 7:30!!! SEVEN-THIRTY!!! during the goddamn holidays,when I'm supposed to be stretched out on a carribean beach with a pina colada,those #@$%ing ^$#*!@#$ want me to study!!!Oh well. Soggy with sleep,I brush my teeth with my brother's toothbrush.ugh.I get hoofed out without breakfast.The cycle's tyre's punctured.Cursing,I hurry to school.Mr.Sundar Jhonson has fun at my expense.Sadist.Taking advantage of sleepy kids.One hour of chemical burns and we move on to maths.Finally! Mr.Benedict arrives with his inane grin and 'punch' dialogues.We copy several pages of formulae off the board . Finally the inane grin reappears "but,Francheese,..all this tings vont khum in thexam".The whole class groans an predictably,I get yelled at.Dismissing the vastly interesting topic of hyperbolas with one sum,he moves on at a speed which would leave a speeding beam of light looking positively snail-like.Physics:Mr.Loyola walks in and stutters for and hour.I doze happily.Then all of a sudden he fancies himself to be the Big B and shoots questions at me like a goddamn AK-47.Everyone else in the class is convinced I have a serious hangover from the way my eyes keep losing focus.I blink for a while and realize that the interogation is over and everyone is leaving.FREE! I practically run all the way home! Just as I reach home some dope phones me and says: "hey did ya study for the test?" me: "what test??" Dope: "maths test at tuition" me: "shit" .I slam down the phone and glance rapidly through my tuition notes.I have this feeling that the guy whos written all this unintelligible shit is in my head somewhere,laughing at me.Ooh lookie! Its time for the test!I run to the place.Fortunately its just down the road.The Grouch hands us the question papers.Whoa! I know enough to pass! Thank You ,guy-in-my-head! Test over,and the Grouch takes a further hour of class! And finally,just as I'm leaving,the Bomb."There will be tution tomorrow from 3:30 to 5:00".Everyone screams bloody murder.Groucho is firm.Anyone who doesn't attend is in deep shit. @#%&!! Home! Finally! Todays the day we're going to madavaram to my dad's friends place.The trip includes a swim.We can swim from 7:00 to 8:00.Plenty of time! don't worry,we'll make it! Of couse we don't..My aunt has to come too.We wait on a crowded street in a small car and suffocate slowly.Finally fter 45 minutes,my aunt appears.Too late.Never mind Mrs. Dogget's an awesome cook,there'll be some amazing food.Thankfully,the food is great.After dinner we're supposed to go for ice cream.Of course,the parlours shut by the time we get there.Naturally.We wander into the little park behind the parlour and enjoy the breeze.I get chased by a puzzled looking dog who ignores everyone else but seems curious as to wether my butt tastes good.After everyone finshes laughing,they chase away the tired old dog coz they're afraid the poor thing might have a heart attack.I collapse on one end of a see-saw to catch my breath,and some nasty liitle kid sits down hard on the other end.*EIYOW!*..I limp away,groaning,and the dog decides I need to have a bit of exercise.Repeat performance.I finally turn on the mutated excuse for an animal and fling a stone.It falls harmlessly into the pond,but the dog runs away squealing,and everyone reads me the riot act for being unkind to dumb animals. Back to the cars,and we return home.We stop for ice-cream at the beach,and mine drips all over my shirt.I read until 2:00am,and wake up at 8:00 on sunday.
*CONTINUED TOMORROW*

WELCOME!

2006-05-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

Today is a great day for you,world! today,I,Francis,begin my contributions to literature!
Coming to the point...everything that you will read on this blog will be the complete and utter truth! I am infalliable! On ALL matters! come to me for advice,you teeming masses of unwashed humanity! I shall be the ruler of all the earth!
Oh all right,its a load of manure, but hey, it has a nice ring to it!
*ahem!Ladies and gentlemen,boys and girls (no in-betweens allowed)..welcome! I do hope all of you will spend many happily wasted hours reading my blogs and wishing you were so damn brilliant (and modest!).These blogs will be updated whenever i feel like writing...please feel free to leave comments..like "amazing!","pure genius!" etc etc.. I will speak about my life, my hopes dreams and ambitions..(and I will also write nasty stuff about people and things I don't like..) I think thats enough rambling rubbishy introduction.. *
STAY TUNED!!