Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Note: I am writing this post out of extreme hatred. I never thought I would.
My class is demarcated. As widely as it can be. Not a fine thin line between two groups but a huge Mediterranean sea. No ships, no helicopters. Do you know what that means? Nobody crosses any boundaries. And now I’ll regurgitate: My class has been demarcated for the last two years and it’s consistently been running its third year marathon.
Now may I describe the two groups?
Group A: The one that sits as closest to the Professor as possible but fails to stand under the spotlight for a second. These retards wear the world’s ugliest clothes and shoes. Sometimes they make me wonder whatever went wrong with the brain function that helps us choose right from wrong. First ones to submit all assignments, bottom down the scoring list. And God has shunned their pathetic little lives so far from his business that he makes utter mockery of democracy. He proves that he does not love all his children equally. And that he will always favour the prettiest and the smartest. All the Anna supporting people who cried, “What happened to Democracy?” Democracy is a myth my friends. They are still stuck in their favourite backstreet boy era with their amateurish guitar skills. This group has never tasted limelight. And if they ever did before you could say, "ohh crap!wtf?" they are back to their disgusting little lives. They are so invisible that it will make you wonder if they have Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak shrouded on them or not. Not joking. They are the backdrop.
Group B: Why doesn’t it surprise you when I type that this group has the prettier, smarter, heavily accentuated Beverly Hill-ish people? If they are judging you, their judgments will burn your skin and roast your flesh. They have the most expensive birthday parties thrown in the coolest clubs of all. They will marry within their group and raise hauntingly nasty children like themselves. They are the editors, the heads, the celebrated ones of every Society. Protect me if you can because they are also the ones who blog. They suck all the fun of the city to their lives leaving none for others with their super popular vacuum and despite this they prove their intelligence. Either it is multi-tasking or well, the more obvious fact: God IS biased. They own you. You don’t have a life. When you talk, they scrutinize your life, your family, your words. If you crack a joke, they will prove it to you that your joke as your life, is completely “redundant”. I quoted the word, did you see that? They are ingrate if you ever helped them and think they will remember your unpopular name. Don’t wish to be their friend, you don’t stand a chance. Do you know why? They are cool and popular and you with you twisted little life don’t even share the same pedestal. Rule 1# They do not talk to Group A. If they do, heaven will fall lose and mad men will run free. They are snobs. They’re the crowd, mingling with only the other cool people.
You maybe wondering where my loyalties lie. I don’t know. I wasn’t biologically trained to function either way. Then you might be wondering if there is a third group, perhaps? No, there isn’t. Either you are cool or you are not. My life in Delhi has been brief but my descriptions about the demarcation is perfection. I am writing this out of extreme revolt like I said. So much repugnance in my guts that I slept all morning and afternoon lest I wake up to break anything valuable. What? Don’t judge. I have my own idiosyncratic moments. I had written it down in my memory ages ago and I choose to only type down my memory today. I am not angry at any group per se. I am just exhausted. I am sorry if I have hurt any sentiment but you have issues that you need to deal with.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
A common Indian activity, talked about by the foreign tourists, hated by the elite Indians, loved by the rest of the population, loved so much that they are addicted to it. Not alcohol(now that I think of it elite can never hate alcohol). Not the other things that you have assumed but spitting. You’re reading it right, yes it is spitting. We are biologically functioned to spit at traffic signals, while walking on pavement,when we are in government buildings. Yes like gardens attract lovers, government offices attract spittoons. There hasn’t been any too many government offices that don’t have antique yellow or red stains against walls, to my knowledge. This is such a ordinary sight that you can almost pass it off as graffiti art. Indian creativity. This art of spitting is something that doesn’t need teaching. Children learn it by living and watching.
There was this man inside a car at a traffic signal. He spat a highly concentrated form of saliva and cough right after he turned off the ignition key and then sighed. I am assuming spitting is a stress buster. Then he caught me gawking and gaping at his disgusting face. And as if to show off his skills he spat again and again and again. This activity took only two minutes. Two minutes because the signal went green. He could have spat infinite times. I looked blank, horrified with the amount of disgust boiling within me. My equally nauseated friend suddenly blurted out, “WHAT DO THEY EAT TO SPIT SO MUCH?” Who knew that eating disorder can trigger such horrendous activities?
After a lot of brain-storming and researching on lab rats, I found a solution to control this frustrating desire. Think: S-word.