There is a popular boy, a bitchy popular girl and (initially) ugly nerdy girl. But then the popular boy takes the nerdy girl to the prom. Turns out she wasn’t ugly after all. Somehow.

Story starts with poverty, orphans, child marriage, queer family ends with a vamp who lusts after the family’s wealth. Always.

Kids go to a house that has a big sign board saying “DO NOT ENTER”. Black and bold. They miss the sign. Of course.

Chick goes to the forbidden room in her underwear. Gets killed. In her underwear. Somehow. Hmm.

School children go to school and do everything but studying. Lucky bastards

They might look dumb but no they will go to Colombia or Yale. Somehow.

Sourav Ganguly gets kicked out of every team. But never loses his Gods and hope. Wow. Yes?

They never want to get married and make babies but things change. Always.

Deja vu much?

True story.

People generally hear me say, “Where has all the pessimism gone? Out with that optimism!” Because of course you must have heard me say this a hundred times over now: if you are a pessimist you expect only the worst out of every situation and should the worst thing happen to you, you will not slit your wrists because you saw it coming and should something better happen to you, you will be surprised and happy of course! The drawback of optimism is that when what you expect doesn’t happen to you, you cry your guts outs. The whole reference to my negativity is the fact that I have formulated certain negative but flawless philosophies.

>All good things come to an end.

>Humans will be the death of the world.

>All relationships come with an expiry date, emotionally or physically.

>Love is an illusion.

Now I’ll elucidate on the last philosophy. Whatever we do to people we profess to love is so that we get some good coitus. And of course the soul reason for the existence of two different sexes is to procreate newer ones of the same species and if we happen to derive some pleasure out of the act of creation, well it is an added benefit. Human beings are driven by the need of company, so we huddle together in communities. Human beings are jealous. They won’t share resources and partners and to prevent adultery, humans created the concept of marriage. It only traps us into a Sisyphus task. Yea, long after the children grow up, old married couples start to fall out of the need to be togethers now that the nest is empty. They stick together in certain societies where divorce is still a taboo. They stay together under the same roof but stay detached from each other. Ever wondered why old people are cranky? Well you know now. Hence the word love is entirely constructed and illusory, there’s no feeling called love exactly, but it can described better if we say “need”. I need you. That is an apt feeling. It is through collective consciousness that a society works, so we need each other. Even those isolated obsinate fools who stay locked up alone in their rooms have a certain spider pet or whatever to engage into the sense of bonding with someone. We think love is merry, colourful, shimmery and evergreen forests, and pixies throwing sparkles on us. All that comes from the Fairy Tales we read, all the movies we see, all our favourite love songs. And we think about this “love” so much, that we engage ourselves in a quest for love which results in obsessing with the idea of “love” rather than “being in love”. And then starts a series of trial and error method, you make up, you break up, you move on and everything else that is worthless in my opinion because you think ohh that was love, and then get to know that it wasn’t love and of course you still haven’t got rid of the idea of love so you keep looking, you’ve been hit once, but hey, given the dork you are, you’ll never be twice shy and full of optimism.

Now the question is why did I type this, right? Because something extraordinarily uncanny thing happened today. I randomly typed “Love is an illusion” in chrome and then quite arbitrarily clicked on a link and guess what I read? The exact same words that I have been telling my friends to demotivate them, the same reasons that I cite, the same examples I have been using for a long time. I did not even know this particular dead philosopher called Arthur Schopenhauer until a few hours back who said pretty much the exact same thing that for a long time I have been telling my friends to demotivate them. It was an idea that was original to me. It is almost as if I was Arthur in my last birth. Yea that’s quite a fascinating idea for me. :D

Here’s this link: http://ronnyeo.wordpress.com/2008/02/16/love-is-an-illusion/

I wake up in the morning to find a troubled sms from Arjun, “Something terrible happened. Newspaper front page.”

Fearing another massacre in the name of region or religion where me, my friends and my family always miraculously survive, I check the newspaper. “Assam boat Mishap” it said, “over 200 dead” and I quite surprisingly heaved a sigh of relief. I spent another twenty minutes evaluating my cruelty and insensitivity. How could I sigh? How dare I sigh? ONLY 200? ONLY A BOAT MISHAP? Nothing less than a group of militants or a death toll of 500 will do to invoke a great deal of sadness. It’s a lot like Kill Bill you see. You scream and claw your skin terrified at the sight of the first gruesome murder. By the end of it, blood is only red, only some kind of a liquid that stops churning your stomach. Gore is only a term. It’s all a psychological mumbo jumbo. You master the craft of avoiding sympathizing and feeling or getting horrified. Growing up with Khasi-Bengali communal wars, which alarmed my parents so much, that they dislocated me from my roots much to my dismay, by moving to a place full of hostile Bengalis because “it is safer to be with one’s own kind” and in that process, erasing all possibilities of a mixed community around me (I don’t blame them), I have learnt to grow up an immunity to face mass death. Because in Shillong, you could be jogging in the morning when you bump into a body. A dead body hanging from the street lamp. Beheaded. Or a massively mutilated dead body right outside your door. And as if mutilation wasn’t enough, the murderers will have shaved the poor fellow’s eye brows as well for special effects. And you think ohh, another dead body?  If it is not death that you read about first thing in the morning, it is a celebrity’s redundant love life. It’s a bargain for life. I have learnt to not let it affect my emotions. More dead people. Ohh. More prisoners, ohh. They filled up the cemeteries and jails. Is that so? Only one person dead? Not enough I must say! 

Arjun texts me back, “No Adidas. Some management issue.”

[FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE THAT YOU BEG TO DIFFER]

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.

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.

Think.

Think.

Think.

Think.

Okhay. Swallow.

Exams are back. (yes, we all want to say something similar to Simon! Go back!) but right now I can type only two more words: Hello caffeine. :)

We're talking about DP here.

Photos have found a newfound value. Let us first compare two situations.

2 decades back:

Hey that's a really nice photo. You should frame it.

Now:

Hey! DP material. DPfy it right away!

It's almost impossible to click photos of people when they're unaware of a big camera hovering around their faces.

They request, "One DP please!"

"No this one's not good. Under the bamboo trees? Okhay, should I look elsewhere to make it look natural."

Natural, sorry?

"Yes this one is natural, put it up on facebook please?"

We need to re-define natural. Clearly.