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.

Because everything is so amazing!

I have been wondering what to blog about for a really long time. Today I found out what annoys me. PMS-ing people among other things of course.

There's this whole crowd of them around me. They take 25 minutes to stand up. 1 hour to walk to the canteen which is by the way not in Connecticut. Ohh bummer they will also whine to an extent that you'll be so annoyed that you'll stealthily move out of that crowd before God rips off your life-contract out of sheer disgust!

Don't touch me.

It's paining.

Don't talk to me.

Leave her alone. She's PMS-ing.

Worse. Leave HIM alone, he's PMS-ing.

Aww. It'll be okhay. Aww.

Aww. Aww. Aww.

And someone or the other keeps PMS-ing all the time! Whatever happened to normal periods?

Whatever's next? No, I cannot understand people anymore.

To be away from such a vexatious throng I attended this all-night concert. We lay on the rocks as it rained and the breeze swept the grains of sand swiftly, with little leaves getting lost in my hair (you know why). It was nice. It was seamless like those things you don't talk about but only witness. And it's tranquility gave me little goosebumps the whole night. We listened to flute and I wish it wouldn't stop because it was transcendental, and I forgave the annoying little twits for the whole night!

I hang up on people arbitrarily. I stop replying to their messages. I have more unread messages and unchecked Facebook notifications. I have no complaints. I like the wind blowing through my hair. I like the tiny dots of light on the hills. I am at peace. I smile. I am at peace. So much dope in my blood. So much happiness within me. So much calmness in my heart. So much regurgitation. So much dope. Wind blowing my blowing. So romantic.

Peace.

Jaipur is crazy. Crazily amazing. A maniacal traffic to begin with. Camels, elephants, horses, motorcycles, cycles, bus, cars- everything is a part of the traffic. And for the first time in my life I saw semi-permeable traffic. "Only small vehicles please, big vehicles and animals need to wait longer." So at a point of time I frustratingly ask the auto if we are ever going to reach Diggi Palace and then when he says "kya karu?" I insist, "Traffic police ke upar se chala lo?" Then we travel through the narrowest impenetrable dingy lanes of Jaipur. Quaint red-sandstone houses with a lot of urine and the nauseating stench. The auto went right between two cows that had been fondly licking each other. The best part about the layout of the city is that there are rectangular blocks, so technically every lane is connected to the main road. So you may have to travel through heaps of dung or hay or tear two animal lovers apart but you reach the destination anyway. It's not my first time in Jaipur and is definitely not going to be the last but it's rather the only time that I have used the cheapest ways of commuting ever.

All the foreign tourists probably turn hysterical to find animals and vehicles together in a traffic jam but the other people found it perfectly normal to find an animal hault at a red light and then stomp about when the red signal turns green. But I'm not complaining. I like the traffic there, it's bizarre, it's colourful and then we have shabby buildings on either side-building built according to the Mughal architecture or Rajput and sometimes a combination of both. Colourful doors and walls and really small windows for the women of the zenana. I tried looking through one such tiny window through which the queens used to watch the procession. I found it less grand to be trapped in quarters with black screen and small windows, dressing up only to have nobody to tell you how beautiful you look. A queen ought to stomp around the city flamboyantly, wearing the best silk and the prettiest jewellery, not be tucked inside a room where only a king or her eunuch friends should see her.

After dinner, I strolled about in the lawn absorbed in utmost satisfaction, and from there I could see the still lake around the Jal Mahal, glimmering with the silver rays of the moon- such an enticing sight. I have seen lakes and moons before, and I felt the romance running up my body but this was a royal-romance-this particular lake and moon. That is the charm about Jaipur that the most normal structures, activities, scenes somehow turn royal. That being said, I'm half in mind to go there again next month.

60 billion problems. Then add three more.

I have a lot of problems in my life. Enough for me to drown myself in Whiskey everyday.

For instance, my new phone brings me agonizing pain. Before I pour out my wrath and then you read it and say to yourself "yea, weird girl." I acknowledge that very fact. Thank you very much.

So my phone is not stone age and I am in the stone age phase right now and I am unlikely to ever bring myself in terms with that QWERTY keypad. My fingertips are too huge for the puny keys. I don't know why it's the prevailing fashion. Next, I couldn't find a drafts folder so where the hell am I going to save the sms-es that I wish to send to God? This whole issue upsets me so much that I just leave that damned electronic object inside my drawer refusing to receive calls. Finally, I WANT MY STONE AGE DEVICES BACK.

Then I turn on MTV and just my luck- Splitsvilla is on. Those sappy little bastards that never stop quarrelling. And I want to shout at the top pf my voice "Just teach those godforsaken loonies some elementary Grammar and kindergarten sentence formation teachnique! And then banish them from my sight." I weep because humans aren't supposed to be sorely preposterous. They exude infinite stupidity and that is intercepted by other human brains yea and now you know how it's a disease.

Thirdly, I am back home and I want to devour all the television programmes specially Travel and Living shows and they dubbed everything in Hindi. Why? I hate to see those people speak in cartoon-voices and crack cartoon-jokes and sometimes speak English words in heavily accentuated cartoon-pronunciations. When I was a kid Cartoon Network and Anime got dubbed in Hindi and the attack will never be terminated.

A lot of problems. Because I'm just so fucking brilliant that mediocre doesn't satiate my soul.


P.S.- When I refreshed the blog page I just realized that New Year is this close. Yet another spoiler. I had to edit the post. I had to add this bit. 2011 is going to be worse that 2010 because all my best friends are in 3rd year. Well not all. The ones I hang out with in the evening, the one who know how to start fun, who go backpacking, who quarrel incessantly and forget instantly, who(most importantly) get on my nerves less than the others do, who are cool (in the actual sense of it), who share troubles, pain and food, who are not misers, who bear my excruciating presence (thank you!). My true Bohemian partners, they will be gone and I will be a goner. I dedicate this post to the Lonely 2011 and best friends. Cheers!

A Megaloath post for the megaabhorred. (Hate is cliched)

Grand Finale of Masterchef India(or whatever) and who is the guest judge? Katrina Kaif who does what she's best at- looking good. And what do we see? People dancing to the painfully pathetic songs (which is a big hit by the way) that make my ears bleed. The contestants also swoon over her repeatedly and apparently it is a dream coming true for them. A music competition and we always have actors (sorry?) to judge. An athletic championship, dance show, just name it the actors always grab the limelight and actors with no acting skills whatsoever. Just let the wannabe actors do their job? I mean "look good" and say " I have lots of offers coming to me but I just want to focus on this one movie right now?"
What movie?
"Road mein ghayal." Or "Chastity- kahani ek auraat ki". Hold on, "Oolta love story".
And what's the peppy song?
"Ghashiram ka mucch"( if Sheila has jawani, Ghashi can have his own song, can't he?)
No, it's a tie actually between "Sanjana ke baal" (yea it sounded different in my head) and "Ghashiram ke mucch". Almost anything goes huh? So long the famished and highly imbecilic Indian population can afford a ticket to Sangam theatre. (Note: For cheap movies try Sangam instead of PVR, rickshaw wala population but it's better than shredding your money in a fit, correct?)
And then one fine day I'll come back, very beat, will want to drop dead in my bed but what do I see? My roommate swinging her legs and humming "Sheila ki jawani" NO, DON'T SING THAT SONG NOT EVEN FOR FUN! I don't care if your beanpole of a scraggy face shrivels up even more.

My point is, why are the actors and cricketers so important in India? Nobody cares about anybody else. And the actors in question are those that prance about naked and act like dummies and engage into several altercations with other actors or join a political party when they have nothing else to do. The good actors are hardly a part of the showbiz and why? Because they don't dance to item numbers or have the pretty face. How many of us think Rahul Bose or Rajat Kapoor are good? *raises her hand* and SRK? 50 million hands, like I did not see that one coming so I'll feign a surprised look and hold the "du'h" sign. All he does is bleat like a goat (yea his hackneyed style with special effects, tell me about it)in most movies minus two. Why would we have Amitabh Bacchan to host a brain game? I am not saying that he's a doofus( I don't know if he is) but why not Neil O'Brian or Arindam Bose? For the cook shows why not Aditya Baal? For the music show why can't only the musicians judge the freaking show? It's not as if the famous actors we are talking about act the Richard-Gere-style or Jim-Carrey-style(for comedians). It's not like the funny movies give you the hangover, Hangover style.
Good hair? Check.
Good face? Check.
Can dance? Check.
Can't act? Check.
Controversies? Check.
And we have the ingredients of a famous Bollywood actor.

Now even the beauty pageants are filling up the fissures. I mean beauty pageants are beauty pageants so just sit there, wear your crown, wave your hand and look pretty. Don't start acting please? And models? Just keep walking the damned fashion ramp and when the going gets tough, keep going. I have this one nerve left, don't bludgeon it to death.

And now five hoots for Masterchef Australia. Go go go Adam!

Bitch+sonofabitch= is what you're looking for.

I shut my book and I watch him sleep. He quivers. Moves. Turns. Flops. Occassionally opens up an eye, stares at me (probably smiles) and goes off to sleep. He stretches, sighs and curls up into a ball at which point I have to pull the blanket back on him. I watch every movement intently. He looks so flawless that he possibly belongs to a different universe. It takes a lot to love without expectations and it's different when you know that love is coming back like a boomerang. That is the feeling of security and sometimes you can't explain that very feeling. Of course you love me but what more? The more part is the extensive quantity and this other inexplicable feeling that I wish I could show but I can't show because no language has that immutable feeling and no human speaks that feeling and its very absense everywhere makes me feel it more. What's the word that I'm looking for?


P.S.- I bet none of you rhyming fools can fit that big word in any poem. And the person who's typing this is my compassionate self and I have no control over her whatsoever.

More Music!

How about you see a head disappear in the crowd and you follow him but you never end up seeing his face? But the head fascinates you because a chill ran down your nerves the moment you saw the man toss his curly head, you know that he was smiling but you still haven't seen his face. Does he have brown eyes? No, grey? Finally you lose him and you look all around you frantically but he's melted in the crowd.
You know you're connected- you and him and you're somehow meant to connect.
(Disclaimer: The 'you' in concern may not be me.)

Today I realized that Death Metal scares me-the voice, the costumes, the bass guitar, everythying as much as a weresnake scares me(I'm saving that story for some other day). This particular band that I'm talking about is "Funeral in Heaven". You may check their picture here. But of course that's a really old picture. Do a little task in your head or use paint if you went through a recent traumatic brain surgery. Shave the first man and the last man's hair, paint their faces with shoes polish, then make the third and fourth boys(from left) look like the second boy which includes the hairdo too and add beards and white paint on their faces. Well that's how they looked today. They go beneath the C level of ugliness.(and please don't sue me for this)
When a rock band (Traffic Jam) from Maldives performed this is roughly what the language sounded to me:
yashi huku yahaa, say again hooo fari ji yuki haka hoooo nadari juri wakaa.*massive head movements* For that matter, I never saw their faces only a mass of slick hair in constant up-down head banging motion and fari yuhu gashi kiri. Traffic jam, I realized sounds a lot like them. :/
Shorbori doesn't joke around when she's blogging.

And finally a suave dreamy performance by The East India Company. They will release their albums soon and you must listen to them.

I must prove my superiority.

You flick on their head and the hollowness within it echoes back.
They sleep when you want the lights on and they listen to music loudly when you want it off.
They leave their hair all over the place.
They think YOU are an alien when they're too base for even alien camps to let them in.
They talk. They never stop and that shrill voice rings through your ears till your brain hurts.
And when they shriek while talking on phone(ohh, by the way they're always on phone) the blob in your head that the doctors have diagnosed to be a cancerous tumour bursts and you get cured miraculously.
They're insecure. VERY insecure and they must tell the person on the other end of the phone the colour of their nail paint and occasionally they quip in "Haye Teddy, I love you baby!"

Then they face my judgemental eyes the ones that produce loathsome-laser beams and then they say "Haye shits this girl is a lonely bitch!"

Who are they? Hint: Starts with R ends with E and has OOMAT in between.

Disclaimer: The descriptions may not be right in several cases. In fact, it may be the other way round in your case

Outright Creepy.

You know you've stalked way too much when you see some faces in certain places and you keep wondering how you know them and then do you really know them? Not sure. Maybe I do.
Ohh crap. Facebook. She's not even my friend, or my friend's friend. Hold on how did you even start stalking?
Now you're confirmed that you're a pretty, little fucked up dork. Why do I have pending work again? Never mind.

Things that grab my attention.

My mind is still in the process of debating through a certain confusion: Should I make a photoblog or not? I don't decide for myself ,my head does but then invariably I end up doing it, anyway what I want to say is that my head is in a state of unrest. I often imagine my head to be a Federal constitution, makes me feel important when I'm standing beside a particular suited somebody in an elevator who has a very important briefcase in his grip(well for that matter, the briefcase might have a muffler and tissue papers). "He ain't got no country in his head." That's my imaginative self and I have too many myselves, and they constantly argue with each other. No I'm not diseased, you'll realize that you're in fact more diseased than I can ever be. Well that's my argumentative self. It carries a sword, it kills. I'm shamelessly, consciously narcissistic. There's no remedy for it(thankfully, may I add?)
Anyway, while my brain racks to come to a final decision,I'll slowly turn this one into a photoblog.

I saw it up on the stage, gleaming and glistening. If you're a man, you probably will love it more than I can ever because I cannot ride a Harley Davison with my flimsy legs. Yes, I saw a Harley Davison. And the best photo I could manage to click are these. Now gloat over them.

And the other thing you should do is face some menopause Menwhopause music because they are really awesome. At a point of time my legs gave up on me but I had to perch up my heels to get a glimpse of them. Good music is the primary point, the secondary point could be their lead vocalist. Not a sign of distress and he sings like he's singing in his bathroom and I think all of us sing the best when we're inside our bathrooms. He paces about the stage like he's shamelessly forgotten the swaying crowd and he's singing to himself in his living room. And occasionally, he pauses to look at the crowd and mumbles some introductory note about a song reluctantly. Is that why they're the men who pause? Three songs by Menwhopause that you must listen to are > Fly Away, Free and Sweet Despair, that is, if you trust my iPod playlist. If that's noise for you, maybe you're growing too old for it and you need your dentures ASAP! :)

And a picture of them.



Sorry about the tip of the heads. Nobody wants to stoop.

P.S: I was reading random blog posts while typing my post. Did I read blasphemous comments about Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows-Part 1? Well maybe all of you twits need a rocking chair and an eternal rest. You've got to be a century old...old enough to hate Harry Potter(I mean the character and not the actor). Or maybe you had so dysfunctional a childhood that you never developed the imaginative skills to believe in supernatural activity. My commiserations. Well for one thing, magic shows thrilled me when I was a kid, not so much now, watched P.C. Sorcar enough to be able to recite his tricks now and in their specific order but I still vehemently believe that Hogwarts is going to post me a letter soon. No wait, I'm just taking it for granted that you are a layman reader and you cannot read between the lines of the text. There again we know about how you spent your time in middle school developing the sentience towards Quantum Physics that will baffle other forms of complexities but we all know that you accidentally peed a little in your pants when you were too old to do that, you aren't cool enough. But of course you have a 5 digit figure of friends in your facebook profile and you get 51 comments in each of your pseudo poetic blog post, the title I'm looking for is, let me see, hmm, Nomadically No Mad? No, you're still not cool enough. You're a pompous little wannabe. Add yourself to the 5284739 things I hate about the world. A wannabe. And go far away, no farther away, yet a little farther, wait place yourself 23 light years away me and my blog.

So much for hating Harry Potter. Maybe it's the chillies in my curry.

Things that fail to grab my attention.

Okay I seriously cannot keep pace with technology anymore. I'll tell you about the funnier facts.

20 years back when you would fight with your best friends you'd give them the cold look, nonchalant shrugs, then maybe as you grew older you showed the finger. Now, you delete them off your facebook friendlist. Whatever has happened to the display of emotions? I mean do you really expect me to scroll down my friendlist to check if you're still there or not? And then maybe if you're not do you expect me to sms you asking why because you're too much of a chicken to talk to me face to face? Wrong thought. High expectations. Everybody is not Mark.



And a doodle.

A story to tell.

The chinese spam stopped! Woo hoo! Something I randomly sms-ed a friend for lack of creativity. Yes. I'm lousy.
It was a dark night. Windy. A dimly lit sky with only a few tiny twinkling stars. Heavy silence. The street dogs howled from some shelter that she could not locate in the darkness. The windows of the houses in the neighbourhood rattled madly as if possessed by some supernatural power. A chill ran through her nerves breaking into convulsions. It was eerie. She walked alone and the loud footsteps walked behind her. She gulped her saliva. Her mouth was dry. She cried to herself inwardly," Nonsense! Nonsense!" while at that very moment she could feel the threat of life's insecurity. The feet behind her shuffled. The brutal force in the atmosphere stirred. Whatever it was,it hated her. She knew this. Should she turn back and face it? Should she run with whatever energy was left in her? Her legs became heavy,she could not move. The footsteps were coming closer. Her heart was thumping loudly against her body that it could drown the noise of the wind. She turned. Gasped. Let out a stifled cry. The figure blurred,her head went dizzy.
She woke up amidst strangers panting for breath. Look around and shrivelled up seeing so many faces. Who are you? They asked. How did you come here? They demanded to know. What have you done to deserve this? They were curious.
Only one thought ran across her mind. What was the face? What was it? It was bony,wrinkled,the eyes were bloodshot,the corners of the mouth had phlegm . How could it resemble her?
It was getting hotter and lot more people surrounded her now. The cacophony around her was getting harsher for her ears. Then she noticed the people. They were different! Was she in heaven or in hell?

Take me home.

It's so cloudy today. Some would say gloomy. But it's cold and cloudy and that is what I have learnt to connect happiness with. You won't understand what I want to express. And there's no particular word in English language to represent it and its emptiness makes me feel it more.
I listen to the band performances here,saunter about the huge malls,get happy. Only momentarily.
I recline against a bean bag and look outside the window through the glass while it rains and when I finally decide to open the window,the clouds rush in,the inconvenience seems trivial then.
She has got so much less of everything to offer and so much more to give than I could ever ask for. But she makes me happy with her green hills and her incessant rains and her pine trees that no human could ever provide for me. That's all I ask for. Where else can I walk amidst clouds?
That is where I and Ruskin Bond connect. He feels the same way for Mussorie as I do for Shillong.
Thank you Mr. Bond for writing.

(and a cheesy line: Shillong come to me,if I can't come to thee. That's the best I can ever rhyme.)