I've really mothered punctuation. Fathered, brothered and sistered even. The idea of writing this comes after reading Anant's blog, which, for some bizarre reason is beautifully punctuated. Humph.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Monday, December 8, 2008
Hari ka dwaar
Rituals hold a dubious significance. As we chanted the Bhagwat Gita, day before yesterday, the chants still ring in my head, spiralling till they reach a crescendo. Blocking a very large quantum of very sad thoughts. Couplet after couplet of Krishna's unselfish wisdom, did more than impart jnana, they rang in the heads of the readers, until thought itself seemed a heavy burden to bear. Undoubtedly it carries wisdom, a very earthly wisdom, but what it surpasses in, is to curtain our thoughts. Well, for a while. Everything is transitory.
They put the body on a sliding thing, pull a lever and wait till it is gobbled up by the chamber. I didn't see it. They tell me that's how it's done. They pull another lever and collect a bag decorated with marigolds the next day. "Bhapaji, Haridwar chalo!"
Hari ka dwaar. . . The door to moksha. . . Be free from this world as thy ashes toucheth the blessed water. Ganga looks like a discerning old person. To me. For I see her for the first time today. She is so conscious of the dirt around her. We take about seven hours to reach Hari ka Dwaar. A rising hunger, an avowed crony of long journeys makes our thoughts drift. We have tea, pakoras and tomato cheese sandwiches at Cheetal. I skip the pakoras, labour to remove the last bits of cheese on my sandwich and lament about how I can't have coffee. You simply can't have coffee. Everyone is supposed to eat the same thing. Another plate is prepared. A sandwich, a few pakoras and a thermacol glass half filled with tea. "Bhapaji! Nashta!" He never really cared much for tomato cheese sandwiches, I think to myself. The ploy was to feed it to the most unsuspecting candidate, that could be found begging on the road. A snare for ether, fire, wind, water and earth. . . We'll force you to drown yourself in the Ganga.
Books are unusual companions on such journeys. But I musn't elaborate on that. Hari ka Dwaar. . . The door to Moksha.
The door to Moksha is well guarded. A child is dressed as Shiva, complete with trident and all, manning the parking lot, avidly sticking the trident into a harmless Mayawati conveying condolances poster. Quite amusing, actually; political vendetta at such an impressionable age! The angels of the famed ghats stood a little further away, clasping their chillums and taking long pleasurable puffs. I feel nothing; surprisingly. I don't know whether I feel like a puff or whether I am judging. The locks were quite endearing, matted, just as much as was expected. Endearing because I was reading a book about such people. People with matted hair. The angels gave way to the Pandas.
The Pandas have built their dwellings parallel to the ghats. They are stacked together. One panda residence for one family line. The Teri's pandas were way inside. We seek them out. The head Panda looked like a very senior, sinister hawk. Ashes must be sanctified by a particular Panda, else they wont reach the heavens. The panda courteously offers us tea. Sugar free is a distant thought. We decline. Must finish with the business. The deal hasn't been reached, I suppose that's how they plan it. We head for the ghat. The ritual begins.
Your name? The griever gives it. His name? He spells it out. When did he die? The date is communicated. Who's the small one? His grandson. He needs padding, this one does! . . . and then, How much? The decisive question.
2100.
Not enough.
You said give from the heart.
Yes. But we belive in big hearts.
Well, I believe mine's quite big.
Not big enough. A few extra ladoos might do the trick here.
Hunh?
The widow is accosted.
Mataji! You must give your consort a befitting farewell. It must be grand. How many cows?
Cows?
Yes. Gaudaan. Mahadaan.
Give him more money.
The griever drags the Panda away. 2500 and we're done.
Humph. 2500 for all this fuss. Very well.
The Panda takes a white ball. he throws rice and flower petals on it and hands it over to the griever. A few choice words are exchanged. The pind is left afloat.
The time for the big kill has come. The panda catches a glint of gold from inside the bag bearing the ashes. I must first bless the ashes. He blesses the ashes. They are let into the water. A horde of young men dive into the water. A fight ensues. The bag is snatched and wrenched. I can see a few white strips on the surface. Suckers! We head back to the Panda's abode. The young pandas are smoking chillums. Now I envy them. Fresh entries are made to the family tree. While the aunt can't get over the fact that she was once called 'Seeti' as a toddler, I chortle over an ancestor named Mussadi Lal Teri. The Panda gives me a scathing look.
Mock not the dead! They will haunt you and make you wet your lungi. Right. This particular Teri wasn't mericlessly drowned in Hari ka dwaar. I stick my tongue out. Fortunately for me, the Panda is busy making entries. Arjun Kumar, at the very end.
We meet a snake charmer on the way out. He thrusts the basket into my face. I could've fainted. The cobra readies its hood. A more righteous uncle of mine asks the snake charmer- how much to let him go? 5000. Pat!
A few by-standers whisper "Words befitting our holy shrine."
I miss you. I miss you very much.
They put the body on a sliding thing, pull a lever and wait till it is gobbled up by the chamber. I didn't see it. They tell me that's how it's done. They pull another lever and collect a bag decorated with marigolds the next day. "Bhapaji, Haridwar chalo!"
Hari ka dwaar. . . The door to moksha. . . Be free from this world as thy ashes toucheth the blessed water. Ganga looks like a discerning old person. To me. For I see her for the first time today. She is so conscious of the dirt around her. We take about seven hours to reach Hari ka Dwaar. A rising hunger, an avowed crony of long journeys makes our thoughts drift. We have tea, pakoras and tomato cheese sandwiches at Cheetal. I skip the pakoras, labour to remove the last bits of cheese on my sandwich and lament about how I can't have coffee. You simply can't have coffee. Everyone is supposed to eat the same thing. Another plate is prepared. A sandwich, a few pakoras and a thermacol glass half filled with tea. "Bhapaji! Nashta!" He never really cared much for tomato cheese sandwiches, I think to myself. The ploy was to feed it to the most unsuspecting candidate, that could be found begging on the road. A snare for ether, fire, wind, water and earth. . . We'll force you to drown yourself in the Ganga.
Books are unusual companions on such journeys. But I musn't elaborate on that. Hari ka Dwaar. . . The door to Moksha.
The door to Moksha is well guarded. A child is dressed as Shiva, complete with trident and all, manning the parking lot, avidly sticking the trident into a harmless Mayawati conveying condolances poster. Quite amusing, actually; political vendetta at such an impressionable age! The angels of the famed ghats stood a little further away, clasping their chillums and taking long pleasurable puffs. I feel nothing; surprisingly. I don't know whether I feel like a puff or whether I am judging. The locks were quite endearing, matted, just as much as was expected. Endearing because I was reading a book about such people. People with matted hair. The angels gave way to the Pandas.
The Pandas have built their dwellings parallel to the ghats. They are stacked together. One panda residence for one family line. The Teri's pandas were way inside. We seek them out. The head Panda looked like a very senior, sinister hawk. Ashes must be sanctified by a particular Panda, else they wont reach the heavens. The panda courteously offers us tea. Sugar free is a distant thought. We decline. Must finish with the business. The deal hasn't been reached, I suppose that's how they plan it. We head for the ghat. The ritual begins.
Your name? The griever gives it. His name? He spells it out. When did he die? The date is communicated. Who's the small one? His grandson. He needs padding, this one does! . . . and then, How much? The decisive question.
2100.
Not enough.
You said give from the heart.
Yes. But we belive in big hearts.
Well, I believe mine's quite big.
Not big enough. A few extra ladoos might do the trick here.
Hunh?
The widow is accosted.
Mataji! You must give your consort a befitting farewell. It must be grand. How many cows?
Cows?
Yes. Gaudaan. Mahadaan.
Give him more money.
The griever drags the Panda away. 2500 and we're done.
Humph. 2500 for all this fuss. Very well.
The Panda takes a white ball. he throws rice and flower petals on it and hands it over to the griever. A few choice words are exchanged. The pind is left afloat.
The time for the big kill has come. The panda catches a glint of gold from inside the bag bearing the ashes. I must first bless the ashes. He blesses the ashes. They are let into the water. A horde of young men dive into the water. A fight ensues. The bag is snatched and wrenched. I can see a few white strips on the surface. Suckers! We head back to the Panda's abode. The young pandas are smoking chillums. Now I envy them. Fresh entries are made to the family tree. While the aunt can't get over the fact that she was once called 'Seeti' as a toddler, I chortle over an ancestor named Mussadi Lal Teri. The Panda gives me a scathing look.
Mock not the dead! They will haunt you and make you wet your lungi. Right. This particular Teri wasn't mericlessly drowned in Hari ka dwaar. I stick my tongue out. Fortunately for me, the Panda is busy making entries. Arjun Kumar, at the very end.
We meet a snake charmer on the way out. He thrusts the basket into my face. I could've fainted. The cobra readies its hood. A more righteous uncle of mine asks the snake charmer- how much to let him go? 5000. Pat!
A few by-standers whisper "Words befitting our holy shrine."
I miss you. I miss you very much.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Panditji on 5th Main
Anticipating a laurel no less than the American Witch Hunter Association's Annual gallantry award, onward we moved towards Panditji's basement abode. Boob-sickle meanwhile managed to break his back and was taken to see the infamous Dr. Grant, a striking image of Shelley's Egor, only WAY creepier! Boob-sickle was driven down by platypus, which is why I'm writing this in the first place. Platypus usually breathes heavy. Platypus' heavy breathing is a pain in the behind.
5th Main: Bobita, Jhumpa, Ernie Mcpimple and I, thought it utterly hilarious to trap the alleged pandit in our devious plot. The plot- Ahem. Blimey. . . Nothing very special, as you would, in most normal circumstances, imagine. The idea was to give dear panditji a humourous insight into 'claire'voyance. Bobita and Jhumpa became the love interests and I became the centre of their jealous female attraction. Bobita was beloved; Jhumpa, slut.
Panditji has on occasion, been the cause of a lot of commotion our illustrious college. Many men & women have adorned his priceless gem-stones in hope of better grades, better boy-friends, better sex, better hair and of what I heard last, developing BETTER kink dynamics. Panditji of-course cannot be blamed for such mis-placed blind faith, our brothers and sisters must develop a more rational opinion of the science, but panditji most definitely deserved a dose.
Jhumpa entered first. A scrawny bespectacled man greeted us near the stairway to the basement. "Panditji bahar gaye hein." We looked dissapointedly at the pooja room, down below. Funnily, he'd chosen the grumpiest pictures of Hindu gods to adorn the pan stained walls. One particular ganesh portrait was giving me the dirts. After deftly appreciating the back-sides of my companions, he cleared his throat. "Par mein aapke bhavishya mein jhaank sakta hoon." The effect was like quickfire. "Panditji ke chele-ji. . . Aap mahaan hein, budhiwaan hein, balki mein toh. . . Nahin, mein toh kuch bhi nahin keh. . . "
"Haan haan. . . Mein sab jaanta hoon. Pehle kanyaoon ko bulao!"
Mcpimple 'the ever' eager was quite eager. Trolloping along the stairway she entered the pooja room. The rest of us dutifully sat behind her. "Mein dekh raha hoon, aap bachpan mein apni mata ke bahut karreb thi" he said, summoning an extremely shrill version of an etheral whisper, which reminded me of a certain toad like invigilator.
Mcpimple was impressed. She was infact very close to her mother when she was three. "Muhahahahahaha" said the Pandit. "The inner eye sees it all. Mein toh yeh bhi dekh raha hoon ki aap bachpan mein doodh bhi bahut peeti thi!" "I never. . . " (blame that on idyllic Wodehouse fiction). . . "Om bum bum. Mein us samay ki baat kar raha hoon kanya, jab tum keval panch mahine ki thi. Muhahahahaha!" Mcpimple's spirits rose. "Yes! Yes!Yes!"
The pandit cleared his throat. "Aur. . . hum ho. . . Haan. . . Nahin. . . Hmmm. . . Aha! Aur mein yeh bhi daave ke saath keh sakta hoon ki bhavishya mein tumhari teen teen shadiyan hongi!"
Mcpimple looked confused. "He means three," jhumpa clarified. "Oh!" "And children?" The pandit let out a piercing howl. . . "Naaaaahinnn!!" Oh the suspense! Mcpimple was about to start sobbing. Bobita consoled her. "Oh sorry," said the panda. "Mein suddenly is ladke ke bhavishya mein jhaank baitha tha,""Ghabrao nahin kanya, "tumahari chaar paanch, khaati peeti santaan hongi. . . PARANTU!! (Tantric style) "Iske leeye tumhein moti ki mala pahen-ni padehi!"
We couldn't let another of our kin be duped by the panda. I prostrated myself at the Panda's feet. "Mahaguru! Swaami! Praneshwar! Save me!!!" The panda was touched. "Utho beta," I figured his first impression of me was that of a detective on a sting operation. (I rarely have such an effect, mind.) "Kya hua?" He crooned. "Pahele in kanyaoon ko bahar jaane ko kaheeye, yeh baatein, kanyaon ke komal hriday ke smaksh nahin boli ja sakti" Panda got full excite. Most would appreciate such moments as narrations of past sabbaticals, the intensely sexual ones. Right he was! Our companions left us. It was me and the panda, and the scowling Ganesh.
"Panditji. . . Mein Bobita se beintahaan mohabbat karta hoon. . . " The Panda's eyes lit up. "Haan haan beta. . . aur batao, aur batao. . . " I started, "Aur. . . Aur. . . Mein Jhumpa ke saat raat din bheeshan sex karta hoon. . . " "Muhahahahaha. . . . Om bum bum (cough @! snort.$ pickle pickle) . . . Mein jaanta tha, betaa!"
"Panditji. . . Aap mahaan hein, budhimaan hein. . . " I was cut short. "Save it!" spat the panda.
"Kitna sex karte ho beta. . . ". "Swami- maharaj. . . Maine itna sex kiya, itna sex kiya, itna ghanghor sex kiya. . . Ki. . . "
"Bachcha ho gaya?"
"Panditji. . . Aapke charan kahan hein?"
"Muhahahahahaha"
"Mein kya karoon Panditji?"
"Agar mein tumhari jagah hota. . . toh mein bhi sex hi karta"
"What are you saying, Panditji? What about the Gita? And the love? And the scriptures"
"Om bum bum. . . (caugh @! snort &&$ pickle pickle). . . What I meant to say is that. . . Have sex with love! Muhahahaha!"
"A THREESOME?!!! Panditji!! Aap mahaan hein. . . Aa. . . "
"OM BUM BUM!!" "Ab kanyaon ko bula do." Our companions ambled inside.
"Mahatma ji. . . " I continued. . . "Ek aur baat thi. . . Parantu. . . These girls will have to shut their ears." "Aise kaunsi baat hai beta?" "Bahut hi jatil samasya hai Swami-maharaj!"
"Om Bum. . . " "Just shut your ears, would you girls?" They shut their ears. "Haan toh. . . Pnaditji, raat ko bistar mein tatolte hue. . . tatolte hue. . . tatalte hue. . . Mera bistar. . . Mera bed. . . "
"Wetting ho jata hai?"
"CHARAN!!!" I sobbed
"Cough @! Snort ***% PICKLE PICKLE"
"The inner eye sees it all!!"
"Even the urine?"
"Especially the urine!! Muhahahaha. . . " I do confess I felt slightly interfered with.
"Make it go away!"
"Wear my rings."
"I shall return, Panditji."
"I shall wait."
To be continued on our second visit.
5th Main: Bobita, Jhumpa, Ernie Mcpimple and I, thought it utterly hilarious to trap the alleged pandit in our devious plot. The plot- Ahem. Blimey. . . Nothing very special, as you would, in most normal circumstances, imagine. The idea was to give dear panditji a humourous insight into 'claire'voyance. Bobita and Jhumpa became the love interests and I became the centre of their jealous female attraction. Bobita was beloved; Jhumpa, slut.
Panditji has on occasion, been the cause of a lot of commotion our illustrious college. Many men & women have adorned his priceless gem-stones in hope of better grades, better boy-friends, better sex, better hair and of what I heard last, developing BETTER kink dynamics. Panditji of-course cannot be blamed for such mis-placed blind faith, our brothers and sisters must develop a more rational opinion of the science, but panditji most definitely deserved a dose.
Jhumpa entered first. A scrawny bespectacled man greeted us near the stairway to the basement. "Panditji bahar gaye hein." We looked dissapointedly at the pooja room, down below. Funnily, he'd chosen the grumpiest pictures of Hindu gods to adorn the pan stained walls. One particular ganesh portrait was giving me the dirts. After deftly appreciating the back-sides of my companions, he cleared his throat. "Par mein aapke bhavishya mein jhaank sakta hoon." The effect was like quickfire. "Panditji ke chele-ji. . . Aap mahaan hein, budhiwaan hein, balki mein toh. . . Nahin, mein toh kuch bhi nahin keh. . . "
"Haan haan. . . Mein sab jaanta hoon. Pehle kanyaoon ko bulao!"
Mcpimple 'the ever' eager was quite eager. Trolloping along the stairway she entered the pooja room. The rest of us dutifully sat behind her. "Mein dekh raha hoon, aap bachpan mein apni mata ke bahut karreb thi" he said, summoning an extremely shrill version of an etheral whisper, which reminded me of a certain toad like invigilator.
Mcpimple was impressed. She was infact very close to her mother when she was three. "Muhahahahahaha" said the Pandit. "The inner eye sees it all. Mein toh yeh bhi dekh raha hoon ki aap bachpan mein doodh bhi bahut peeti thi!" "I never. . . " (blame that on idyllic Wodehouse fiction). . . "Om bum bum. Mein us samay ki baat kar raha hoon kanya, jab tum keval panch mahine ki thi. Muhahahahaha!" Mcpimple's spirits rose. "Yes! Yes!Yes!"
The pandit cleared his throat. "Aur. . . hum ho. . . Haan. . . Nahin. . . Hmmm. . . Aha! Aur mein yeh bhi daave ke saath keh sakta hoon ki bhavishya mein tumhari teen teen shadiyan hongi!"
Mcpimple looked confused. "He means three," jhumpa clarified. "Oh!" "And children?" The pandit let out a piercing howl. . . "Naaaaahinnn!!" Oh the suspense! Mcpimple was about to start sobbing. Bobita consoled her. "Oh sorry," said the panda. "Mein suddenly is ladke ke bhavishya mein jhaank baitha tha,""Ghabrao nahin kanya, "tumahari chaar paanch, khaati peeti santaan hongi. . . PARANTU!! (Tantric style) "Iske leeye tumhein moti ki mala pahen-ni padehi!"
We couldn't let another of our kin be duped by the panda. I prostrated myself at the Panda's feet. "Mahaguru! Swaami! Praneshwar! Save me!!!" The panda was touched. "Utho beta," I figured his first impression of me was that of a detective on a sting operation. (I rarely have such an effect, mind.) "Kya hua?" He crooned. "Pahele in kanyaoon ko bahar jaane ko kaheeye, yeh baatein, kanyaon ke komal hriday ke smaksh nahin boli ja sakti" Panda got full excite. Most would appreciate such moments as narrations of past sabbaticals, the intensely sexual ones. Right he was! Our companions left us. It was me and the panda, and the scowling Ganesh.
"Panditji. . . Mein Bobita se beintahaan mohabbat karta hoon. . . " The Panda's eyes lit up. "Haan haan beta. . . aur batao, aur batao. . . " I started, "Aur. . . Aur. . . Mein Jhumpa ke saat raat din bheeshan sex karta hoon. . . " "Muhahahahaha. . . . Om bum bum (cough @! snort.$ pickle pickle) . . . Mein jaanta tha, betaa!"
"Panditji. . . Aap mahaan hein, budhimaan hein. . . " I was cut short. "Save it!" spat the panda.
"Kitna sex karte ho beta. . . ". "Swami- maharaj. . . Maine itna sex kiya, itna sex kiya, itna ghanghor sex kiya. . . Ki. . . "
"Bachcha ho gaya?"
"Panditji. . . Aapke charan kahan hein?"
"Muhahahahahaha"
"Mein kya karoon Panditji?"
"Agar mein tumhari jagah hota. . . toh mein bhi sex hi karta"
"What are you saying, Panditji? What about the Gita? And the love? And the scriptures"
"Om bum bum. . . (caugh @! snort &&$ pickle pickle). . . What I meant to say is that. . . Have sex with love! Muhahahaha!"
"A THREESOME?!!! Panditji!! Aap mahaan hein. . . Aa. . . "
"OM BUM BUM!!" "Ab kanyaon ko bula do." Our companions ambled inside.
"Mahatma ji. . . " I continued. . . "Ek aur baat thi. . . Parantu. . . These girls will have to shut their ears." "Aise kaunsi baat hai beta?" "Bahut hi jatil samasya hai Swami-maharaj!"
"Om Bum. . . " "Just shut your ears, would you girls?" They shut their ears. "Haan toh. . . Pnaditji, raat ko bistar mein tatolte hue. . . tatolte hue. . . tatalte hue. . . Mera bistar. . . Mera bed. . . "
"Wetting ho jata hai?"
"CHARAN!!!" I sobbed
"Cough @! Snort ***% PICKLE PICKLE"
"The inner eye sees it all!!"
"Even the urine?"
"Especially the urine!! Muhahahaha. . . " I do confess I felt slightly interfered with.
"Make it go away!"
"Wear my rings."
"I shall return, Panditji."
"I shall wait."
To be continued on our second visit.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Geriatrix (To us!)
Drippy cielings inadvertently make me dreamy, sleepy and to the extent of miniscule water droplets that fall at the thankfully expected speed of two drops a minute; wet. Like this morning i found myself standing next to Abhay
(feeling up a tree. Him. Not me.) on the first day of TTDSVD (Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanamas Shri Venkateshwara College). Neetika wasn't far behind and looked almost other-wordly in her two pig tails. (Right, I just hope she never reads this, it shall forever
blight my insatiable capacity to exaggerate.) But I distinctly remember that they were pig tails!
Though my typing speed needs much to blot from a certain someone and Ms. Mizfit, I might just be caught in the middle of writing this highly inaccurate account of 'apna,' (and I shall never hear the
end of this, singger) Venky. So your seventeen and its your first day at College. The reader
must excuse me for zipping the mass pleasing details of sophomore deleria and fresher
muddlement (read ragging).
This is way better. Delhi University, reknowned for the diverse fauna that
inhabit the various crevices, garden hedges, humour-deprived passages asperesed with
everything but the traditional nomenclature of 'lovers lane,' is still home. Right. Fast Forward.
There he is again. Abhay feeling up the tree. He was the only one who was left un-ragged.
Not for any particular reason. He was just too busy feeling up the tree while the rest of us
were reduced to chicken racing, eunuch impersonations and birth control measures. So while
the four of us (Neetika, Vrinda, Pallavi and yours audaciously) were signing the air with our
rear-ends, Abhay was well, feeling up the tree. I have got to stop saying that. Episodic memory.
It's killer. Did I just say that?
FF. Neetika playing with her pig-tails. It isn't fair, while the rest of us have now started to
succumb to the blight of old age and have reconciled to the same. Neetika no longer has pigtails.
She got her hair re-bonded. Not to the forget the transition from 'fabindia' to 'prada,'
So she was the third man just as someone suggested the utter brilliance of defining frandly
relations in 'dil chahta hai' style. Not that she liked being acosted thus, but she never really had a choice. One of us was a tree toucher, the other a specky chap who could never be convinced to be less enamoured with his newly developed musculature (which has disappeared now sadly,
laugh O entrail of a chameleon, laugh!) and the third had a pig- tail. The others were for some strange reason, normal.
FF. 'Kents,' 'Satya Niketan': Deep etheral voice: 'We must communicate with the environment.' What the hell are three 'into each other' peeps supposed to make of that? We did communicate actually and it didn't turn out to be that bad. And with a sudden urge to end all this (read account of abhay, neetika and I); everytime I think of the only relationships that have not been, shaky, it has to be these. And like most good things which have this feral animosity towards being constructive and generally burgeoning, these would round off to a quarter of a mile (which is around seven on a scale of ten, bloody good really).
(feeling up a tree. Him. Not me.) on the first day of TTDSVD (Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanamas Shri Venkateshwara College). Neetika wasn't far behind and looked almost other-wordly in her two pig tails. (Right, I just hope she never reads this, it shall forever
blight my insatiable capacity to exaggerate.) But I distinctly remember that they were pig tails!
Though my typing speed needs much to blot from a certain someone and Ms. Mizfit, I might just be caught in the middle of writing this highly inaccurate account of 'apna,' (and I shall never hear the
end of this, singger) Venky. So your seventeen and its your first day at College. The reader
must excuse me for zipping the mass pleasing details of sophomore deleria and fresher
muddlement (read ragging).
This is way better. Delhi University, reknowned for the diverse fauna that
inhabit the various crevices, garden hedges, humour-deprived passages asperesed with
everything but the traditional nomenclature of 'lovers lane,' is still home. Right. Fast Forward.
There he is again. Abhay feeling up the tree. He was the only one who was left un-ragged.
Not for any particular reason. He was just too busy feeling up the tree while the rest of us
were reduced to chicken racing, eunuch impersonations and birth control measures. So while
the four of us (Neetika, Vrinda, Pallavi and yours audaciously) were signing the air with our
rear-ends, Abhay was well, feeling up the tree. I have got to stop saying that. Episodic memory.
It's killer. Did I just say that?
FF. Neetika playing with her pig-tails. It isn't fair, while the rest of us have now started to
succumb to the blight of old age and have reconciled to the same. Neetika no longer has pigtails.
She got her hair re-bonded. Not to the forget the transition from 'fabindia' to 'prada,'
So she was the third man just as someone suggested the utter brilliance of defining frandly
relations in 'dil chahta hai' style. Not that she liked being acosted thus, but she never really had a choice. One of us was a tree toucher, the other a specky chap who could never be convinced to be less enamoured with his newly developed musculature (which has disappeared now sadly,
laugh O entrail of a chameleon, laugh!) and the third had a pig- tail. The others were for some strange reason, normal.
FF. 'Kents,' 'Satya Niketan': Deep etheral voice: 'We must communicate with the environment.' What the hell are three 'into each other' peeps supposed to make of that? We did communicate actually and it didn't turn out to be that bad. And with a sudden urge to end all this (read account of abhay, neetika and I); everytime I think of the only relationships that have not been, shaky, it has to be these. And like most good things which have this feral animosity towards being constructive and generally burgeoning, these would round off to a quarter of a mile (which is around seven on a scale of ten, bloody good really).
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Double- helix!
'Its the sea cause its blue and Munchy's underwear is new.' Some of these 'pardon me'
details never fail to crack me up. Its the sort of declaration bimbo no. 1 would make. The
'kya hai,'after, takes the baton and runs with it. The only issue with chortling away at the
beach is that you have these acrid snail shells which you tend to swallow. Complimentary
they are, they come with the sand. Aye fuck... Even the snails abandon them.
The following account details the taste of a particular sea shell. A more thorough
understanding of life sciences would reveal that the snail shell didn't actually belong to
a snail.
The woes of being a brain-moron(new word (: ). The 'For brevity' revelation that a
dear dear friend swears by, doesn't really work for me. Heck! I know its just a
ruddy snail shell. Its more beige than brown. So for the sake of convenience
and of blondness, I christened it, well, 'a Snail Shell.' More beige than brown.
Now renegade supporters of the shell-shy snail would possibly applaud my seemingly endearing efforts while overlooking the amount of mental damage speech
slurring (I hereinafter, declare myself to be.... big dramatic pause... an Allitrator! Oiiiii!!) is.
But it would be ever more enduring to affirm the third degree of insipid that declares
war on your palate. (No more mulling. Shan't.)
Meanwhile, bimbo no. 2 is busy devising wise cracks. Sadly, they always seem
to fly into some abysmally inept corner of my already infatuated brain. Yes. Snail it is.
Until they hit the snail. Then creep down below the belt and amble about, finally
scrawling up insidiously making me want to take of my beach shorts and jump!
I must maintain protocol,
I must be civil,
and I must be, damn, that's it! High!
details never fail to crack me up. Its the sort of declaration bimbo no. 1 would make. The
'kya hai,'after, takes the baton and runs with it. The only issue with chortling away at the
beach is that you have these acrid snail shells which you tend to swallow. Complimentary
they are, they come with the sand. Aye fuck... Even the snails abandon them.
The following account details the taste of a particular sea shell. A more thorough
understanding of life sciences would reveal that the snail shell didn't actually belong to
a snail.
The woes of being a brain-moron(new word (: ). The 'For brevity' revelation that a
dear dear friend swears by, doesn't really work for me. Heck! I know its just a
ruddy snail shell. Its more beige than brown. So for the sake of convenience
and of blondness, I christened it, well, 'a Snail Shell.' More beige than brown.
Now renegade supporters of the shell-shy snail would possibly applaud my seemingly endearing efforts while overlooking the amount of mental damage speech
slurring (I hereinafter, declare myself to be.... big dramatic pause... an Allitrator! Oiiiii!!) is.
But it would be ever more enduring to affirm the third degree of insipid that declares
war on your palate. (No more mulling. Shan't.)
Meanwhile, bimbo no. 2 is busy devising wise cracks. Sadly, they always seem
to fly into some abysmally inept corner of my already infatuated brain. Yes. Snail it is.
Until they hit the snail. Then creep down below the belt and amble about, finally
scrawling up insidiously making me want to take of my beach shorts and jump!
I must maintain protocol,
I must be civil,
and I must be, damn, that's it! High!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
*
NOBODY EVER COMMENTS ON HOW MY POSTS R ALWAYS HEADED BY SOME GAULISH CHARACTER... I LOVE GAUL VILLE... SIGH!!
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Get-a-fix!
Sunday editorials are getting to me. Specific Sunday editorials. The ones by Ms. De. She personifies mirch masala media (alliteration. again.) So whats wrong with (alliteration. Jesus.) it? For starters I forget what she has written the very second I put down the paper. From Kalam's hairstyles (the seasonal ones) to W Bush's bowel movements, cynicism died the day she was born. Actually, that's not what pisses me off. Off late I've started writing like Ms. De. The Dufferdills for one. Maybe I should learn to be more tolerant. Amen.
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