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).

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!

*

NOBODY EVER COMMENTS ON HOW MY POSTS R ALWAYS HEADED BY SOME GAULISH CHARACTER... I LOVE GAUL VILLE... SIGH!!

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.

Cacophonix!

Poetry. Commonly associated with intense godly affection, failed romances and the 'my intellect is stuffed up my behind but i chose to think that it's above your head' syndrome. Even the whole daffodil deal with Wordsworth. It was torturous reading it again and again in school. I mean, saale, if I do want to mull over over yellow dufferdils on hilltops or cow dung piles, Id take the shortest route to shimla or 'kullu-manali' (janani haven) and sit staring at the philawer until people think I've lost it. What's sad is that poetry escapes the purpose it is written for. Hell, mostly it's because it is published, causing severe brain impairment to all the unfortunate souls who are made to read it. A look at the psyche of people who do chose to spend their time trying to rhyme the 'who' with the 'poo' reveals a different tale. The romantics usually attribute the philawer in their poem with the object of their affection, for example:

She smelt like a beautiful flower, (yeah fucker, she's either dead or now she's started smelling like cowdung)
Her hairs were like a fresh rain shower (hmmm... mandakini, zeenat aman.. we're still guessing)
Sometimes I wish I could feel her power (K this guy has it up already.. No... No... Nooooo!)
I hate to lie down without her in my tower (Kill the pig! Slit his throat!)

The extra-godly ones always land up in a soup and then beg for forgiveness for the nth time. The other half usually wants something in exchange for halwa, jalebi and ladoos unwillingly distributed to the poor who no doubt have the time of their lives. For more information type 'Chanchal' on google... ahem.. "Maa, murade poori karde, halwa baatongi" There's always a condition, right? Maa.... Fulfill my desires and I will distribute halwa. Abe chutiye! Satta khel raha hai kya?

That leaves us with the 'my intellect is stuffed up my behind but i chose to think that it's above your head' variety. This reminds me of the time my sister was editing her college magazine. Lord, it so epitomized this. One such character had written something titled 'The trailer in the sailor'... now as much as I hate not having saved a copy of the magazine for future laugh attacks (and choking and dying) and for putting my point across to the unfortunate reader, I do fortunately, remember a few lines...

The shore is high, the waves are low,
The sailor is high, the ship is on smoke,
But sailor is brave and fishes are too,
The Sailor is watching the trailers too.

Need I say more? A lifetime isn't enough to loath poetry, even if it's half good. Man, for all those theatre artists who swear by Shakespeare, I have but one thing to say to you:

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I.... On a cowslips... " (yeah I know it's a philawer dumbass) ahem ahem

Right, so.. ahem it's either sexual undertones in what ever I read or Shak-es-peare was one horny fucker.

On a more serious note, I feel it's more than pleasing when it's genuine, simple and well something that you really care or feel about... a cause, an emotion and blah... BUT NOT A BLOODY DAFFODIL!