A Conscious Decision

Possibly THE most powerful tool at one's disposal.

Choosing to pursue something, choosing to try something, choosing to stick to something. Or someone.

By this I don't mean your best decisions are the ones made with your head alone. Sometimes they're the ones your heart prompted you to make and hello, things turn out brilliantly! So was that gut instinct? Perhaps. Fluke? Just as likely. And that holds good for split second decisions as well as those long thought out. But that's not the point of post at all. No, don't suggest Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. It's been done. Respect.

Your heart tells you to go after something - it's this want, strong and irrational; very Nike, very Just Do It. And then your head enters the picture and says - "You know what, I want you to go after this; it makes sense in a way I can't claim to understand completely, it's not because there's a selfish, calculated 'something in it for me' in the equation, but this is what I choose for you to go after".

Do you see the difference? By identifying and acknowledging that that thing or person is what clicks with your mind and your heart you're actually upping its worth in your life. Bhav badh raha hai.

I know I often say something "makes sense" to me or doesn't. This is what I'm talking about. It needs to click with my mind. Corny, but sometimes voices from the heart need to agree with voices from the mind.

I don't have a foolproof explanation for this. At least, not yet. But I think it's better to say I don't know than to make something up to keep the cynics happy. What I do know is that this makes sense to me.

I'm gonna go back to The Sound Of Music. Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer and the whole jingbang, yep. There's this line from a song Andrews sings a young girl of 16, previously her charge and now her step-daughter -

You are sixteen going on seventeen 

Waiting for life to start 

Somebody kind who touches your mind 

Will suddenly touch your heart 

That's what I'm talking about.

Ain't No Sunshine

I want to write. Pen and paper, oldschool through and through. Okay, not quite. I'd be using a ball pen on a book that's tucked away deep inside my closet, that's hardly oldschool. Perhaps the smooth paper encased in hardback makes up for that oversight. I'd like that.

I haven't written for the pleasure of writing in far too long. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a traitor to the practice. The pen and paper routine usually happened when I wanted to vent furiously about things I chose not to discuss with another. Unhealthy? Possibly. And yet that curiously elegant way of bottling things up made me happy. More than I realized at the time. Damn right hindsight is a beautiful thing.

Today, even as I have someone to talk to about absolutely everything under the sun, the issue is not that I have nothing to vent about. Or even something to get all excited about. Hardly that. Having a sounding board does not mean you run out of noise to transmit. But the motions of putting a pen to fresh, lined paper that smelt the way only refined stationery can, of sliding the nib across the faded, dated page to form words that held the promise of release, of not knowing what the next line would be but knowing I needed to see it on paper, of having muddled thoughts sort themselves into distinct, expressible words as I read what I'd just written.. it was all just so cathartic. 

I miss that simple joy. I yearn for it. I think I've lost it.

Disjoint X.

Found a new blog that keeps me reading.

Talked about labels and assurances.

Damn. Lost in the first set itself. The idea is to put down ten comments/observations/opinions that have absolutely nothing to do with each other. The two sentences up there, the link was Blogs and Labels, see? Right. Let's do this again.

My cell phone's a Lib. It aborts calls.

My aunt leads a lonely life.

Faaaaaaaaack. I suck at this. Let's try it one more time.

I love a guy; said guy loves me back.

I ought to write more often, getting rusty.

Photography is beginning to scare the shit out of me.

I'd like to throw out all my jeans and stock up on shorts.

I need you to airdrop a serious hobby on my head.

Five lines and two glaringly obvious links. There's a reason the post title ends with an X. Mission bombed.

86400

Your days are limited; no shocker there. But what if you knew the precise number?

And what if you had to spend those days with just as many people, only one person a day? All of them real people who exist today, all of them people you personally know. So no Star Wars, no Shivaji and definitely no Salma Hayek unless Salma Hayek insists she knows you.

Would a thousand days fall short? Would a hundred be far too many?

What if you may contact them only on that one day allotted to them - never before, never again?

What if you were given the chance to draw up your list, your own order of preference? Who would you eliminate? Who would you include?

Would new bonds be forged? Would those you took for granted snap?

Would your time with those you love be spent buried under nostalgia and farewell or would you still go out for a movie, a meal, a drive?

Would you permit acquaintances, the fillers by force, to come closer and get to know you or would you hold on to old biases, fake a headache and sleep through the coffee?

Would you be able to take in your stride the days that bring you bitter fights and misunderstandings with some? Would you be able to accept absolutely no more shared smiles and tears of mirth ever with some others on your list?

Would you be able to survive the agony of 86400 - no more, no less?

Pathetico

Pass On By

One day I shall learn how to ask,

To believe I deserve what may come after

But until that day comes along, I suppose

I’ll continue to laugh for an answer.

I don’t expect clairvoyance, no sir

Or a zero error upsets-radar,

It’s not even concern I seek, to be true

But I couldn’t put a name on it, couldn’t think that hard.

Still, next time we meet or talk from afar

Don’t bother with the How-do-you-dos

Just get on with your story, tell me what ails you

I’ll fix it and we shall yet again grow apart.

That's how pathetic I've become. That I actually relate to this stuff is patheticer :|

Two options lie ahead. Scrap this blogging business and get all maudlin in private - Dickinson in the making, yessir! OR do a continuing series or RIPs. Covered Lethargy earlier, Suckingdom next. Must I pick?

Year 10 and 40! And Day 1.

So The Flintstones are almost as old as my father. Ow. Killer start.

Bright side - they completed 50 years of being aired yesterday which means those of you whose parents and grandparents were cool enough to have a gay ol' time with The Flintstones in addition to being TV-ownings seths before obnoxious little(?) you came in have no business complaining about communication gaps. Same stuff, ha! Bright side for people who think you're still obnoxious, of course.

Wait, not many would fit in there. In the cool+seth category, not obnoxious-considerers. Okay, chuck. The Google Photus ref still makes me happy. 


And don't be surprised to see odes and obituaries someplace on the Internet, The Flintstones were the 46th most popular search topic on Google at 5 in the bloody morning yesterday. Time zones are evil, yessir. Obituaries for the writer's childhood and "days of believing in  make believe" *eye roll*, not for Fred and Wilma.


I miss The Addams Family. Won't deny they creeped me out at the beginning. If only they were the Addamses with a single D. Addams makes them sound like a very South Indian concotion. Why South Indian? I can totally picture Rita --a house help (Maid servant? Naah.. didi? Yep!) at our place when I was around 10, she was from Belgaum-- say it like that. Add-dums. But then she also insisted "Okay" was a Kannada word because everyone in her village said it all the time. The arguments we used to have... I digress. Addamses? Addams? Dimsums. 

Oh and those Sunday all Hannah-Barbara cartoons inclusive races they used to hold every uh, Sunday. Anyone?



In other news, Pranav's blog led me to this, which in turn led me to vv . Er, that's a down-two-paragraphs arrow. Never mind. 

Something tells me I'll be linking there and borrowing plenty. =)

Which is why we're patrons of The Flintstones and not Sleeping Beauty. Wisdom again.

Mera Hai.

“I am the King of Rome and hence, above grammar”.

Okay. So we’ve heard that one before. However, while the King of Rome has made his way into history textbooks world over, news of his direct descendants hasn’t exactly hit the newspapers. I therefore take the liberty of deducing and declaring that no one –barring he who can prove his lineage and his nominal claim to the Roman throne– is above grammar. No one may be ignorant of its intricacies and none whatsoever may disregard it. Or at least, that’s how it’ll be once the world is mine.

Picture a uniform world order of language. Let there be plurality but let it not corrupt what is. Big Brother from Orwell’s 1984 went overboard with Newspeak; what I propose is neither totalitarian nor restrictive. Freedom will still be yours. Use slang, but just not at the cost of expression, explanation and context. Abbreviate, but for rapid note making, not all talk and text. Speak the language of your choice but not by butchering another.

Boyzone crooned “It’s only words/ And words are all I have…”. They’re hardly idol material but I say if words are all you have, make them count. Make them worth the other man’s time. And make them right.

I am conscious of entering a zone rife with potential for political debate (and consequently, political mileage) and lawsuits on the grounds of invasion of privacy and violation of cultural freedom. But what I propose is as democratic and secular as you want it to be. And see, what with the world being my conquest and all, I’ll be the boss anyway.

Slowly and steadily the world will come to love and respect language. <rapid read> Laws will be drafted, acts enacted, officers appointed. A secret detection unit will work stealthily. There will come a day when the want and need for coherence will overpower the cooltah of SMS language. All will self correct and the dictionary and the thesaurus will be the new TOI and Guardian. Wren & Martin’s lost glory shall be restored! </rapid read>

Letters will be all the shapes the world knows. Vs, As, Hs and Ls will realign themselves to form paper clips. Q will be the new face of Yin & Yang. Isolation cells for juvenile delinquents will be B shaped, benches will form Es and swings for round bottomed duos will emulate Ws.

Social networking is a boon, yeah? Scores of opportunities to nitpick and fix lamentable language AND to identify, recruit and group potential grammar Nazis of tomorrow. Here’s how it’s gonna work for me.

Men of words shall meet with men of science. The outcome? The Stingray! Na na, erase all thoughts of irregular copulation; this will be an invention that’s a cross between Word’s Spelling & Grammar Check, a stun gun and ellipses (…) . Neon green exclamation marks will cover foreheads of repeat defaulters. Stingrays will do the rounds of the city. MO – Point Stingray at target, a red aura surrounds the target. Double click to shoot and see short, sharp bursts of (harmless, nowhere near fatal but decidedly impactful slime globs or) ellipses make contact with said target’s body. Spasms, seizures, motivation to fix all! Language edits itself! Perfection.

No really, when it’s my world, it’s gotta be my word.

It Isn't Just Me

I've spent the last day or so reading blogs created by friends and classmates. And I've loved every moment of it.

Even though the blog was a college assignment and therefore not optional, even the most reluctant of the lot have written about matters close to their hearts. I speak of things we connect to for that is what we know. It's amazing how their posts are throwing up anecdotes and opinions I probably wouldn't have known otherwise. 

He's probably my closest friend at college but it never occurred to me to ask Ketan how he first got into photography. 

Next up, accessories! I can admire them but honestly, I never know what to do with them. Neha put up close to a dozen posts about accessories and she actually had me reading! 

We all have this moment of awakening (or spark of rebellion =| ) as a result of which we decide to think for ourselves. We decide what we want, what we believe, what we aspire to be and what we respect. Sanchayan took the last and whipped up a beautiful series of posts. I'll admit I expected him to write about Man U and football, his choice of topic came as a surprise. 

Then there was Malavika's blog. I kid you not when I say I respect the girl. Anecdotes and opinions definitely put in a show when she talks of music, I'm glad they do.

Ninad killed it. His posts are a pleasure to read.
  
Anandita's theme was reminiscent  of the "South India has 4 states! All South Indians aren't Mallus!" tirade she and Malavika would launch into during our IV to Kerala this August =)

Anku's blog again was sincere. He takes a sight/event and talks about his perception and/or the inspiration he draws from it. Most of us would get too caught up in the profundity of what we're trying to say. Chances are we'd become incoherent even as we seek eloquence. He doesn't. 


I've read only a small fraction of the 66 other blogs our class has put up. I've mentioned some blogs that I hope will show up on my Reading List even after.


On a personal note, this collective blog chaos --the entire semester of Creative Writing, really-- has been a lesson in humility. I'm no more the only person who blogs. Somewhere there's a hint of insecurity creeping in; I need a new identity, stat! =P I'm aware that some of those who were previously considered "non-writers" by the class for reasons as obtuse as "He doesn't write, that probably means he can't" are actually doing a kickass job of it, often better than me. But it's great to read good stuff, particularly when it's put up by people you know and like. Odd as it sounds, it's inspiring.

These three months have also taught me to share what I write without feeling like I'm enforcing some sort of obligation (?) on the other person to read. I'm learning how to accept compliments gracefully (Note: I'm still learning so do pardon my awkwardness) and I'm learning how to let constructive criticism be just that, constructive. 
I think I owe someone some sincere gratitude.

And going by my past record, for a single post, that's one confession too many. I'm outta here. *scurries away*

You Are NOT Random!

That spark in your eye that charms them all. That natural laugh, however imperfect it may be. That genuine grin, infectious regardless of whether or not your face stretches like Jim Carey’s and whether or not you have funny teeth or even no teeth at all. That knack of saying something mildly offensive but getting away with it either because the irony of it all floored even the target or because people just didn’t get what you said. That wild impulse to do something forbidden or unusual, to go out there and shock your audience. 

You have all these things and more, but describe yourself as “random” and you instantly become less interesting to me than the toothpick stuck between your teeth. No, I do not have a thing for toothpicks or for teeth.

Wisdom.

 Am I just trying to revive English as I love it? Am I a wicked witch for going all Victorian and Book Antiqua on unsuspecting minds? Or, disturbing as it is, am I randomly ranting about things that bother me?

17.9

This is the most I’ve ever shared of myself on a public forum. I’m putting it up after considerable internal debate. I wrote this when caught between what I have lost and what I don’t want. I don’t know how many who know me will be able to relate it to me but that doesn’t matter. There’s a lot more to it all but I choose to keep it off this space.

17.9

You enter my room

Woeful and lost

To say you’ll be back

In an hour,

But the look on your face

Says clearly to me

That you intend to remain

For more.

You begin to talk

Of nominees and banks

I know you’ve been harassed

By his calls;

You make small talk

About colleagues long gone

And your medicines

And errands of yore.

You tell me it’s hard

With no one for help

You tell me it’s tough

To cope,

To manage alone

To not rely

For in this new place

Ground and comfort lay afar.

I see the silent plea

In your rheumy eyes

I see you beg me

To get involved,

To hold you

As I would hold him

To care for, to love

To respect and to adore.

But don’t you see

I can’t do it

Not for you,

I can’t;

Despite knowing

How you need me

And how much it takes

To ask.

It’s too soon for me

The loss is still fresh

It hurts

And that never must show;

But why don’t you realize

Though I would never say it

His place

Will never be yours.

I’m struggling to cope

Though I hide it well

I’m trying so hard

To stay strong,

But every time I enter

His empty room

Or see his silly netbook

The tears still fall.

Wherein I Theorize

You might be tempted to call this post “random and aimless” but that might tempt me to call you a narrow minded meanhead. To commence proceedings, there is my RockStar theory. A personal favourite complete only when enacted.

Some folks idolize 'rockstars', some tolerate them and only the tiniest minority ever ignores them. Rockstars are cool, period. And you know how it goes - If someone says they are, one must prove they aren't.

Consider rocks, whichever sort you fancy. All rocks -big rocks, small rocks, nice rocks, mean rocks, all rocks- start out as teeny tiny things. They get fatter, they grow older, they grow wiser and then they die. You with me? Right. Now as children we were told that on dying every goes right up and becomes a star. So stars are essentially rocks.

Now, every star -big star, small star, nice star, mean star, every star- starts out as a teeny tiny thing. It gets fatter, it grows older, it grows wiser and then it dies. But see, stars are cooler than rocks - they don't become starrier. They explode. Dhadaam! Crackle, sparkle, crackle. Sometimes, some fragments reach The Big Blue Barn and stay put. These, dear reader, are your rocks. And then they get fatter, grow older, grow wiser... you get it.

Dust, grime, stony stony bits. Rocks, stars. Rockstars, that's right. So when people talk of 'da rokkkstarzz', they're basically talking recycled dust and grime. And minerals and all, yes. Rocks are inanimate, we could go someplace with that but then they wouldn't be allowed to die and my entire theory would have to be reworked. Nyet nyet. Still, between you and me, rockstars suddenly seem so uncool, yeah yeah yeah? :P

Wherein I Warn:

Talk not of how you don't believe the going up to become a star story. You did as a kid, I'm telling you you did. And if you still believe that story... hell, talk not at all! Talk not of how rockstars come and go just like rocks and stars do. Talk not, not ever, if you believe this was reason to kickstart a serious 'discussion' about anything at all.

All ye rocks, all ye stars, I grudge you not your happiness.

The Gods In The Himalayas Received Live Feed!

As a kid I had this firm belief that all we do throughout our lives is in accordance with a definite script. That every single person has a sharp, unconscious, built-in and regularly updated awareness of their role and that the very purpose of one’s existence was to act it all out to the satisfaction and amusement of immediate superiors. By ‘superiors’ I mean people with higher authority – then, that meant parents. And at every level, superiors decided the basic outline of the script their charges would enact. 

The way I saw it, we were all theatre artists. So just like we could go to Vishnudas Bhave Natyagraha, NCPA and Prithvi Theatre to watch people enact certain stories, I figured our superiors were watching us too. Big Boss style, absolutely. 


So you had kids who were their parents’ puppets and so on until you exhausted living familial hierarchy; then came some mid level authority that I never thought about; and at the very top of that controlling pyramid sat The Gods. Oh yes, I was a believer back then, Dadi took care of that… I have fond memories of those times. No, don’t try it now. 


Getting back to my story – which I believe you’re still somewhat interested in since you’re still reading – I used to visualize usually homogeneous pairs of Gods and Goddesses in stereotypical God/Goddess garb [flowing black hair (white for Brahma), loads of skin show, glitzy blingy ornaments, silky satiny rhinestone-studded clothes...] sitting on separate sofas that flanked a coffee table loaded with grub (they always always always had peanuts), laughing at the antics of us mortals as giant spools of real time footings played on giant Videocon Bazooka screens. Laughing good naturedly, indulgently, never mockingly, but laughing nonetheless. Real time? Dunno how they did it.

Even then, I could see how it was funny… I mean c’mon, you have all these humans falling over themselves to be promoted just some more, wanting to be in a position that allows them to decide the actions of so many others around them. By the time a global drama inclusive of all levels was actually put together, it was probably a holy comedy of errors. Pun, haha, pun. 


I always wondered if tapes of the part I was enacting were important enough to be viewed by the Gods themselves or if they only reached the city-level authority for perfunctory checks and were then tossed aside. Never did quite manage to figure that out. Nor did I work out how the tapes reached the gods (Bluetooth ka baap?) or how scripts were communicated to us actors – we just knew what to do and went about doing what we had to, unaware of this twisted manipulation. Mind you, we experienced joy, frustration, ecstasy, sorrow, anger, embarrassment and just about every regular emotion you can think of while we were at it. 


Doodlebug, a short film by Christopher Nolan and crew, was what brought this eerily vivid piece of imagination to the surface.

And just in case the idea of Hindu gods living on Indian land and ruling/governing/ manipulating/spying on the entire world offends you, my 5 yr old self apologizes. That was what I knew, okay?


PS – Please don’t start working out why my mind functions the way it does/ the way it always has. You might be tempted to suggest I take up Management, seeing how I had pyramidal admin structures, checks and controls, authority and regulation all worked out at the age of 5. Don't. You might be tempted to probe tomes on Psychology and comment on my concept of the unconscious or reveal that it has to do with a repressed desire to control / act / manipulate / tell stories / eat peanuts. Speculate all you want, just don’t tell me. The way I bombed my Psychology end sem, I don’t think I’ll welcome anything connecting me and the subject for a long long time to come.

My Mother Is On Facebook

Silence. The deafening variety.

She's on Facebook, she's on my list of friends, she's everywhere!

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mother to bits and would live my life for her. I have this theory that living your life for someone/something must be infinitely tougher than giving it up for that particular whoever/whatever, but that's for another time, another post.

She didn't track me down, sneak up on me, put on a "yo, imma hot dude, add me yu sexii chica!" disguise (that would never –won’t ever- work, don't get funny ideas anyone...) and then do an India TV "parda faash!" gig at dinner one night. Au contraire, I'm the one who got her off VSNL and introduced her to Gmail and Facebook and my humble blog - I'm your modern-day saintly proponent of clicks and codes, yessir.

I'm glad she's open minded and eager to learn the ropes on her and that it’s giving her a chance to reconnect with people from years past. I'm proud of her, I truly am. I think she's way cool.

But picture this – (Fictional situations all so rest easy, Ma; nevertheless, CPR on hold guys!) – only for the sake of point making, ye get? So, for whatever imbecilic and influenced reason, you upload on Facebook some snaps of you and a bunch of friends downing criss-cross drinks or trying out some random grassy thing or in general playing the stupid/dangerous/perverted fool. Surprise surprise, your mom gains access to them! Oh and in case it hasn't crossed your mind yet, you're underage. HOW WILL YOU FEEL? I dunno know how you'll feel but boss, those pics will self destruct. Poof! And if that doesn't happen in time, haha, someone's gonna get hurt real bad tonight...

Milder version of the same - you're flirting with whoever (again on a public forum, because you’re an imbecile or influenced, remember?) and I'm talking serious flirting. The responses make you happy in the heart and mushy in the mind. And out of nowhere, Momma dear puts in an appearance. Potential poof situation. Not ideal, see? That's what I'm getting at. Virtual privacy ka popat.

She drops in on conversations I have with friends and tells us to mind our four letter words. She comments on pictures I'm tagged in and cans my friends when she likes. I definitely think I'm part of why she's still on Facebook. 

Psst.. she's definitely better than this -

Then again, this works both ways. Anytime she decides to crib about me, bitch or rant, I get those flashy red notifications. She decides to blog-rant, I can read. Random conversations with friends, I get updates, the inside scoop. 

We could go in for a cordial understanding that the other's profile is not to be looked at, updates to be ignored, but who am I kidding? And it'd get too boring, too soon. Guess we'll let things remain.

I'll just have to remember to flirt in private…

Us, Them & The Rest

The simple, sadahran group. Everyone's capable of being bitchy, that's only human, so we're not talking dudh ke dhule, no way. Not airheads either. Not even simple when I speak of how they dress. They have their share of fashionistas walking in looking like Africa, Iceland and China on different days of the week. Something I find difficult to relate to, but okay.

And the manifestation of the suburban's definition of "a typical bunch of townies", which again makes things difficult for me to comprehend. They just happen to live elsewhere. Most of them don't even hail from "town"! Someone hoping to get rid of this discussion would probably say they belong to a different "culture". That must be it. I dunno.

-

A class of 60. Rough segregation in the first 3 weeks. Come midterm, most can be found sticking to their "groups" like glue, tailing each other to the canteen, the multiplex and the loo. More about the loo groups in another post :| New entrants trickle in, take the total to 65. The modus operandi remains the same, only smoother and quicker.

So what happens when you are, for all intents and purposes, through with the first semester at a new college? By which time every kid has handed in a multitude of projects, eaten in all the cafes and eateries around, collectively bitched about certain someones. Well, by then, everyone knows exactly who they're gonna sit with, eat with, work with, hang out with, and not to forget, bitch with. Fair enough perhaps, maybe even universal, but it’s something that bothers me.

I'm not a proponent of the we-are-one-class-and-we-move-together philosophy. That's meant for idealists. And loo groups. It's not even like I'm left without people to be with and hence resent the grouping and fragmentation. And yet the differences and curiosity regarding each other fascinate me and the demarcation annoys me. 

It's all the small things. When a birthday is being celebrated, one group goes all out as they party, head down the wine and fine dine route. They're "craaaazy". The other group chooses to keep it simple (there's that word again!) but somehow seem to have just as much fun, if not more. They haunt Chowpatty and its chatais for a good few hours; go ga ga over the 'mini giant wheel' and Columbus' boat; down cheesy pizzas and neon blue butterscotch golas and share bottles of soap bubbles with kids whose first reaction to new faces is to stick out a grubby palm and beg.

I ain't out to judge. Not my place to. I have friends from both “groups” and I like them the way they are. A year into the course, I have fond memories of times with them all, memories of their kind of fun and talk. And even as I lean heavily to one side, I guess I'll continue to watch, find it amusing and document. Works.

Swallow And Sleep

“Abhishek and Aishwarya didn’t get each other just like that... they had to struggle and become famous before they got noticed. Everybody wants to get noticed, no? Change. IMPROVE! That’s how you will find a nice, rich husband.”

And that, dear reader, was my “well-wisher’s friendly advice”. A co-baarati, co-non-dancer, total stranger and, lest I forget, my well-wisher. Sozzled well-wisher, if you ask me but then again, everyone there appeared unsteady and smelt the same to me. No, I wasn’t the one sozzled. Though when at a Punjabi wedding, you can never be too sure of that.

So. I ought to sign up for Bhangra classes. Be enthusiastic about a bit of sporadic wiggle waggle with a bunch of other pretend-revelers. Shriek intermittently since that’s part of the job profile. Set an example, particularly because I have a kid sister to inspire. And “even the slowest gazelle must run faster than the fastest lion”. There. I just condensed 20 minutes of counsel into 5 sentences. Should head to that twitter-tweet place.

For whatever my take is worth, I’ll have the ringside view when it comes to that particular circus any day. Just watching people can be so entertaining. Particularly when they’re weighed down with bling but are obliged to look, feel and sound Punjabi festive. Loud festive. And frankly, some cute guy’s wedding is most definitely no reason to spaz on the street.

It disturbs me that I might actually be related to a man who offers random girls tips on how to grow claws and sink them nice and deep into the next unsuspecting rich brat of a guy until they’ve drawn enough blood to repaint the Red Fort. Anually.

And therefore, to quote a pal, “Swallow and sleep”.

Paper For Seats

WHAAAT is this thing females have about leaving the toilet seat down?

A little tap works wonders, ladies. One word. Gravity. When you lift it up you're fighting gravity. Tap and the thing will whoosh-whack-bump its way down. Order restored. Easy peasy, innit?

I don't know where this is coming from. Perhaps I'm just turning into a reverse feminist. (I’m supposedly unfeminine enough to give friends trouble when they try and picture me as someone’s girlfriend, get that.) But boss, when something bothers you all day long, you bloody well hammer keyboards about it.  Life's a series of buttons being pushed anyway.

And anyway, why does the toilet seat in particular get to decide a guy's standing on Le Scale de Chivalrie? Toilet paper would be a better option, no? Something like this -

Roll and guy not to be seen? Never mind... that's why Femina advises against monogrammed ones anyway. Unless they're designer, dahlings! :|

Roll of toilet paper still to be seen? He isn't a petty thief. Then again, maybe it's just thanks to the CCTV thrill/scare you gave him earlier.

Roll in place? He cares.

Ripped but diagonally? Oh just them big, clumsy fingers...

Razor sharp, horizontal line? Keeper!

Unused? Get the noose ready, he's putting your needs before everything else! Alternately, he could be a complete sloth and slid clean off the list, clearing the bottom margin some. The trick is to decide on either funda and stick with it.

See, that's all there is to it.

All said and done though, this still makes me laugh -

Oh and that line about life being a series of buttons being pushed was profound. And original. You just don't know it yet.

Writer's Block Already!

7 minutes since the first 'Draft autosaved' notification showed up. The Internet's way of hurrying me up. Clones all! It would be flattering if Blogger was actually auto-saving a brilliant post that’s going to revolutionize (or ruin) your mindset. But when someone thinks they're doing you a favour by saving spreads of spotless white, let’s just say it’s more of a dampener than not.
 

Ever had conversations with your Mum where she goes "What's that thing anyway?" Yeah. Well, in this household, when the mother goes "What's this?" it’s usually something gadget related. And usually something so elementary, that even I can answer it. I always knew there was a reason I have a dabba-illiterate mother. To make me feel like a citizen of the New World and shit. I love her! Gotta drop the "and shit".

Coming back to the point - We had a "What's a blog?" conversation when I first started blogging. I felt the need to play my part, come up with "Oh just this place online where you go write". Blank look. Reply deemed unsatisfactory. I then outlined food blogs (first thing that came to mind, to be honest), tech blogs (last thing I'd want to be doing - honest!), those delightful all inclusive, nothing-better-to-do blogs. Also let in that I'd probably land up doing something along the lines of the last bit, which I did. Twice. Polite interest. Earnt myself a "You should blog". Smiley all. End topic.

The pointier point being - When you're reading someone else’s blog, NBTD posts are often fun. Kinda like leafing through a Mills & Boons publication. Had you hooked? Lucky you, you found the needle in the haystack! If not – koi gal nahi, it barely took you any time anyway. But when it’s your own blog… ah. You know you can come up with better gibberish, but see, writers' block. Convenient thing, that. Ditto hormones.

I’m not always sure I want to go over what I’ve written. It could be babble. It could be worse. Perhaps even a drug to induce permanent writer's block. I don’t know. It may or may not appeal to you but really, I read someplace that such stuff is delightful.

A Couple Of Hours, At Most

You wonder why. You wonder why not. You wonder why they did. You wonder why they didn’t. You may find the answers. Then again, you may not. Stories come your way all the same.

One orthopedic surgeon, a professor in Miraj, is operated on by another for a minor ligament tear. An arthroscopic surgery, for those interested. A cardiologist withholds the green flag citing possibility of cardiac trouble, proposes postponement of the procedure. The doctor in charge of the anesthesia has been a close friend of the patient-to-be for a while now. 

The team discovers that a well known orthopedic surgeon will be coming down to Belgaum for a visit soon. They fix a date for an OT meet up there in an unfamiliar, hut of a hospital as opposed to in Mumbai, as per prior plans. The patient goes under the knife. 

His brother, a gynecologist in the above mentioned metropolitan, stands guard outside the OT. He voices his doubts about the nursing home chosen. Urges them to reconsider, to pick Mumbai in light of the cardiologist’s warning. Shush, they say. Everything’s at hand. It’s expected to be a smooth show, Sir; a couple of hours at most. 

The warning flag has been disregarded; the whistle blown.

In hindsight, perhaps the cardiologist wasn’t really talking through his hat. Midway, they run into complications. Consulting or informing the sole relative present is ruled out, the procedure carries on. A cardiac arrest ensues. Call it intuition, call it rebellion, call it primitive familial concern - within minutes the uninformed doc from the doorway rushes in.

All that can be done gets done. That the nursing home is as poorly equipped as they come doesn’t help matters. Breach of trust at its worst. The patient is ‘in no condition to be shifted’. If the nursing home provides better facilities than a regular ambulance is up for debate. 

They try. Cardiac massages, CPR, all revival techniques possible put in an appearance. Jolts of electricity shoot through the man. To no avail. The patient loses his life. 

He was unmarried. He left behind grieving parents, and a brother who is now being accused for another’s lack of caution.

The next day, a missing car is traced. 

The anesthetist is found dead in the driver’s seat. He leaves behind old parents, a wife, and a child few months old. 

The post mortem reveals Scoline in his bloodstream. Scoline – a drug that paralyses all muscles until oxygen is artificially provided and that within 4 minutes. Beyond that? Brain death. Police evidence comprises a car locked from the inside, a motionless body and a syringe partnering an empty vial labeled ‘Lethal’. 

Suicide, they label it. For those hailing from a different school of thought, it’s about who murdered who.

Smooth show indeed.