Russia Is Reading

Is "gobble" a cuss word in Russian? Or "dook" the name of some village?

Zdravstvuj, is that you?

Every single post over the years has been read by this Russian reader! Such peculiar things you can find out... I was psyched. I really was.

I say I was because it was pointed out that those pageviews could just be from some faceless bot crawling the web. The horror. The lackofromanceandmystery! So yeah, while there's a good chance I might be wrong, I'm just going to tell myself I have a loyal reader lurking around. It's a happy thought.

PS - I like how Chrome is on top, even if I was partial to Opera at one time. And Linux users read me, yay! 

PPS - Yeah, less than 200 views a month. No, I don't exactly promote this blog. You want to?

Those Folks Over At Aadhar

College (or more correctly, BMM) gives you a lot of funny things to do. When you're feeling smart, you turn those funny things into interesting things.


In case of us Journo students, a magazine had to be put together, the focus of the assignment being the design and layout. The University circular about vivas for the same actually includes evaluating criteria like Headlines style, Type and Colour. Obvious stuff, but I still stare at it every time I look at that circular, which is often. Yep, amongst other funny things, college leaves you with so much spare time that you keep reading circulars. Or maybe that's just me.


My magazine is broadly based on innovation. So much scope! E-commerce and online entrepreneurship one in one issue,  crowdsourcing and hatke marketing gimmicks in the next, maybe a special issue on facilities customised for senior citizens or teens - be it related to health, banking, side incomes or alternate tourism. Damn I wanna do this!


Since content for the magazine did not have to be written by us (something I found weird, writing is what we do na!) articles were lifted (with all due credit and courtesy) from tech sites, online magazines and in some cases, put together with the help of About Us and FAQ sections. The Caravan carried an interesting article on the nava job profile of workers at Aadhaar enrolment centres across the country. 

You are reading Page 30, !nnovate, October 2011.

What brought this up? Ma famille was to go submit the forms for the UID registration today. You know, finally get the ball rolling to have our own Aadhaar numbers - not cards. Yeah. The lady in charge there met with an accident on her way to work. The centre will remain closed for the next two days. Also, my father suggests I "chill out".

I Put The Vent In E-Vent

I just got told that everything I blog about has simply turned to ranting. You mean that's not a good thing? But don’t you like reading rants? Isn’t it something you can relate to? No? Okay. I also got told what I ought to write about instead, but more on that later. 

It all made me gape a lot. I also blinked a lot. Sometimes, blinking a lot helps, hence this post. This post is not a complaint, and no, it is not a rant. So if you are that blunt buddy with the sugarfree soul, read. And if you aren’t him, tell me if I really do rant all that much.

This post is closely tied in with that age-old discussion about why one blogs. The discussion can be reduced to two sides – for-the-reader and for-the-blogger. One side suggests you go find a diary to confide in and the other side goes, “Hullo! This is my diary!” Me, I stand on the fence and watch both sides read my blog. 

I tend to do this more often than is wise, standing on fences. And reducing every problem to its most basic form. Wise men would approve, even if it does backfire sometimes. Yeah, I loved school-time math. No but seriously, have you ever wondered why people rarely enjoy debating the what-came-first dilemma seriously? Because it’s just too damn basic superficially, they simply do not want to bother with it.

Anyhow, I tabbed to this blog to see just what I’ve been writing about. There was that subtle rant about Bombay being romanticised, that’s one. Then the bad haircut, but come on, even your wise but balding grandmother would’ve ranted about it! That goof-up about when my univs were to begin. Surely, you sympathise..? 

This.

No wait, you know what? There’s a reason I created a label And I Vent. Blame Blogger for not letting you hide posts filed under that label. Also, and yes I actually checked, might I add that the label Solutions has four more posts that And I Vent? And that the two labels have four posts in common? No? Fine. That is also okay.

I guess that sudden verdict was, amongst other things, a dismissal of everything I’ve posted here lately. Which is just fine, except that it isn’t exactly fun to hear. Should I type that out in caps? No? OKAY!

The alternative suggested, however, was easily the nicest compliment I have ever received from the blunt buddy in question. It's decidedly personal stuff, perhaps too personal for me to share and you to care about. I consciously avoid blogging about it, but I got told I should "because it's nice". Can't promise I will, but if I do, this is where it will be posted. And hey, maybe that will stop me from ending up as a cranky old lady with a cabbage-y house full of cats... I bet that's a prominent cause on some cause-list on the web. 

See, I told you this post is not a complaint, and no, this is not a rant. It even has a corny title!

PS - Blinking a lot isn’t really good. In fact, it looks like it’s half bad to blink a lot. Conjunctivitis, Parkinson’s, seizures... no, not good at all. If you really must know more, here, read.

We're On The Edge

Visitors to this city are almost always in awe of its pace. Its liveliness. Its sheer force of existence. They think this city is something special; I think this city is on the edge.

Much has been said about the overworked transport system. The inevitable delays, the fashionably late Indian Standard Time. About the fighting spirit this city breathes into its people, about the safety its women enjoy.

Some Indians think this city is a lesson in assertion. Spend a few years in big bad Bombay and you will learn to stand on your own two feet. I beg to differ. Spend a while in Bombay and you will learn how to fight someone who tries to stamp your two little feet. If anything, this city is a lesson in survival. Irritable, defensive survival that reeks of sweat and aches with hunger. Take it all away and we won't be us anymore.

We trudge on, for hey, we're lucky to be surviving in Bombay! We overlook the fact that Bombay is the hallowed place we make it out to be because of its faceless crowds and their desperate attempts to fulfil a day's work, not inspite of them.

It is not that Bombay works much more than is normal - Bombay just sees a lot of other stuff that overpowers work. Work happens mechanically, on the side. We're preoccupied; we're pissed. We don't understand that deftly juggling travel alternatives during a strike isn't streetsmart, it's silent acceptance. But you can't blame us for overlooking such stuff. These oversights allow you to romanticise our city. We're just too busy protecting our toes from the crowd.

Our lives have the same issues as yours. The same concerns, the same drama. We just dwell on them differently, secretly but in the midst of the screaming match that is a regular officegoer's travel companion.
It's all too vague for you, isn't it? You must be convinced I'm exaggerating. Others from my city would agree with you. You see, we fret and fume within our minds but we really don't notice these things anymore. We've imbibed the idea of maddening crowds. It's alright for our fancy AC buses to carry 80, not 40. It's okay to spend two hours at that posh counter for some inane work.

We aren't brave. We aren't overachievers. We aren't brokers of dreams and we aren't champions of coexistence. We're just oblivious blocks of flexible minds, regular people caught in a crowd.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts

My life has been a series of eventful haircuts. Bad haircuts. What has stayed constant, however, is the two-clause format of comments they attract. “Your hair is really nice ya, you should have done this and this and this to it instead.”

The saga began when I was in kindergarten; it continues today and shows no sign of ending. Mind you, that is the hallmark of the best tragedies that have ever been written. They are eternal.

Like all things eternal, eventful haircuts deserve to be scrutinised. Why must some of us always look like we’re sketches in the making? What gives people the right to be paid for screwing up somebody’s hair? Why do other people always have perfect hair? Am I a bad person? Is someone out to get me? Who even decides this shit?

Who stole my mojo? >.<

One way of foreseeing a bad hairstyle is to consider how you feel about it right before the scissors get busy. Even the vaguest variant of “Oh let’s be done with it already! It’s only hair, it’ll grow back” is a warning sign. Walk out that door.

Avoid telling your stylist that you want something low-maintenance, “just a simple wash and dry style” is worse. He will treat you like a project. Like a teetotaller at a bar. You will be that no-gooder he must bring over to the world of serums and straighteners.

That said, announcing “I want a change!” is the red flag. Just get up, make scary eyes and run. It’s okay to subconsciously want a change; chances are you’ll get it. But say it out loud and you activate those repressed creative juices in the guy wielding the scissors. He will make you his muse but will forget that you aren’t a mannequin. You will resemble a shorn sheep and let me tell you, no sheep pays to be sheared.  Reflective surfaces will crop up in corners you least expect them to. Strangers will be sickly sweet to you, the probable victim of a tornado. Acquaintances will go “What happened to you!??” and beyond a point, making up improbable funny stories will feel like a chore. Your sister will reassure you, “You still look good in the dark!” and you will spend ages consoling every person who ever played with your hair. I have no enemies I know of, but I’m guessing they won’t be very nice either. So as much as you may be sick of how your hair almost always looks the same as before, DON’T SAY IT.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts need to get a few things straight. It is not just hair, it will not grow back – that’s the Loch Ness of body myths. All these “hair care” products in the market are proof; they exist because Us Of The Bad Haircuts need them, not because they can actually fix anything. They’re like remedies for a common cold. Placebos.

Trash all that talk about hair that reflects your personality. I have had distinctly different hair at every stage of my life and I have done the same dumb stuff at every stage, hair-personality sync be damned. You gotta cope with it all.

Perhaps there is only that one, lone hairstyle that will ever truly suit the unique snowflake I am. Perhaps someone really is out to get me.

It's Okay To Not Relate

When some random person predicts that you will meet all sorts of people in college, believe. And when your prospective college promises you “immense exposure”, believe more.

After nearly three years of undergrad at a town college dominated by people from not-town, I do believe I have been on the receiving end of adequate exposure. No kidding. Why, day three of college consisted of something like this –

Yeah, I'm over my Blue Suede Shoes...

Okay, not quite like this. Picture the girl about eight years older and two feet taller, wearing the same skirt and a lost expression on her face. Okay so far? 

Now picture the same in the main corridor of a college library dominated by microbiology students normally intent on research... yeah. 

Now tack on a pose, something like this –

There's only so much a girl can cover... the library is the place to look it up!

It was probably the first time I didn’t laugh aloud for fear of interrupting an intense parody shoot. Turned out I might as well have laughed, would’ve contrasted the gaping mouths nicely.

-     -     -

I didn’t catch on to it then, that tendency to stare a little, laugh a little and then get on with my life anyway when faced with things I simply could not relate to. In retrospect, that’s what got me through college with my sanity intact. Sure, sometimes you reflect and take it from there, validating another popular claim – that college will change you. But if you’re lucky, a voice in your mind just tells you that it’s okay not to relate.

It’s okay to not want to hug acquaintances like exiled lovers reunited at long last. Especially when you see those exchanges take place a minute before your university exams begin.

It’s okay to not know the characters of sitcoms and dramas as intimately as you know the smell of your sweat. Both remind you of fresh flowers, both fade away. Pick whichever. Do remember, though, that your sweat is a part of you.

It’s okay to not litter your chats and contact list with hearts and ellipses and exclamation marks. There was a reason Beethoven wrote music fur elise, and not for ellipse. You and I are in on it, let the rest of the world be.

It’s okay to not care to socialise with the 60+6 students studying the same course as you, across years, across colleges. Yes, it would bring you contacts and recognition and potentially a gazillion people who could like your new status, but bringing yourself to things that make you happy is more important.

It’s okay to not talk about every cool thing you do. It really is.

It’s okay to not attend high school reunions if you decide you don’t feel like it. Facebook is still around to tell you who’s doing what, when, where and who.

It’s okay to not have a 1000 people on your friend list should you not care for the above information, because... well, just because.

A lot of things are okay to not do. Not because you’re in a position to pass judgement but simply because they don’t feel right to you. 

That makes it okay to draw up a list of what you don't care for. And lists, my friend, are what make blogs. Aye, it's still okay to not relate ;)

Too Much Scotch!

12:42 Belapur local and cab from VT. Okay?

No, not okay.

Not when the person you said that to doesn’t give a shit about just which train to take.

Not when you have a lot of time to go before you take a final call on which train to take.

And definitely not when you receive a reply that reads –

Exam kal se hai :|

I was always that calm, pulled together person where exams were concerned. Panic about misplaced pens, inadequate cheating supplies, nightmares about not waking up or reaching the centre in time for a big exam – I don’t think any of these ever plagued me. Even when I don’t have enough pens or enough time, I can stay calm. During the run-up to major exams, I cook and clean for the family, I watch movies, I do everything that could possibly make me worthy of a few crisp notes, if not a plaque of honour. But I don’t panic. No, sir. I’m that annoyingly calm exam-taker who actually dares to enter rooms looking pleasant, albeit late – yep, I’m that girl you’ve always wanted to choke.

Even when I have experienced the-feeling-closest-to-panic, it was because I couldn’t randomly picture a certain section of my notes the way I could picture all others - with line indents, punctuation and order of points, to boot. Or because... no, that’s pretty much the only reason. If that makes me a “nerd/scotch/scholty”, so be it. I like having my study material in place. Compiled. Organised. No shame there. It’s what I’ve been going on about for the last month. “I know the content re, but compile karna hai... so much work!”

Different matter that things didn’t quite go as per plan. Oh no, they sure didn’t. Over the past few weeks, I’ve baked and I’ve fried and I’ve popped thaaaat much corn. I’ve spent more time with the boyfriend than I did in the weeks before these – go me! I’ve pigged out and I’ve shopped and I’ve had “sister bonding time” with, well, my sister. I’ve talked until dawn and read the most assorted mix of things in months! I’ve caught up with classmates from junior college and released senti notes into cyberspace. More about the notes in another post. Point is, I’ve been busy.

Mom says these are ways I choose subconsciously to release subconscious stress about work and acads. I think these are ways I try consciously to foster healthy conscious denial about work and acads. But hey, she’s the boss. Though I do believe the notes are all organised up here, in my head. Aye.

But you know what the problem is? I’m still freaking out about having gotten the exam schedule wrong. Not even the order of exams, I got the frickin’ schedule wrong by a whole day! So yeah, I have an extra, unexpected day to study. I also have the worst kind of headache I’ve had in ages. I’m jumpy and dizzy and my head is still spinning. My mouth is dry and my throat is parched and I can’t stand how everyone keeps telling me to go to sleep. Writing this post was supposed to help; it didn't. I am abuzz! This just feels like a bad bad hangover.

PS – I’m not sure I spelt scholty right... it sounds like scall-tea, where scall rhymes with fall, but it’s derived from scholar, hence the schol to begin with. Autocorrect changed schol to school. See, it did that again! Meh. Guess I’m not a scotch after all.