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.

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.

Ek By Ek

As limericks go this is simplistic,
One a day, the target to stick.

Yeah sure, it comes easy

Like yo mama when she queasy,

Except, I now sound like a rapper's bitch.

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.

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?

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.

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”.

The New Face Of Heroin

With great ideas, comes great procrastination. And with great joblessness, comes great desperation. So I’m not Spiderman’s script writer, sue me. But when all of these combine and manifest in me, what you get is an online advertisement for a job. And apparently, what those get you are responses.

March ‘09, right after the 12^th boards. Mostly an experiment to learn about the job scene for someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a prospective baarvi paas, this was how I gained firsthand experience of what HSBC’s been talking about.

Responses –

Mr. Hotjapan - “You have a wonderful photo, congrats!!”

I think “pornstar pimp” and cringe every time I think Hot Japan. Wonderful photos are more like lucky light effects with lucky genetic mixup. And this year’s IV to Kerala is making me rethink the realistic frequency of that lucky combine.

Some demanded “all ur details”, someone promoted his NGO, one suggested I become an engineer and yet another provided tantric help. He offered “free astrological consultancy, complete problem solution, tantra and pooja so call now.” For free! He even called himself Dev. For those of you who lead equally sad lives and have watched films like What’s Your Rashee? -  this Dev guy reminds me of the seductive Sagittarian’s character. I stand scarred. I also happen to be a Sagittarian. Job seekers definitely have problems.

However, the source of the post title –

Hai,

This is satish kumar mv, from Hyderabad. I am going to plan out a telugu film. I am looking for new faces for heroin and character artists, this film is released in three main languages. If you have interest, hard work, dedications are your qualities. Then you can be part of my team. My profile -I got an international award in 2008 Gandhi panorama international film festival, and I am right now direction a feature film,

Please contact me with your full details, if you are interest to be a part of film

Satish kumar mv

I let go of a chance to become a Telugu actress! I could've become the new face of heroin. Hai.

Dear Lethargy, RIP.

Dear Lethargy,

We've been friends for close to two decades now. And what a friend! What decades! What a combination, goddamn it! My mind's tear glossed eyes see replays of the times we walked hand in hand, strolling through the park and picking berries. Okay, so that was a lie. The berries never did quite make a show. You never even moved off your lazy behind, goddamn it! As for the tears… Still. The innocence. The heartfelt disregard for the rats that raced. Excuse me while I mop up this teary mess...

Remember the times when deadlines flew by and all we cared for was to hear a resounding "whoosh!" and see the back of them? When Monday came and Sunday went but everything, from bread to bath water remained unchanged? When the family was forced to watch B grade movies at theatres because the other booking counters were too far away? When the bed first developed persistent depressions and consequent lumps?  When the birds overdid the mango tree loot because we chose to be generous and laidback? And lethargic, heehee. Sorry.

Some would call us 'chaddi buddies', some 'langotiya yaars' and some... the thesaurus is restricted to English, I apologize. Essence being, you've been as faithful a companion as I could ever have wished for. Not once have I felt the slightest trace of treachery or abandonment. You were loyal. You were there. True blue Liverpool style. True red. Meh.

But now... but now! But NOW!!

Okay, cut. So I don’t have it in me to script filmy dramas. Chances are I wouldn’t be able to execute the mandatory triple-take followed by “Magar aur nahi... main yeh zulm, yeh bojh, yeh nainsaafi bardaasht nahi kar sakti!" either. System overload is for real.

Here’s to a new beginning. A beginning with great focus on recycling, mind you. I write today in the hope that more readable posts will follow.

Lethargy, you sucker, take that ^ !