Cooking With Mushrooms From The Himalayas

Dinnertime, perhaps Sunday. Just as I get up to rinse my empty plate.

“This young student of mine, she brought me a packet of dried mushrooms from Kashmir/Himachal.”

I stare.

Nani repeats herself. Tells me it’s in her purse.

I continue to stare. Predictably, she stares back.

Finally, yours truly, “Wow. Okay. That’s really nice of her. So you’ve been hauling these mushrooms in your purse all day?”

“Yes. Get me my purse. Let’s see what we can do with them.”

I did well not to laugh. Certain expectations would be awesome to have met.

“But I don’t know if there’s some specific way of cooking these, they look different. I’ll look it up

online. See if you can think of something.”

Consider it done, Nani.

- - -

While I usually can put together a decent meal, I was recently required to respond to “No seriously, have you ever made anything good?” Fair question, since the asker is invariably on the receiving end of worst-case-scenario versions of my impromptu jugaad-heavy dishes (apologies, heartfelt as always), but really not one you want to consider in all seriousness. 

Come Tuesday, it’s way past breakfast hours. Since I’m hungry and it isn’t noon yet, let’s think breakfast hours anyway. I decide to cook; mushrooms on my mind. I genuinely thought fixing breakfast might help recover from the affront to my skills. No room for performance anxiety and/or bad omens since I’d only be cooking for myself. More importantly, I could leisurely discover whether those “different” looking mushrooms were any fun at all.

I’ll spare you the cheap suspense. The mushrooms did look different. The packet contained thin longitudinal slices that eventually browned and shrivelled up into small, dull, twisted scraps. Shades of brown and black. Some even had a rind-like outline. Interesting enough to look at, I suppose. Cooking some with eggs took all of fifteen minutes, and that suited me just fine. The first spoonful was funny, not quite what I expected. A few more confirmed that these scraps were nothing like regular mushrooms! Elaborate rambling recipe below. 

You will need: 

• Eggs, 2, whisked with about 2 tbsp milk, and as much chilli powder, salt and pepper as you fancy. Whisking with a fork will work out better than with a spoon.
• Tomato, 1 small, cut however you like.*
• Mushrooms! As many scraps as you like, more the merrier and such. I’m pretty sure I was close to a dozen.
• Cheese, 1 slice. Because it’s available. Don’t be weird bothering with a knife now.
• Green chilli, 1 diced, if you want. Yeah of course this was an impromptu jugaad-heavy dish. Getting inspired by the bare minimum you can find in your fridge is key.
• Oil, enough to sauté your tomatoes in.

 * You won’t care about the shape and size if the dish tastes good and regardless of the intended shape, the tomatoes will shrivel up into something extremely ugly if you do goof up while cooking. Just keep the seedy pulp out of the way, so dicing might be preferable to round slices.

The cooking part of things:

• Heat the oil, medium flame, add tomatoes. Feel like a fancy chef as you move them around. Add mushroom, move things around some more. Now’s also the time to add those green chillies and any other stir-fry-able things you have lying around. Please don’t wait for your tomatoes to get mushy or for other things to blacken.
  
• Once the scraps of mushrooms have softened, pour in the soupy egg mix. It’ll taste better than it looks.
  
• The translucent eggy bits will begin to turn opaque, that’s when you tear your slice of cheese into pieces and space them out all over the eggs and veggies. See, no knife required.
  
• To turn your snack into a chunky omelette, reduce flame and cover with a lid, perhaps leaving some room for steam to let out. Check every now and then, I really doubt there’s a defined timeframe for this kind of thing. Consider flipping over your omelette once the base comes together and the top isn’t all runny. Once done, cheer or curse as is appropriate.
  For a scrambled eggs version, something I approve of, you really just keep scrambling. Lid off, obviously. Don’t allow chunks of egg to stick to the bottom forever. Have patience; let things cook.
  
• Now is a good time to realise you’d like some buttered toast to go with this. You could just finish cooking this stuff and risk having it cool down a bit while you fix the toast – or you could let it simmer while you put the toaster to use. I’m sorry the butter is all hard, you should’ve thought of this sooner.
  
• Shut out any new ideas. Load everything on a plate, fix yourself a glass of water/juice/whatever if you like, pick up your fork (please at least rinse the one with which you whisked the eggs) and evenly spear mushroom, tomato and egg.
  
• Grin as the fork moves from plate to mouth. Picture the most hilarious things that could happen with funny mushrooms from the Himalayas.
  
• Tell me if those cooked mushrooms taste odd, kinda sweet. Like apples from a healthy orchard.
  Mine did. 

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".

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.

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.

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?

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*

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.

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…

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.

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.

BMM Stereotypes

Stereotypes, descriptions and my attempt to familiarize. Social service at it’s best. Here goes.


Stereotypical journalism undergrad? Clumsy, dazed, long hair; faded khadi kurta and a jhola. Add a pen hooked on to a handheld clipboard and horn rimmed glasses and our model is fit for Pictionary image banks.

 
Stereotypical student of advertising? Any self pronounced “creative” 25 year old doing his best to emulate a hep college going teeny bopper. Because really, most Ad schools are set up for engineers and B.A/B.Sc/B.Com grads who discovered one fine day, albeit 5 years too late, that at the end of the summer that refused to end (read: the summer post grade 12), they were standing in the wrong line, buying the wrong forms.

 
But wait awhile and ponder, what’s the BMM stereotype like? You want me to pick on my kind, on the media persons of tomorrow, on the ones hailed by Notre Principal bright and bachelorette, Ms Nichani, as the crème de la crème of her college? You want me to analyze those mysterious free spirits who never seem to do anything but “projects” (a much-abused term that’s thrown around like it’s the magic box that holds the answer to the one question* plaguing us all)? Those brave, bold souls who “dare to be different”? Do you need me to dissect the very definition of cooltah?

 
Why yes, I would love to.

 
And therein lays the glitch. I would absolutely love to shred the stereotype to pieces and give you a wall of text to go ROFLMFAO *gag* over but for the love of cinnamon (and that’s sucking ferious!) I can’t get myself to work out basic criterion for that elusive stereotype. A friend did suggest long-ish hair, Presley inspired sideburns and oversized glasses, but somehow I don’t think so…

 
So oddly enough, this post required research. Memory and good ol’ observation threw up some links, so here you go -

 
I’ve discovered that all of us take notes. Honest. It’s no wonder they retained 50% of the total grade for theory!

We have those who hurriedly scribble underlined, sometimes italicized, ever in order (and hence ever in circulation) notes on paper even as the prof swallows.

A rebellious few choose to compose megatexts on their overcomplicated, overpriced and hard-to-maneuver fruity QWERTY keypads - bogus internal marking for notebooks be damned, yessir!

The bird-brained bimbos make note of the week’s outfits – their own outfits, their “BFF’s” outfits, the class fashionista’s outfits, the faculty’s outfits, the watchman’s outfits... the last because they’re too bird-brained to notice the uniform. I told you.

Then there are the quiet ones who prefer to sit in the corner and watch the show - they’re the ones who doodle yet make note of the quirks and oddities of those around them and file them away for timely use. I would’ve put myself in this slot last year but now I’m not too sure about the quiet bit…

                                                                                                                                   

Also, we offer collective interpretative skills that would kill you and then some.

A word like “sublime” has kids with a background in Humanities envision graceful twirls and tutus, if not psychology with its dream analysis; most ex-Science students instinctively think of Iodine bridging the gap between the solid state and the gaseous. Commerce wallahs? Go find a dictionary, did you say?

That apart, we’re all anti-imperialism.

College canteens and snug eateries in a 15 mile radius do brisk business thanks to the stereotype. Stationery stores do too, as do the Xerox centers in the vicinity. Cyber cafes make a killing off us and cabbies couldn’t thank us enough.

Perhaps these weren’t really BMM-specific. Then again.

* = Whether or not a certain published professor’s scalp supports a wig.

FYI – Cooltah is the product of another idle BMM student’s mind, so there! Sideburns? Spot on. Oversized glasses? Just look around some haha! Results guaranteed.

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 ^ !