I Speak For 'Uncle-Aunty'

Of late, amongst other interesting [possibly more surprising, and admittedly more discussion-worthy] things, I've taken to strolling through Quora. Fun place, because you don't feel like you're barging in on people unexpectedly, but you still get in on often-great responses to sometimes-great queries about this or that or that or that. Or that. Or even that. There's everything left to be learnt, yessir.

One such stroll led me to a question that amused me at first - How should parents ask their children's friends to address them, and for what reasons? I said I was strolling, quit judging.

As I read the answers posted [you can read them here, sign up/in because it'll be worth it], I couldn't help but feel like the West has been missing the point altogether. Why do you want a special name for yourself anyway? Why can't that kid's name for you be mass produced and in common with all his peers, just like his breakfast and his innerwear? Are you more special to that kid than his breakfast or innerwear? Okay, touchy topic. 

Still, the question prompted a quick checklist of why India's 'Uncle/Aunty' tradition gets my enthusiastic vote. I quite like that this list of benefits isn't restricted to friend's parents.. we're inclusive like that! Obviously, not all points apply to every Uncle/Aunty I've ever spoken with. So if you're one, do try and look at the brighter side of points.. even if points are supposed to be zero dimensional. 

Since this is the closest you may ever get to a rational, public dissection of a rare moment of national pride, be sure to think about it after you switch tabs.

• At the very least, I see the 'Uncle/Aunty' system as acknowledging that the said adult is older than I, period.
  
  I don't have to respect a person in order to respect their age and the experience [whether superior or misguided] that comes with it. Nor do I need to bother with a silly speculation about relative worth and dignity and whatnot to call someone Uncle and not Mahesh or Mr Mahesh. I'm just acknowledging the age difference, nice and simple. 

• I don't have to know you to call you Aunty! That makes things civil more often than not. Doesn't mean you're my favourite.
  You could be that sweaty, smelly, whiny lady on the train - especially the one with all that hair left open for me to nuzzle - who insists on sharing the sorrows of a stubbed toe from Vashi to Kurla, throughout realigning her hip against mine and digging her inconsiderately designed, boxy, brass-studded purse into my ribs. I might want to growl at you and stamp all your toes and donate a hairclip or two while I'm at it, but I will still call you Aunty when I ask you to move a wee bit away from my crotch. I RESPECT YOUR AGE, ANONYMOUS AUNTY. I also don't like you very much.

• Continuing from the lack of like involved, this system simply isn't dependent on how close you are to that [older] adult.
  If you're close and/or both want a different, special name or if your equation changes in some way that warrants a new term, the path to redressal is clear. If not, no harm done!  Since all our languages provide a host of names for older male and female relatives, it's not like 'Uncle/Aunty' have any special or familiar overtones. So my parents' closest friends that I may or may not be close with, my favouritest neighbour from when I was a kid, my boyfriend's mother, the security staff or cashier at a mall, the stranger walking ahead of me and that evil lady on the train can all be my Aunties. And no one finds this offensive! They might if they give this universality some thought, but at least until I pointed it out, no one minded.

• Along with ^, it also absolves you of the need to know the adult's first name.
  
  For those of us used to the UAT [cool cultural feature merits an acronym, no?], I think that's actually a fairly unlikely thing for to know, the first name of your friend's parent. I can always refer to them as "X's mom" should the need arise. It's also very convenient during introductions, moments of forgetfulness and evaluations of occupied memory space in one's mind.

• Loses the stiff formality of Mr/Mrs, but retains some measure of distance anyway.
  
  That way your friends won't wind up with a complex about your equation with their parents. Tell me how that's undesirable.

• Usable regardless of the language you are speaking!
  
  As in case of other English words [think "hello/okay/bye/side please/thenks"], these terms have percolated across languages and are understood and accepted by many-to-most even in rural India. I've actually had someone insist that "okay" is a Telugu word, so you'll just have to trust me on this percolation theory.
• Once it catches on, it can provide inspiration for popular dialogues, weirdly catchy songs, even the odd search history preference.
  
  Deny any of it and you would be labelled low on creativity, and woefully ignorant of your own culture.

In My Head

I’m just a poor boy

Though my story’s seldom told

I have squandered my resistance

For a pocketful of mumbles

Such are promises.

The hardest thing I have ever done is to have confessed doubts. Doubts about promises and commitments made to/by those that matter to me. Realistic doubts about whether things will withstand, whether I shall deliver.

I’ve grown to demand strength of myself. And honesty. And a burning sense of optimism that has more to do with strength and honesty than is apparent. 

It’s laughably easy to call yourself an optimist, isn’t it? It only requires you to think things will fall in place just fine, right? Added bonus: it makes you sound bright and sunny and rather like that delightful little sanguine creature everyone loved in that new movie. Marvellous. Positivity to add to the good vibes in the Universe.

But a true sense of optimism presupposes a conviction about the issue at hand, as does a true sense of pessimism. A conviction born of an honest evaluation - where “honest evaluation” is a neat case of redundancy - of your own work and input; an evaluation that reeks of integrity. An evaluation that is founded on a reasonable standard; one that is its own defence in a rational argument. It’s an optimistic remark only when the evaluation suggests things are going good and are likely to. Optimism has more to do with your own ability, strength and the willingness to be true to indicators of their performance, than not. It’s realism on a good day, in a situation with good prep.

It’s too bad, then, that the same rules apply to doubts. A doubt is not about imagining things, nor is it about wanting to complicate matters. It’s not about cynicism or jinxing commitments and it’s certainly not about going back on your word. It’s an honest evaluation that reeks of integrity – even when you wish it didn’t, even when such an evaluation is the last thing you want to collide with. And its inevitable appendage is trust in the parameters of evaluation, which translates to strength to voice the doubt.

Perhaps it’s hard to confess those doubts because your standard of parameters is your own. You can’t be sure if it is shared by one other or a million others. Your idea of reason may or may not match another’s. But if it’s honest and just and free of contradictions and irrationality, chances are you’re thinking straight.

Find something inside of you that must be shared with those outside. Write about it. Find something inside of you that must be shared with the insiders. Do it. Write about it. Honestly. Thus ends a note to myself, one tucked away for future use.

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.

The Loophole

They take her out to the shore and point to the faint edge of the horizon.

That’s the thing, they announce. That’s what you were made for.

They can’t imagine her doing anything else. She couldn’t possibly want to do anything but this.

This is her thing. It’s what she’s meant to do.

This is what she was made for.

Perhaps they’re onto something, unlike her. Perhaps they just know.

And perhaps it’s only right that they’re the ones who coax her. Perhaps that is what they were made for.

It’s not like they seek something that will endure. Just once, you 'll do great, they smile to reassure. 

A quick fix is all, nothing more than that. No pressure, of course. No pressure at all.

A one-shot, a cheap thrill. A quick dash in the woods.

A sneaky run that could become her intimate adventure. A failed detour that could blend in with the roadmap.

The comfort of knowing she tried, for them. 

The insecurity of being no more than a one-time end credit.

Often she’d really want to, but a block would set it. She’d freeze and that’d be the end of her little experiment. 

Perhaps she wasn't smart enough. Or cool enough. Or hot enough. Perhaps lukewarm was all she ever really was.

She saw the wisdom of their plan. She lived the loopholes it contained. 

It’s hard to lean over the table and promise not to look over your shoulder.

To know that they are your audience and to still let go.

It’s hard to bend over backwards when you don’t know what you’re reaching for.

And it’s harder still when you don’t know what’s reaching out for you.

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

I'd write more often, I confess

There's plenty in this head, whattay mess!

But the thought of you hmming

And the thought of you haawing

Puts me off like a dude in a nightdress.

Meanings & Implications

My first distinct memory of a Special Occasion in that shirt is from late 2009. I had just turned 18. Ooh adult. I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped 18th birthday. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it."

Come on, it's MY day, right? Right. Net result, the friends were far more dressed up than me at the birthday treat. They actually showed up all colour coordinated as per plan - their secret plan. Shirt 1, Societal Norms 0.


Then there was the first of many kindamaybe dates. Better explained as "Yeah so maybe some people would call this a date, but what does a date mean? What does it imply? Are we dating dating?" You've had those too, right? Oh shut up, you have.

Anyhow, then too I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped first date. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it." The date was awesome. Shirt 2, Societal Norms 0.


There have been family outings, class presentations and fancy dinners since then. Hospital visits, blood tests and lazy 48-hour days spent rolling around at home. Awesome dates with now-resolved* status. Brinjal shirt hung around. It's loose but hell yeah, we're tight.
 
So much wisdom to be found in school essay intro patterns - 
"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt".


*It means we spend happy time together doing whatever we feel like at that time. It implies this happy time is fun time and "we should totally do this again". And yes, we were dating dating. The horror. Of course, it is imperative that all of this is non-platonic, at least in our minds, if not always in action. We shall discuss what "non-platonic" means and implies later, next class. Oh and see me after class.

Concentric Circles

I want to write.

And just keep writing.

People say everyone who writes wants to write a book eventually.

That it is the common ultimate goal.

But it isn’t mine.

And I’m hardly uncommon.

I don’t want to be told that I should write a book.

And I don’t want you to suggest I write for a living.

I don’t want to write by their stops and starts.

But I do want to write.

And just keep writing.

I've been writing of late

So much, so varied

Late into the night.  

But it feels wrong. 

And while it gets done just fine

It's not what I want.

I want to write 

And just keep writing.

I don't know what about

And I don't care to know

I don't get why you do

Oh but you do, so much.

I just want to write 

To know what I'm thinking

And find some release

And just keep writing.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too distractedly.

Maybe I just imagine that I think more than you do.

Or differently from you.

Or about different things.

But I’m thinking all the time.

About all sorts of things.

And I need to talk about it all.

As I do.

But before I talk to you of it

I want to sort it out.

Alone, by myself

In my mind.

Not because you don't help

But because it calms me down

Knowing your mind feels better than not.

It's rarely ever profound

And hardly ever permanent

But it's thought

And it's mine

For I just kept writing.

For that I must write

And write by myself

Without calls and queries

About parameters for analysis

And schedules for the week.

How would it be, to switch off entirely?

To disappear

In the open

To be unavailable.

It’s been far too long

And I still have years to go

And much as I want you around

So much that it can ache

I want to do this on my own. 

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.

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

How I Doodle

This is the start of my story. It may not turn out to be a tale of universal importance, it may not have a bearing on the working of local authorities. It may not even make a point besides those scattered points it covers while I ramble and drag it with me to record my ramblings. And yet I write.

This current exercise isn't quite writing though. You play around with your keyboard, switching lines and text styles, perhaps playing a game of Sudoku. You scribble on your sheet of paper and end up creating caricatures, complex geometric forms and sometimes, pretty flowers that make you cringe. You turn into a paper troll – and your reference point here should be open web forums and annoying comment droppers, not Origami. But the point is, you doodle. And occasionally, something good comes out of it. A distinct thought, a point of view, a funny line. Or a line that you think is funny.

This whole concept of activity that begins with no clear aim but ends up being “worthy” of one's time interests me. All said and done, here it's (the) beginning that matters. If you can convince yourself to get started even without the end in sight you're good to go. Keep at it and chances are you'll have something concrete in place. I know plenty hold a contrary point of view, one that mandates a solid goal at the outset, one that won't go up in fumes. May they.

Perhaps you choose to brainstorm only in your mind, grappling with intangible thoughts and possibilities. I'm only suggesting that perhaps it's also worth a shot to try the same with words you can see.

I'm still not too sure what I'm getting at or what incident is prompting this but I already know I have 250 odd words up there that would work as a blog post. Particularly on a blog named Where I Doodle. Subconscious streams of thought, I tell you...

Back to business and bitches.

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.

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.

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.

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.