Flaff

Dream for a Depressed Grad Student

2009-11-07T05:46:00.006-08:00

"That's for 5 years of my youth"

"And that's for all the mice I've tortured"

"This one's for the women I didn't save..."

"...that for the problems I didn't solve..."

"...this one for the questions I didn't answer..."

"..and here's for the diseases I didn't cure"

"That's for the 3 AM depression fits"

"That's for the constant worrying about never ever being able to afford a house"

"This one's for the grants that were never funded"

"There's 10 for the weeks of helplessness, inadequacy and loss of control"

"This is for the experiments that never worked..."

"..and the time courses that never produced interesting results..."

"..and the weekends spent in correcting proofs of manuscripts that never got submitted..."

"...poster sessions where noone came up to my poster...."

"..a big, fat one for crappy-ass conferences..."

"This here's for insane post-docs.."

"..let's not forget the socially inept grad students.."

"..demanding PIs who don't know what they're demanding..."

"..lily-livered mentors who quail in front of a thesis committee...."

"..thesis committee members, hah! A band of jerks if ever I saw one"

"Finally, here's 50 for the Shattering of my Illusions, you bastards"

Graduation gown confetti scattered around her feet as she glowed softly with satisfaction....and possibly exertion.

Blogging helps.

2009-02-17T17:40:00.005-08:00

So, here it is. Or, I should say, here we are. Again.

It is not enough to know a language, to be able to immerse yourself in it. It is not enough to feel every comma, taste every meaning, thrill at the touch of a sibilant. That is the plain truth. It is not enough.

What you really need is the power of flight. You need to leave the language behind you like you would shed your clothes before stepping into the shower. Because, if you must have it frankly, the language just gets in your way.

The problem is though, that you become accustomed to the language. It is easy to become expert at spelling "loquacious" or learning to distinguish between the purposes fulfilled by a semi-colon rather than a colon. It easy because it is safe. The well known warmth, like that pair of threadbare cotton panties that appreciates the roundness of your bum just so, tenderly, is welcoming. It does not require squeezing or coaxing or the commodity that is hardest to come by, the courage to squeeze and to coax.

I do not talk about the ordinary, everyday courage that you need to put on lipstick and smile at a stranger without wondering whether there's lipstick on your teeth. I talk, rather, about that particular brand of courage that you borrow from insanity.

To think, first, and then to believe that those thoughts must be not proffered but thrust in to the mind of another, it takes a special sort of something. Let us pretend it is bravery. Let us even pretend that at least in some cases it is welcome. Dickens, comes to mind. Austen is another. And yet those names themselves should frighten any but the most foolhardy, surely. To follow in the deep trenches left by those lithe footsteps. Presumption itself must tremble at the thought.

Well satisfied, chastened, even, you beat a determined retreat. The fingers might itch in passing, keys might receive lingering looks and wistful sighs but the chin remains ever defiantly raised and the heart skips hardly a beat. Some thing lies in abeyance.

But you must write e-mails, after all. People need to keep in touch. Donne, that wise man, said once I believe that no man was an island. Even less of an island is a woman. Some might say she is more an oasis where Arabs and camels talk to the palm trees, as they chew on dates. The trick is to strike the right note in the e-mail. To never cheat, never flirt, never even try to look up that tempting skirt but to keep the note informal, informative and always without a flourish. That is the way to keep that some thing abeyed.

Maybe just the tiniest quip. A quip can do no harm. It is lighthearted, aiming to do nothing but create a smile in passing. A venture at a pun, maybe. You know old So-and-So enjoys his puns. There is no malice in a pun, unless it is intended. Everyone knows that. And all too quickly, the email is done. There is only so much that can happen in one life and the telling of it tends to create reduction. Embroidering is out of the question. That argument has been argued to a conclusion. There is not even anyone else to email.

And yet, those fingers - they will itch. Those looks, they will linger and those sighs most of all will insist on wisting fully. The monitor wists back. The keys glisten. The rising flood of thoughts must leave now. Must. leave. now.!

So, here it is. Or, should I say, here we are? Again.

I'm 25

2008-12-28T10:31:00.001-08:00

I feel blue.....don't you hate birthdays?

Good Blog! Whither Goes Ze Time?

2008-12-21T11:21:00.005-08:00

It's been so long since I've posted here that I couldn't remember my password! I still don't remember my password but by some Blogmas (all will be explained in the course of the next three paras) miracle or some such it all worked out and I'm here...and posting...sigh..just like the good ol' days. When I used to have a job that involved minimal effort and interaction with a few cute li'l yeasties. And folks, I turned this job in to become a grad student...and (wait for it, it gets worse) sustained traumatic interaction with mice!! I will spare you stories of my trials with the mice. It'll only serve to keep you up nights and I will not have that on my conscience, sirs (and/or madams, noone shall call me a sexist). Anyway. Long story short, I've gots me a case of the Busy-ies. But, some of you with keener insight might note, I haven't gotten rid of this blog o'mine yet. Why, you might ask. The answer, madams (an/or sirs, of course), is *not* sheer laziness. Nuh uh. It is rather, that I have a primal instinct to blog.

I've spent some time wondering why it is I feel this need. And (me being I), I have asked a lot of fellow bloggers this question. Varied responses I received. The most popular ones being you're a loser or you (meaning not me in particular but Those who Blog in general - or so I've convinced myself) don't have a social life. But this isn't true..can't be true. The blogger community stands second to none in having its fair share of losers and geeks and nerds and other people of that ilk that has no social life. But it also abounds with people who *do*, in fact, have a social life. Some of *these* people, it is true, blog because they like a fondly imagined captive audience for their rants and ravings (and no! that is *not* why I blog, thankyouverymuch). But I would like to believe that a lot of us blog because we like to write. More, we need to write.

This blog, after all, is my Great Unfinished Novel. The one I've always known I will write. So, if you think about it, this blog 1) saves many trees a senseless and untimely death 2) saves many people senseless and untimely expenditure on the thoughts and ramblings of a soontobe25year old (yes, I've said it, I'm getting old) graduate student 3)saves me the needless hassle of marshaling my thoughts into any kind of order or rationality.

The Blog, in fact, ladies and gents, is the Savior of the World (hence the Blogmas crack, remember? two paras up?). Sent down by a wise and generous God to protect us in our Hour of Need. In short, people, it is a Godsend.
-Also, stepping off that soapbox for a brief instant: we all know it's uncool in the Other World to talk about Profound Stuff and have Thoughts on Deep and Stirring Subjects like "Why are we here?", "What is the purpose of all of this?" and "Why, oh why, did we stop believing in God, the only reasonably happy answer to any of these questions that human beings have ever been able to come up with?". But down here, it's acceptable. Not just acceptable but almost de rigueur (plus I can use words whose meanings I don't understand. Win-win.)! And some people might say the main reason we blog is because The Blog lets us be who we are in our heads rather than who we are in everyone else's heads. Poppycock, *I* think. And pshaw! Alrighty, back on the soapbox.-
Hail, bloggers, to the one god, The Blog. (His only demand is that we are good and honest and kind and generous and that we give him offerings of gold and kaju katlis every second hour of the day. Very reasonable, considering the precedents.)

In conclusion, I would like to introduce a new worshiper at the altar of The Blog: My sister, the archeologist, at here. Tada!!! (You'll remember I was mentioning getting her to write stuff up, 'Fessor? Well, she did it all by her lonesome cuz I kept forgetting to get her to write stuff up :D). Enjoi!

Serial Number: 1 - Lines that Ought to Live In..

2008-11-10T07:18:00.006-08:00

--> She nestled her nose lustfully in his fragrant armpit hair

--> He leaned over her vulnerable, fragile sleeping face and licked the drool from the corner of her slack mouth, tasting its musky odor gratefully as his quivering member did the Dance of the One-Eyed Snake

As ever, contributions welcome :D

I'm thinking

2008-11-02T13:10:00.004-08:00

it's time I started writing again.

It isn't as if the stories have stopped. Just the story-telling.

I should be ashamed of myself.

And I am (don't think I'm not - also I *didn't* temporarily pause blogging because I was busy acquiring a real life and I don't care what anyone says about it! So, hah!).

The Mouse

She could bite with her sharp little yellow teeth. She could kick, albeit feebly, with her hindfeet. She could use formidable silvery whiskers to suss her surroundings. But among the long list of things she couldn't do featured fighting the frightening progress of science.

Trying to cure cancer's a rather greedy goal. Even for humans.

War

2008-07-02T16:24:00.004-07:00

In the end, it's the self-loathing that does you in. She knew this. Or at least she pretended she knew this. That was one way of coping with it, and that was her way so least said about it the better. If you reconstruct reality pleasantly enough, it seems winkingly real and that's enough to satisfy all but the most exacting.

Ah, that man in the leather jacket checked me out in the bus, I must be pretty, she would think. Or she goes out of her way to find me and talk to me, I must be a nice person otherwise why would she like me? I got invited to their party and theirs and theirs and theirs, clearly I'm popular. Sometimes, the polish wore thin. And for a moment, the glimpse of self-loathing was confusing. Was the self-loathing the real part of reality or was the nonself-liking of her the real-er?. If her judgment couldn't be trusted then surely everyone else's could be? But a-ha, the hole in the donut of logic: if I can't trust my own judgment how can I esteem my-self.

She sometimes wondered if she was insane. But then if you wonder about your state of sanity, you have to BE sane. Or so she thought she remembered someone else saying. And other people were so sure of their opinions so they must be right. Why couldn't she be like them. Fitting in was easy, it was *knowing* that you fit in. That was the tricky bit. But that was just her opinion and she had just proved that her opinion wasn't worth much. No wonder she loathed herself. At least I'm showing good judgment in that, she would think.

And so, as Billy Pilgrim would have said, it goes.

At my grand-dad's knee

2008-05-15T14:53:00.002-07:00

I hate to break it to you, but, yes, it's true. There was a piggy by the railway who was picking up stones (foolish little piggy). Unfortunately for him a train came along and broke all of his bones (as was only to be expected, really). With his dying breath, the little piggy gasps that it wasn't fair (maybe alluding to the brevity of his lifespan) and then the engine driver who had gotten out of the train by now and was staring down at the dying piggy with a sneer, sniffed and expressed his total lack of feeling on the matter. Moral of the story clearly is to fear and respect engine drivers.

Talking about piggies, one has to mention that Orson Scott Card is an excellent story maker even if a rather poor story teller. And so, I do him the justice of recognising that just like my grand-daddy (who seldom made up stories but was an excellent raconteur) he would have never suggested that the piggies with the twig and hay houses fled to their more fortunate brother of the brick house. No, certainly not. They were eaten by the wolf. Wolves are not simpletons. Any wolf worth his salt would eat up any piggy who was foolish enough to build houses out of hay and any wolf who had the persistence to blow stick houses down is a wolf worth his salt. Moral of this story, give the Ender trilogy a shot. You might enjoy it. I did.

Talking about wolves, there's the other classic wolf story. The one where the pretty little girl with the red hood goes jauntering through the forest and sells her grand-mum down the river to the big, bad, definitely male wolf. The wolf then proceeds to kill the grand-mum and feed the little girl the remains (that's the way *I* heard it, at least). The woodman comes along and saves the girl but I never heard tell of the grand-mum's rescue until much later (my grand-dad was a formidable man and I think he was trying to make a point there (he was also endowed with much foresight and it must have seemed like a good idea to him at the time to tell his grand daughter about the evils of the world in general and male wolves in particular)). The moral of that story was quite clear, I always thought. Get yourself into any kind of trouble and it's your family that'll pay. And additionally, pretty girls and wolves are fatally intertwined.

Talking of pretty girls, you must have heard of the wandering spirit who snuck into her lady's chamber and finding an old man in there, picked him up by his left leg and threw him down the stairs. While this might very well be a reference to Cromwellian supporters or King Henry or priestholes, the moral could be only one thing. For pity's sake don't let strange creatures liable to grab people and hurl them down staircases wander around your house. Upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber. Ugh. Creepy.

Alternate Universe or What I Thought of While Brushing My Teeth this Morning

2008-05-14T07:03:00.004-07:00

She looked up at the ominously dark sky, hurrying her footsteps along the dusty path. Gloomy skies, wet winds and the terrible smell of impending rain. Any moment now the burgeoning clouds would sag lower, their yellow streaked bellies ripping open under the weight of all that water. And then the water would leak out, tearing through the air, coating everything with its dripping wetness. Making everything moist and slimy. Stirring the lovely dust into a murderous paste.

Around her were other townspeople unlucky enough to have strayed out under the threatening clouds. They shied away from the muck of water, grimacing as the first drops splashed on their bodies, slickly glistening moisture oozing on skin. Noone tried to wipe the water off, though. It would smear before evaporating, escaping into the air, droplets begetting droplets. Shudder.

She got home in time to avoid the torrent but still sufficiently covered in the watery slime to require a shower. She stepped into the glass cubicle, turned the knob and heard the satisfying gurgle in the pipes. A second later, she stood under a torrent of warm dettol, letting the cleansing stream remove the slime and microbes of water from her skin. She imagined the droplets flowing down the drain into the water proof gutter from which they would never escape. More stolen rain kept from the treacherous skies. Towards a day when mankind could remain clear of water forever.

Three Months, It's Been. Let's Hear a Rousing Welcome Back Cheer.

2008-05-13T11:52:00.003-07:00

A woman went to the super market. She needed a can of soup. Not just any soup but a particular kind. She didn't think she'd be able to find it in just any old super market. She looked first in Aisle 2: Soup, Noodles and Assorted Instant Foods. Not there. She then looked in Aisle 22: Asian Cuisine. Not there either. Last shot, Aisle 14: Canned Food. Not there either. She did a cursory search through the rest of the super market. She couldn't find it. She walked back home, not at all surprised that she'd been right. It happened to her all the time.

2008-02-29T14:04:00.001-08:00

Out for Lunch. Be back Shortly.

Conversation

2008-02-07T06:11:00.000-08:00

Why are you all angry and upset now?

Nothing.

Just that adults suck!

And noone understands anything!!!!!

Oh, to be thirteen again. No, no, wait. Oh, to be 24 and talk to 13 year olds who are in the middle of an Emotional Crisis.

When I Grow Up

2008-02-06T17:03:00.000-08:00

My sister and I, we made a promise to each other when we were both teenagers (yeah, blood mingling ceremony, promises of death and everlasting perdition, the works). We'd never become our mum, we said. Solemn oath, pinky promise.

We're all grown up now (sorta anyway) but every now and then one of us will still tell the other, "Dude, you sound exactly like her" and that has become the ultimate warning between us. The youarereallybehavingverybadlyfleshofmyflesh cautionary statement. I think we're very good about it, the two of us together. We probably save ourselves from ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, neither of us will turn into the mater.I don't know.

I have recently changed. Not by huge degrees, I don't think. But a little. It's not like I woke up one morning and became an insanely introverted, Ionlywearfullsleevedturtlenecksthatcovermychinandamfilledwithhopelessnessattheplightofmankind sorta girl. Far from (I don't know if I'm emotionally capable of being that girl. If I went two hours without talking to anyone, I'd probably go buy a coffee just so I could smile at and discuss the weather with the Hispanic coffee-lady (who is really sweet and gives me free chocolate muffins when I forget to bring cash, godblesshersoul)). But I've channeled a lot of my extroversion, toned it down in some ways ( or at least so it appears to most of my friends and hangout buddies). I'm not always up for anything anymore cos I have other plans most nights. I don't go around herding the Happy Hour group together for two dollar beers every week. I can't be bothered.

I've not yet reached the stage where I don't have any friends left. People still call me, stop by to chat. But the invitations to go out and drink the night away at the newest club downtown are trickling down to a drizzle. Disappearing slowly. True, they've been supplanted by other invitations from other people (superbowl parties, athome drinkathons, dinners, movie night). But. The point is (and yes, there is a point, thankyouverymuch) it's shockingly easy to drift from one phase of your life to another and with that from being one person to being a different one. Unless someone's looking out for you. And making sure you don't.

Maybe, on second thought, the bigger point is that change is inevitable. And the sooner you make your peace with it, the happier you will be. I don't know.

Maybe there's change and there's change and you just have to know the difference.

I don't have the answers. But I think I have the question. The question, I think, is how do you know if the change is good or bad, considering that the person you're going to change into is not the same person you are. Isn't there some sort of conflict of interest lurking here somewhere?

Which brings me to my second question, who the hell figured I was competent enough to make my own decisions and gave me a whole life to myself?

Hawtdggitydamn! Stap me if The Power that Is isn't clearly a Jackass.

Also, among the things I don't know is whether this counts as a theory post or no. I'm gonna go ahead and say it does. It's been too long without one on this here blog.

Anything to Keep me from Studying

2008-01-22T07:02:00.001-08:00

So, it's been a while.

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I'm not going to be claim to be an expert (I totally had a simpleringly smug look on my face when I said that, cos, c'mon, *course* I'm an expert) but does it seem like we're having an amazing blog-graph here? Like, BM (even if she now insists on calling herself OTP! Like whatever!) went into a slump and then came up swinging. The Riddler (??!) was going great guns and churning out like 250 posts a day and then went into a "Oh, I'm saving myself for the long run by cutting down on it" downswing. So, they kinda neutralized each other. Yes? Sine and anti-sine waves. Or whatever (I'm not majoring in like Graphs or Accounting or whatever those people who learn how to graph major in).

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We've had a slough of grey days. I love grey days. It's the greyness of them. Seeping into everything around. Until slowly it seeps into your soul. And you die (or your soul does or something). Pretty neat, huh?

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Yeah, I saw Sweeney Todd. I don't have the words to do it justice but I'm gonna use substitute words to try and capture the utter horror. Ghastly music, ghastly singing, marginally funny lyrics. Asinine plot line. Even Depp couldn't do a Pirates on this one. Sigh.

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Talking about movies, though, I'm in love with Ellen Page. The girl rocks. I want to have her babies. Juno was drippingly delicious. I've already seen it twice (Ren, if you have the soundtrack, I want! I'll come down and get it off of you if you won't give it to me!).

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Everyone's getting married. Or having babies. What is up with that? A guy I used to know is really and actually getting married (wedding in India and all). Ex-roomie just got married (also wedding in India - actually two weddings - the works). A guy I still know is ohsoclose to tying the knot. Juno got pregnant. Another guy I know scored a lunch date. Odds are he's going to either get married pretty soon or get pregnant.

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School still sucks. They still keep handing out those awful test questions. I still get continually traumatized when I know an answer. It's like "Waitasecond! This question actually makes sense. I think I can answer it! No, really! I think I know the answer. OMG! I must be hallucinating. I've finally succumbed to the pressure and gone nutso" [Cue manic laughter in a silent hall followed by much glaring and angry sssshhhhhs].

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Customary video and I believe we're done here.

Bad Flaffy, No Donut for You

2008-01-08T06:25:00.000-08:00

She was sure he'd come back. That's why when her friends came over looking sad and held her hand, she just smiled. When they told her to cheer up and come shopping with them, she went shopping with them. She didn't need to cheer up. She knew he'd come back. He'd always liked how clean her house was. How she always made sure the pillow covers matched the duvet. The way her clothes were sorted out by use (daily wear, exercise, office, parties, Indian get-togethers, casual evenings), color (reds, greens and blues - she didn't like oranges and yellows, too bright) and length (shorts, skirts, pants and pjs, ankle skirts, saris). Every day she made up their bed (on both sides), vacuumed her house and made sure there were fresh flowers in the living room vase. Because she knew he'd come back. And imagine if the flowers were faded when he did.

Anniversary Time! Whoo hoo!

2007-12-10T18:31:00.001-08:00

It's my Bloggy Birth Month. My blog is Capricornian. How awesomely perfect is that? I have to admit I feel a little guilty. I have (and there's no nice way to see it) neglected the Flaffster. Left him cold and dry. Dropped him like a hot potato, in fact. I am overcome with remorse. But, on the bright side, my life is so fun right now. And blogs are a girl's best friend. They're supposed to be dumped on and then forgotten. The next time I'm at home on a weeknight, trying to avoid school work, with noone to talk to (cos nobody loves me, I'm nobody's child) I'll just come right back and dump some more. I'll make up more ridiculous stories. I'll even write more theory posts (talking about which, I have a great new theory on How so many Grad Students have Issues). I'll complete that Grad School Freak Show thing. I'll go back and read up all the old posts on my favorite blogs (by which I mean yours, half pint). And I'll comment obsessively and contentlessly on every single one of them. But till then, people, be patient. Show kindness. Love me.

It's that time of the Year

2007-12-02T07:06:00.000-08:00

There is no need to get flustered, dearhearts, because Flaffy hasn't disappeared. Flaffy has just temporarily gone on a Real Life Binge (where she picked up this ridiculous habit of referring to herself as Flaffy). The thing about this whole Real Life deal is that it has consequences. Because there's all these Real People and they have Real Feelings. It isn't like being here. Where anything goes, because when it comes down to it, you can always cut and run. If you think someone's getting too close, or crowding you or rushing in where angels fear to tread you needn't reply to their comments/messages/e-mails. You can just pretend they don't exist and voila they will disappear. At least they will, eventually. If they're not really psycho stalkers. And as y'all know this blog never attracts psycho stalkers. Ever!

Maybe that's the difference between the internet and real life. The internet's so much more convenient. It has built-in safeguards. And sometimes those safeguards themselves can make you do stupid things, say stupid things or be stupid things but still at the end of it, those safeguards will still be there (unless you're abysmally stupid and take it off line). I don't know (have you noticed how so many of my posts are about me explaining how i don't know the answer to almost every question in the universe? seems to me to be a recurring theme). I don't think that the internet's helpful in bettering social skills, it's a lukewarm medium of communication and at best a means of sporadically keeping in touch with people you don't really care about with as little investment of time and energy as possible. But I do think it's a lovely place to pretend that life has no consequences. Just when you need a break. Like the Bahamas.

Since it's that time of the year when we talk vacation, I thought I should put this out there. An advance Christmas thing. Hope it helps (especially all of you who get exactly two days off for Christmas unlike some of us who get a month off - just saying).

Another Theory Flash

2007-11-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Noone who has the capability or best fit to be in grad school would want to go into military training. Not just because war is clearly an archaic monstrosity that should have been abolished by now, but also because a person who has the mind of a prospective PhD candidate would pose too many questions to be a propah militant.

My sample size this time is a little bigger than my last theory-flash (where n=1), so I await reprisal with a quiet, optimistic confidence.

Theory Flash

2007-11-17T13:23:00.000-08:00

As y'all are well aware, I hate being controversial. But still. Theories have to be given their turn in the spotlight. So.

Two things men think with: one, everyone knows, well established fact and whatnot. Two, their feet. This is why (one figures) men don't normally think about much when they run (except hot chicks if they see any - which further proves theory and acts as corollary). And this is also why, conversely, women think a lot when they run. Cos women use only their brains to think.

What dya guys think? Do I have bases covered?

A Who's Who of Freaksville - 1

2007-11-11T17:19:00.000-08:00

"Ooh there'll be extremely intelligent people here", I thought. "No more having to be bored during conversations so retarded that you want to claw your own eyes out with your bare hands", I thought. I even might have chuckled a little bit and rubbed my hands together (or not. but I could have). But this was three months back (or was it four?). Now, one term and a half later, numerous tests under my belt, jaded, weary and this close to being cynical, I have had to face up to the truth.

Grad school is nothing but one big, fat romp of a freak show. Freaks apparently abound in the corridors, pop out of fountains and lurk under the trees. There are (to be completely candid and scientifically detached about it) different levels of freakishness. Some are just severely socially retarded. Some are borderline normal (if you met them on the road you might even think "Awww how cute" and smile at them (but be warned. this is dangerous. hungry grad students should not be petted or smiled at. and all grad students are by definition hungry), or casually say "Have a good one" - shudder). And if you closed your eyes and pretended you were an arts major you might even believe they're normal (you'd have to close your eyes really tight, though).

I feel, you, my blogging public, requires a revue of these weirdos that populate my world (only for your own good, because I'm noble and selfless, not because I want to rant. the idea!). So, part 1 of the Who's Who of Freaksville. I introduce the One Who Scares Me (aka Nice Guy).

He is a nice guy. This is true. One of the nicest guys in class. One of the nicest guys I've met. Even, I'd go so far as to say (staking my integrity on this) that he's probably one of the nicest guys in the world. But people, people, a walking social disaster. It's not the sweatshirt that he's owned since the beginning of time and which smells distinctly of mothballs and some unidentified odor that I quail to investigate. It's not the unkempt hair which has seen neither scissors nor comb since it first sprouted out from the baby boy's bald head. Not even the mewing (he mews, apropos of nothing - which at least is normal because what could mewing be apropos of anyway unless you were talking to cats in an alley, behind a trash can) which is very unpredictable and can take you by surprise if you don't see it coming. I'd even go so far as to say it isn't the knocking over, tripping on, flailing hands into everything within a ten meter radius of Nice Guy. Lots of us sit at a coffee table and immediately knock over one glass of water, one cup of coffee, a chair and a newspaper in quick succession with fatal efficiency (well, not really, but maybe if you had some involuntary muscular contraction thing happening - one does not mock physical disabilities on this blog - ever). No, it's none of these things.

What it is, is the incessant, furious typing in class (furious as in the professors sometimes have to positively yell into their microphones to make themselves heard over the racket he makes), the ear phones in his ear playing music so loud that people 3 rows below and 3 rows above in a ten-seat-on-either-side bloc can hear Mana singing Perdito (I used to quite like the song. sigh) and worst of all his belief that everyone else is similarly endowed with blaring music and ergo, his screaming (yes, actual screaming) of comments about the lecture to the people sitting next to him, complacent in the belief that noone can hear him because (wait for it) he can't.

Once, I sat next to him. Never again. At one point the professor shone his laser beam at us and made comments about the 'bearded gentleman in the back who is typing what I'm sure are my lecture notes, furiously' (true story). I thought I'd die of sheer embarrassment (at least I hoped fervently I would) while Nice Guy through all of it (it felt like a lifetime, I'm reliably informed it was 20 seconds) didn't notice that the professor was highlighting his forehead with a red dot.

Course he didn't notice (what was I thinking). I fear I cannot get out of grad school unscathed. Really. A deep, disemboweling fear. Wait for the next parts. You haven't heard nothing yet. This should have been a Halloween launch (in all fairness to the grand tradition of Halloween) but I was battling with my fears about then (and visiting various shrinks for help, dear god). So, think of it as an honorary Halloween launch. We'll just have a Halloween party all by ourselves. Bring the punch, I'll bring the gossip.

It's Called English, Pliss to Learn to Spikk it

2007-11-08T18:04:00.000-08:00

There are many meanings for the word squeamish. I don't know how many of you know this (or care) but squeamish not only means that you are the sort who gets sick at the sight of bloody intestines on the road, it also means that you are excessively fastidious. Excessively. Which is why when I say stop being squeamish, you listen to me and stop being an idiot. Not tell me that I'm using the word wrong and I'm a dork (which I'm not. i have character witnesses ready to take the stand at a moment's notice). Or wait maybe, maybe you just do what I ask you to in the first place and then I wouldn't have to use the word squeamish and we wouldn't be having this conversation. I say come sit with us, and you come sit with us. Simple, no? What is this business of oh, someone else is already sitting next to you. What are you, the Queen of Sheba (or in this case the King. Who was the King of Sheba anyway, and whatever happened to the chappie?)? When you then make a fuss about it and say you can't kick someone off their seat and whatever other rot you happen to be thinking at the moment (I didn't ask you for your opinion, which you would know if you were listening to me, which you clearly were not), and then I accuse you of being squeamish, have the grace to admit, accept and move on.

Dork, he says. Idiot.

Licensing

2007-11-06T17:48:00.000-08:00

I can see why you'd want to clean your gun in school. If I stretch my imagination. Maybe you're one of those people who are anal. You didn't have time to do it this morning so you brought it along to school, took it to a classroom, spread your stuff around and cleaned it. Decided to take a coffee break and left everything behind, ended up forgetting about it. Maybe. It could happen.

I can even see how someone would do it as a hoax. Maybe to get out of a test, a committee meeting, a conference, a meeting with a particularly obnoxious PI. You bring just the cleaning kit and the empty shell box, arrange it on the desk in one of the classrooms. You sneak away. Someone will eventually find it and there, problem solved.

If I try really hard, I can see someone deciding to kill themselves. You have OCD. You need the gun to be clean before you can use it. So you sneak it into school, find an empty classroom, clean it, leave the cleaning stuff behind (it seems pointless to lug it along with you), find an empty toilet stall, lock yourself in and shoot yourself. Maybe a med student who failed a year.

But I have to actually attempt an out-of-body imaginative exploratory venture to see why someone would want to shoot random people down. You're not happy with your life, so you decide to clean a gun, load it and kill a bunch of people you don't know from Adam? Go figure.

Another Sunday by the Pool

2007-11-04T16:08:00.000-08:00

There was a garden lizard at the bottom of the pool. Quite, quite dead. And had been for a while by the look of it. The death of a lizard is a puzzling event. Should one feel sorry, solemn, maybe even a little grave? Or is it an incident that doesn't concern one? Should it just be shrugged off and forgotten? After all, it's just a little reptile. There are tons of them around. It's not like they're an endangered specie that you'd have to care about and show appropriate feeling for. Nor are they filled with fragile beauty (a herpetologist might disagree but whatever).

I stared at it for quite a while because I didn't know what to think (isn't it unsettling when that happens? I can deal with the whole thinking one thing, then the other and having a raging argument in my head thing but the sohowexactlydoireacttothis feeling is one I loathe).

I fished it out in the end. Trekked to the security guard office, got a fishnet from the maintenance man, waded into the pool and fished it out. This is going to sound peculiar but I followed that noble gesture by burying it. Somehow the thought of just throwing it into the bushes where ants would swarm around it and maggots grow out of it didn't seem right. These lizards (the American ones, I mean) are so fat and disgustingly well grown. Alive, they frighten me but dead like this one, I feel sorry for them. So stupid.

Why would you jump into a pool full of chlorine when you labor under the weight of a body that cannot adapt. When you're pampered from birth with everything you need, the sudden appearance of a chlorinated pool in your path does nothing other than invite you to take a refreshing dip. Nothing wrong with that. Try it out, be adventurous you think to yourself. But then you end up dead at the bottom of a pool. Because adaptation is a skill. And the only way you can acquire it is to be up against a wall. It just can't be inherited or bequeathed or bought. It has to be earned the hardest way there is. Mostly, by death.

An Indian lizard, one feels, would definitely have jumped into the pool. But then, an Indian lizard would not have flinched at the chlorine. An Indian lizard would not have ended up at the bottom of the pool. Toxic schmoxic, it would have thought and swum right along.

I think that's why I buried it. I might have some deeply hidden guilt for the unadapted ones. I just might.

And *ta da* this is the 150th post. Who'd have thought.

He Ate a Slice of Wonderbread

2007-11-01T16:36:00.000-07:00

Isn't it weird the number of things we forget? I figure if we count the number of things we've forgotten (which of course, logistically, we wouldn't be able to), we'd find that they far, far outweigh the things we remember. It doesn't even seem biased towards happy things. Right? We forget with equal frequency sad things, happy things, important things, trivial things.

One of the oldest memories I have is of walking in circles on a tire that had fallen over on its side in my school play ground. With this other boy from my class (I don't even remember his name). It was a 15 minute break between classes. We didn't talk. At all. The whole time. We just balanced on that tire for 15 minutes (it was a large tire, I think from the school bus, we both could walk on it at the same time, easy). I can remember that 15 minutes of my life in graphic detail down to the grains of sand around the tire. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Obviously. For whatever reason. But that's it. That's my enduring memory from something like the first ten years of my life. Neat, no?

I remember my first kiss. Also in graphic detail (but it's not because it was perfect-which it was- because I also remember some awful kisses - the sloppy kind, eww- and it's not just because it was a kiss (I'm sure I've forgotten quite a few)). I remember everyone in my high school class hitting this fat kid (not really hitting, but kinda fooling around with her). I walk up to her and go "Are you ok?" and she bursts into tears and when the biology lady comes into class all concern, promptly accuses me of bullying her (you can see why I'd remember that, my first taste of the injustice that is life). Several dramatic things happened in my life around the time. And either my folks or my friends from back then are forever going "Dya remember.." and I invariably go "Nuh-uh, I don't. What did he do again?"

After that it only got worse. Those were the good years, memory-wise. Maybe as you get older, things just run into each other. You don't know if you went to that really cool taco place at 4 in the morning this weekend or last weekend or maybe last year. Where A threw up. Remember? Oh no wait wasn't it M who threw up and then S carried her home? And wasn't that in UK?

Memory cues still work. But again for the most random things. I associate This is the Last Time with a snowy Saturday morning that I spent in my dorm room (dreadfully depressing) sitting on my windowsill. That's it. The whole story. Nothing happened. Noone came. The cute Brit boy whose window opened out on the opposite side of the square from mine didn't stick his head out the window and wave. The carpet lady didn't dust her carpet out into the square. Nothing. Just me, the snow, the windowsill and the radio.

The point though (should I write this in bold for all of you who skipped the last two paras?) is that we do remember life lessons, by and large. Maybe the human brain is wired to forget details (like names and places and people and bfs and bffs and phone numbers and the time you thought you'd die because you were so embarrassed and could never show your face in school again) but to remember the big picture. The thoughts, the theories, the major mistakes and why it's important to drink tons of water when you're six vodka martinis down, they stay. Could that be the way it works? Maybe not. Because I know lots of people who do remember the details, every last one. Is it a question of recycling? Maybe, if you have a job that makes you think a lot your brain accommodates by letting you clear up headspace. Maybe this is the difference between thinkers and doers. The thinkers forget and the doers don't.

I don't know the answer. I do know, however, that the most persistent guilt I have is the one associated with not remembering people who were really important to me at some point in my life. Or only vaguely remembering them. Or remembering them but not remembering why I do. This, I know (and yes, I am also aware of the random youtubing in this post - I have three words for you: It Was Fun). The cure, for the curious and the similarly afflicted, is to abase yourself at the altar of their injured expressions with disarmingly candid admissions of ignorance. Always works. And once they remind you, you generally tend to remember.

Reconstruction is a marvelous thing.

When You're Back, You're Back

2007-10-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

There are times when you hit peculiar patches. Lots of things seem to happen in a rush and then all of a sudden, nothing. Standstill. Halt. And just as you get used to the peace and the quiet, it starts up again. Like a runaway horse down a mountain slope, eyes rolling, tail flying, frothing at the mouth. In a single day, there's good news, there's bad news, there's good news that seemed like bad news but later resolved itself into good news, there's news you just don't know what to do with. The works. You tend to work around it, though. These peculiar patches. Learn to stand still at a point and refuse to move until things sort themselves out because otherwise you're just going to go stark raving mad. This is good, right? Everyone needs those standpoints. I think.

Some of us find other ways around it. A routine, a habit, a schedule, anything that gives structure to the chaos. Some time during the day when you can just stop thinking, shut it all off. Not 'me time' because that would involve thinking about you. But just 'not-thinking time'. We are the lucky ones, no? The ones who can do this? The ones who've found the yellow, brick road.

The thing about yellow, brick roads though, is that there is a certain problem. They invariably lead you to a place that never was. And then what do you do? You think you have it figured out, everything under control, a place for every thing and every thing in its place. The question though, I think is, is there really a place for everything? Does it help in any way that you can disappear into your own world and come back out of it feeling better about everything without actually having done anything about anything? Isn't that a negative, rather than a smug advantage? Do we really want to travel to a place ruled over by a little, old man with green glasses? Especially if we don't even get to have the red shoes?

Something about Sunshine

2007-10-28T16:32:00.000-07:00

There is something about it. No wonder lizards look so blissfully lazy in patches of it. It just seeps in and you feel warm and petted, inside out. The perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon is to call a girlfriend over, stretch out next to the pool and bask. Just bask. Maybe talk a little. About god. And school. And Elle. And why Jimmy Choos are so expensive. Plan a trip to Scotland. Paint your toes. Take a nap. Bring your speakers to the pool and play iPod DJ.

We know this, right? As desis, especially. We have to know the power of sunshine. The way it heals you. The hardest year of my life was one without sunshine. Literally. Figuratively, I was basking in everyday. The work was satisfying, the company was amazing, the boss was a blast. But no sunshine. Within a week I was ready to sell my soul for some good ol' fashioned Madras-style sunshine (talking about the Madras sun, is it just me or is it true that it's almost impossible to find it anywhere else? I've seen plenty of suns but none as blindingly sunny as the one in Madras. What is up with that?). Of all the people most equipped to talk about sunshine, I must be really high up on the list (me and everyone else who has lived in Madras for more than 2 years).

I take every possible opportunity to sit in the sunshine (because absence makes the heart fonder and I'm now passionately in love with my Madras sun). In the square right in front of my school is a huge fountain (it's amazingly pretty - aren't all fountains?). Marble. With trees all around and little park benches. And at something like half past 4 every day you can see me sitting in the grass right next to it, in the biggest patch of sunshine I can find. I don't even need company. I just take a book, have my iPod and beyond that company is superfluous, no?.

Sometimes people come up to me and go "Oi Flaffy's-Real-Name, why the fuck (grad students have a limited vocabulary outside of science) are you sitting in the sun?" (I always say it's because I'm a sun-worshiper. most people don't know what to do with that. will it be politically incorrect to laugh? will the sun worshiper's society sue them? will they be forever known as sunnists?) Invariably, I find that the people who come and ask me this are Indians. Dyed in the wool, brown-as-berries Indians. And it never fails to surprise me. How can Indians (*Indians*) come and ask me this? Don't they realize the immense advantage we have over most other races in the world? Don't they understand that most people would kill to have our perfect-for-tanning skin? At least the type the browner of us have (and ought to cherish). With this skin we're all set for World Domination (think global warming - soon we'll be the only ones who can walk outside without protection). Can't they see this?

It strikes me (and maybe I'm reading too much into it) that there is dramatic irony in this. The gora log with their awfully white skin adore the sun and lust after tans. Sit in the sun for hours, become red as rare steak and peel like bananas, spraying sun screen over themselves constantly. While we, desis, blessed with skin-cancer-resistant, I-can-turn-a-pretty-shade-of-coffee-by-just-sitting-in-the-sunshine-for-a-couple-of-hours skin, insist on shying away from it with a modesty becoming of an eighteenth century peaches-n-cream virgin locked into the same room as Bluebeard.

Why would any god let this happen? Tchah. Try as I might, I cannot drum up enough energy to believe in the man. He seems inexplicable.

An Off Week

2007-10-25T17:05:00.001-07:00

We all have them. So do I. Go figure.

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What some of us think is really difficult/strange/alien is a life'slikethat moment for others. Yes, I am thinking of you, missy and your wonder at being able to chat and watch Ugly Betty at the same time (and you thought I couldn't blog about it!).

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Some women need to have men in their lives. Not just general men. But a special person. Just for them. It's a craving, a dependency. Just like anything else. Some women don't. I honestly can't decide which is weaker but I know which I'd rather be.

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Starting something new is always exciting but also seductive. It makes you ignore the old (sorry, bloggy, y'know I love you) and there is never any excuse for that.

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Cooking is therapy. And I'd have never known it if I hadn't moved away from home. On the other hand, I might not have needed therapy if I hadn't moved away from home. Meh, who are we kidding. I'd have needed therapy anyway!

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However bored you are, however tired, however reluctant to leave the couch, don't watch Tila Tequila or I Love New York. It's just not worth it, people. It's not. I know crappy TV, I've watched daytime sitcoms, even Reba (shudder). But this is worse than crappy TV. This is worse than anything. Just don't.

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I (sheepish grin) love Colbie Caillat.

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I saw a moon that looked like a paper lantern painted onto the sky this evening and all I could think of was 'seductive as a pregnant whore'. I need to start reading something other than Urf (otherwise I might end up hating MT).

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Athletes are always given benefit of doubt when they fail. Because they're performing under pressure. How come that doesn't work for grad students during examinations? Why should I be able to think under pressure?

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And that, as Porky would have said, is all, folks.

The Question

2007-10-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

.....one feels, is how much is too much? (Also, much is such a nice word, no? Not much. So much. Much of a muchness. Lipsmacking :))

And that, people, is a Riddler post.

Once I Loved a Blogger

2007-10-18T17:33:00.000-07:00

Once I loved a blogger. And she never
asked me why. I would have told her it was
cos she knew who said Release the Hounds and
why. Woulda said it was the way she chose Hyde
over Michael without thinking about it
(cos how could I love someone who had to
think about that one?). But she never asked.

Still I loved a blogger. And like sand in
a too-tight fist vanishes, she did too.
But (cleverer than the fist) I had an idea.
Question. Can a blogger (of all people) live
without the slavering and worship that
is her due? The answer, I confess, still
eludes me (like water-waves at the beach).

Long I loved a blogger. Now she loves me too.
So, yes, we are moving in together.
Come. Visit. Bring wine. Leave shoes at home. Joy.

Flotsam and Jetsam

2007-10-16T17:33:00.000-07:00

For future reference, you guys, (at least till the end of this month) all these weird chroniclets are from the 24 hour challenges. So pliss not to worry. No I'm not homesick. Or crying in my pillow. Or jet lagged. Or in desperate need of credit cards. Oh wait, I am actually. If anyone has a spare credit card with lots of credit in it, pass it along. I will be discreet. And only use it to get really expensive Bandolinos (violet with the pointiest beautifullest heels) that are at half price now and may not be for much longer. So pliss to contribute. Be generous. God will Reward.

"It's just that I have a niggling fear", he had said conversationally, "that it'll hurt like the devil". All she could tell the cops when they came around was that she hadn't expected him to pull out the gun and shoot himself in the head. "Do you think it hurt?" she kept asking the investigating officer. She seemed distraught. The officer figured it was because her husband had died a pauper. Noone likes inheriting massive debt. Human nature.

The challenge words were niggling fear in that order consecutively

Oooh my Pet Whine

2007-10-15T13:36:00.000-07:00

First,

She opened her eyes to the distinctive sunlight of this part of the world. "Yes, you can shine all you like, I'm thinking grey clouds in my head", she muttered into her pillow. Still damp. She clutched the cell phone and dialed the long string of numbers, worn with repetition. Her heart felt like it was breaking, broken maybe. "Hello?". She could almost see the voice, bridging the miles, like a delicately drawn out thread. "Hello? Yaaru peshardhu?" She gulped, worrying it'd snap if she didn't say something. "Amma? It's me." "Hiiiiiii, da. How was the flight?" She couldn't get any of her rehearsed words out. Tears already making their customary passage down her cheek. They'd make a groove soon. "Kanna, are you ok? What's wrong?" She had to stop the anxiety before it became an avalanche of concern. "Nothing, amma", she managed after swallowing the bits of her broken heart that were bobbing up her throat. "Just jet lag. That's all."

Second,

He hoped he wasn't sitting next to one of those old uncle jis. Who'd constantly clear their throat of what sounded like copious amounts of phlegm and fidget restlessly while smelling of paan and the inimitable smell of sweat trapped in a safari suit. He was almost relieved when he saw a serious-looking bespectacled boy. Probably 18. He smiled comfortingly at him and settled down in his aisle seat. He found out that the boy was going to India on one of those school project affairs. He wondered how much of a waste of time those things were. After a while he decided to nap. To beat the jet-lag. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. A hesitation later, "Do you want me to close the shutters, uncle ji?" He opened his eyes to the politely inquisitive stare of the boy. "No, no. That's fine." He smiled at him and closed his eyes again. It was no use. His head was throbbing and he felt fidgety and restless. He cleared his throat. He was only 29, for pity's sake.

In my defense,

I couldn't get to sleep till half past 3 this morning. I'm not a happy camper. Sigh.

Metaphorically Speaking

2007-10-13T18:29:00.001-07:00

Warning: Slightly monstrous post as per recent standards. If you have time to kill and at least 7 minutes to listen to the music, read on.

I'm not the most Carnatic person. Even less of a Hindustani one. But some Raags are universal. Some Raags are undemanding of technical knowledge. And some Raags transcend the Carnatic-Hindustani divide. The Hamsadhwani is my favourite (I love the Chaurasia version but can't find it on Youtube, so I'm putting in the next best rendition I could find). The first time I heard it, it was because a friend said "This is the Raag I love. Listen to it." And I did. More for him than for the Raag and people, it is true. This Raag deserves love. Adulation even. (I'd say worship but I don't want to be called a drama queen.) The thing about Hamsadhwani is that she reminds me of feminism. (Yes, really). Wait, not feminism necessarily as it is, but feminism like I've always pictured it as, known it should be. The ideal that we all strive for (by we all I mean feminists, not persons of other persuasions) and which is so hard to reach. I was blog-lifting for ideas the other day (I've been feeling particularly uninspired) and from the fessor's place, I went to this one. And from there to this article. Keeping that in mind, we shall move on (it all comes together in the end, promise).

To today. I've been sick (yes, I've noticed the lack of awwws in the commentspace. I seem to have cornered the hard-hearted bit of the blog-reading-public) and so I've been staying home. But this evening, bravely (and from a desire to feel like I'm awake as opposed to an indivisible part of my bed), I decided to go for a run. It's been a while (I've been slack) and every runner knows the (for want of a better word) bliss of returning to the road. Of finding your rhythm. I always imagine that's how bikers must feel when they get back on their bikes after a hiatus (can't bike to save my life, so I haven't personally experienced it, but I'm pretty sure this is how it feels). I saw the most beautiful sunset, did my little work out routine. Got all flushed and happy. And because it felt like I couldn't stay away from the outside, I came back home and sat on my balcony, reading Roth until there was so little light that I couldn't differentiate the letters from the page. My iPod was still with me, so I hooked it up to the speakers and voila Hariprasad Chaurasia playing the Hamsadhwani (see how it all came together?). I've been on indie rock overload for the past couple of months and to suddenly hear a Raag, and the Hamsadhwani at that. I decided it was fate. And (true story) while I was deciding this, a yellow leaf on the tree right next to my balcony dropped off its branch and drifted down to the ground. If that isn't significant I honestly don't know what is (Right? I'm not being dramatic, am I? A single yellow leaf. And the stars in the sky. And the flute in the background. It was outta a movie!).

So, I'm looking at that leaf falling and listening to the music and it hits me. The Hamsadhwani is a piece of music that captures the spirit of feminism like nothing else I've heard before. It should be the anthem or something. It's not just the way it starts off, tentatively inquisitive, reaching out a singly sensual finger of interrogation. Or the way it maintains throughout this firmness of tone. Like an insistent knowledge of its rightness, its right to be heard, to be admired, to be listened to even if not agreed with. Not even the unexpected lilting curlicues that leap out at you in the most charming manner, reaching so confidently for all that is fancifully idealistic in the world. Admittedly the finish is perfect, ending on a note of not assertion or arrogance but a quiet confidence (though not in this version, try to get your hands on the Chaurasia). But none of this embodies the feminism in my mind as much as the tabla in the background. The warmly human sound of fingers on skin, not the metallic thumping rhythm of stick on metal (the ghatam in the version on this post is a little overdone, in my opinion, but that's just my opinion). The empathetic, grounding baseline throughout the melody. The little innovations serving to attract attention but in such an understated way. Not because it needs attention but because it is so happy, so confident in just being there. It doesn't need justification or validation. And isn't that what we all want, more than anything to feel? As feminists? As women? As girls?

Being that calm, that powerful and that happy inside out. I wonder how it feels. I think I've found my calling. If I'm actually born again I want to be born as the Hamsadhwani.

My Daddy's Strongest

2007-10-12T19:39:00.001-07:00

Past expiry. Bend it over along the middle until it snaps. Her dad used to let her do it to all his expired credit cards. Laughing as she struggled with her little hands to do what his big hands could do with such consummate ease. He'd say "Wait, da. Let me show you" and pick up the card which suddenly would look like the flimsiest piece of plastic that simply couldn't be capable of having bought their new car, their new house, her new kiddie-pool. Even if he claimed it had. His callused fingers would bend the plastic like it was a piece of paper, making a crease that slowly became a clean break. "See, kanna? It's simple", he'd say. And she'd look up at him, all big, brown eyes and mop of curly hair, transforming him in a moment into a big, strong Hero. Her big, strong Hero. Funny how over the years it was he who had folded up along the middle and slowly been broken in two by other pieces of plastic. Very similar pieces of plastic to those she'd used to trash so obligingly for him. This was what Alanis Morisette would have unhesitatingly termed ironic.

Or maybe not.

Friday night's a lonely night to be home sick. Not homesick, capisce?. Any night's a lousy night to be homesick. And since I've finally found the time to check out the 24 hour challenges, here's mine :D.

Ooh ooh and also. Talking about license plates. I saw one that said CURLYQ1. Course I had to speed up so I could draw level and check the driver out. Any guesses?;)

The Thing about Dreams

2007-10-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

She lost her voice two days ago and by the end of the day she feels unable to differentiate between reality and dreams. She doesn't know anymore where her dreams start and where they end. She went to work today, met all the people she normally meets, sat through the seminars she normally sits through, smiled good morning at the shuttle driver like she normally does. But somehow she feels like she should pinch herself. See if she wakes up with a start, back in her white bed with the pink comforter pulled up to her chin. She thinks maybe it's because she isn't participating in her world anymore. She's disengaged. Whenever anyone talks to her she mouths "I've lost my voice". Before they launch into conversation. She can't converse. Which makes it all bizarre because conversation is her thing. She loves the thrust and parry of it. Their faces quickly become apologetic and they mouth back "I'm sorry". Why, she doesn't know. An empathetic loss of voice, maybe. But people don't limp when they meet a guy without a leg. Do they? Then they go back to their conversations, slipping back into the talking world, leaving her not behind but at the side. Watching, listening, smiling but not actually belonging. Maybe that's why it feels like a dream. Because she really doesn't feel all that much anymore.

She thinks this is how it must feel to float.

Validation

2007-10-04T09:30:00.000-07:00

She counted. 1..nice, tall, black dude. 2..short, little hispanic man. 3..guy on a wheelchair who didn't really look like he ought to be checking *anyone* out. 4..a young kid. She frowned at him. Kids grew up too fast these days. 5,6,7,8..the valets who normally stood right next to the shuttle stop and yelled namaste when they saw her coming. 9..the guy in the cowboy hat and the really nice smile. She had to smile back.

She got into the bus. 9 for today. A decent validation count.

Goldenness

2007-10-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

She thought about it carefully. This was a delicate proposition at best. She would have to choose just the right words. Words that would convey exactly what she was thinking. Neither too heavy nor too light. There was a balance that they would have to strike. Her words, like little iron weights, hexagons with numbers written on them. Tricky devils. With their shaded nuances and their tonal leanings. She would make it perfect this time, though. Make it all okay. Make the sadness evaporate. Like magic. She just had to figure out what the right words were.

She settled for a hug.

This should have been a big, long, Flaffy-ishtyle theory post but couldn't drum up the energy. Soon to come, though.

It Never Rains But When It's Cold

2007-10-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

Arch your back, let your hair fall back but make it so none of those cold droplets fall on your skin anywhere other than your scalp. Owwww, a rivulet right down the back. Turn around, turn around. Maybe if you bent forward so that your hair falls in front of your face? Nuh uh. That way water just falls down your face. Icy cold and stinging. Oh Oh. Idea. Turn to the side and tilt your head just so. An angle so perfect that the water can soak your head but not trickle anywhere but straight down, not touching an inch of skin. Aaargh. Numb left shoulder now. Oh wait, was the water getting warmer? Skin isn't tingling anymore. Stretch out fingers, trembling hopefully, to the downpour. Yes, the water seems a lot warmer. Oh no, false alarm. Those are blue fingers. The water isn't warmer, the skin's wayyyy colder.

There is no non-fatal way of washing your hair when the water-heater's conked out.

This, that and the Rest of It

2007-09-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

Some things are facts of life. Like butterflies flap their wings. Fact of life. Or there's always something you've been dying to see on TV the day before an exam for which you haven't studied a whit. Fact of life. Or every time you think you can trust someone, you'll have it hammered home again that you really can't. Fact of life. (Just kidding, y'guys. Thought I'd be all un-flaffy and scare you folks :D). The sky always seems bluer on days when you have to stay stuck in a lab somewhere killing mice. Fact of life. Yes?

But some things just aren't facts of life. Education is necessary is not a fact of life. Nuh-uh. Not even close. Guys are assholes isn't one either. Yeah, I know. That one sounds like a fact of life. But it isn't. Really. (Or so they tell me.) Time heals everything. Not a fact of life. Fallacy. Big one. Women aren't bitches to work for, especially when you yourself are a woman. Even bigger. Saying you're sorry isn't worth jack-shit. That is so not true, people. It's worth a lot. I love apologizing (that sounds weird but it isn't really).

Thing is, ~~learnt~~was reminded of a big fact of life today. The Y chromosome's dying, dudes. You gotta get your act together. Otherwise, we're thinking a world without men.

Pretty cool, no?

A Ship In A Bottle Set Sail

2007-09-23T15:17:00.000-07:00

She sat on her bed staring at the photographs stuck up haphazardly on her closet walls. And she didn't even like photographs. She would tell people gravely that it was because she believed like the Africans that each time the camera clicked at you it took a piece of your soul away. Because it was easier to laugh at their expressions when she said that than to confess that she hated the hypocrisy of it. The fake arms around you, the insistence of the camera that you be happy. Now. But then here she was staring at photographs. All those smiling faces. Her people.

She sighed and picked up the duster from the floor. She always missed home on spring-cleaning days.

No points for guessing the song :)

Take Your Chances on Everyday

2007-09-22T07:57:00.000-07:00

She noticed the man watching her while she waited to cross the road. She crossed the road hurriedly and made her way towards the shuttle stop. She heard his footsteps following her. Forced herself to not look back, not seem afraid. Why did I wear heels today? What was I thinking? She clutched her purse tightly to herself and tried to walk faster. But subtly. So he wouldn't notice. Her walking faster. She kept hoping someone else would show up. Anyone. Even the homeless guy whom she normally crossed the road to avoid. The sun was still out, there was a breeze, gentle but there, ruffling her hair. This was the most pleasant fifteen minutes of her day. Normally. The footsteps came closer. Faster. Harder. Should she run? Turn around and confront him. She didn't have her MACE with her. She felt her heart beat harder. What if she had a heart attack before she could fight him? A car passed by. Supersonic speed. Did the people inside see her? See the guy following her? Would they remember? A girl in a suit, black heels and a red scarf. The red scarf should stand out, no?

Since we now have a DMB fan club on this blog :D and cos I adore this vid.

Why I've Been Rolling My Eyes Constantly since I started Grad School

2007-09-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

Or Why Are All Grad Students Such Social Retards

Or Is It Just Me or Does Noone Understand Verbal Communication Anymore

Elevator-talk. At its best.

He: Been losing weight? You look kinda scrawny.
(He calls a girl scrawny! Scrawny!Has he ever spoken to a girl? Like ever?)

She (blushing and giggling a little): Yeah, I've lost weight recently.

He: Why's that? You in love? Or something?
(One finally decided he was being funny and one empathized muchly with his family)

She: With you?
(Honestly, I think she was being serious. She sounded serious. And looked a little confused.)

He (baffled pause later): No, no. Umm. Just generally. Like with someone. Else.

She: Umm no.

He (after 10 heartbeats. I counted): Yeah. I was just kidding. Kinda.

Me: You've *gotta* be kidding me! (in my head only. Though maybe I should have said something. Tips on How To Talk to People)

What to Do with the Rest of the Day's Afternoon?

2007-09-18T15:28:00.000-07:00

She decided to go to the book store. Amazon was fine and all but there was something about those rows and rows of books. Smelling of paper and print and untouched-ness. She imagined walking down the Austen shelf, trailing her fingers along the spines. Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Persuasion. She'd read them them out in her head. Count the leads off. Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Fanny Price and Henry Crawford. Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth. And Edmund Bertram. Poor Edmund. And then maybe she'd sit down and read Northanger Abbey for a bit. She couldn't think of a better way to get over a broken heart. Irritation's such a perfect melancholy-obscurer.

If you haven't heard the song, you should. ~~Least for the guitar (well, not in this version). And his singing. And~~ just generally.

De-Linking

2007-09-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

Click. Scroll scroll scroll. Scan for Delete. Click. Save Changes. Close Window.

And that, people, is that. BM has left the building. She isn't on my sidebar anymore. One is retiring to sulk. For a bit. Very short bit. Teensy weensy less than 24 hour bit. Sometimes, even us Revealeds believe in Silence.

This Happiness Shindig

2007-09-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

Lying in bed at noon, staring at the ceiling. Last night had started out just fine, trailed into disaster and sometime at 3 in the morning, over kettle-cooked, pulled itself out of the dark hole in which it was languishing. Her feet still ached from dancing. And she hadn't even worn stilettos. She heard the bathroom door close softly and she turned in time to see the crack of light appear under the door. She only realized she was smiling after the smile had spread itself all over her face. This whole happiness thing was a lot easier than people made it out to be. No?

Inter-Blog Memo

2007-09-13T15:24:00.000-07:00

We, the Administrators of this Blog, have recently been appraised of a rather startling state of affairs. It has come to our attention that a number of Bloggers other than ourselves have begun to exhibit symptoms of a certain emotional condition medically identified as Drama. We are disturbed to hear that these Other Bloggers have presumed to exhibit symptoms of this disease under the mistaken impression that this is allowed. The conditions of our contract however state explicitly (Rules and Regulations of FlaffLand Binder 5, Page no. 10776a, Div: Patented Articles, Sub-div: Emotional Kinetics, Sec: Theatricalities and other Exclusivities, Sub-sec: Drama) that the Only Blogger allowed to display a Dramatic Temperament is one, Revealed, Flaffer Extraordinaire. We request all other Bloggers, who were perhaps unaware of this provision in the contract because of their negligence in reading the Policies of this Blog, to update their memories by leafing through the above-mentioned sections and heretofore refrain from Drama of any kind, sort or flavor. We hope all of you have a very nice day and a Healthy, Happy Weekend. Remember, a Healthy Blogger is a Happy Blogger. Thank you.

Earring Woes

2007-09-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

Black and sparkly. I adore black and sparkly. So course I wanted them. I lusted after them. I yearned for them. You get the picture. And just as I'm about to pay for them (in this country, apparently, shop attendants *don't* give away merchandise as gifts simply because you have a charming smile (though it's true that I was once allowed to ride the bus in exchange for my charming smile, but the driver there was male. an undeniably important consideration in such transactions), you have to pay for 'em and all. hmmph), god decides that it's time to Have his Little Joke. What sort of person thinks up these evil tricks to play on unsuspecting *and* righteous citizens? I know there's established precedents (what with Noah and Job - such a sap- and the Virgin Mary (poor thing) and just like a million others) but I always figured I wasn't Virtuous enough to be picked on by the All-Seeing One. And just cos I might have said *once* (or maybe a couple of times) to *one* person (or maybe on my blog) that god does not exist, does *not* mean he should get all vindictive and persecutionary, no? Where's the Justice in that? Where's the whole Meek Inheriting the Earth philosophy (I know I wasn't Meek, but shouldn't he have been? How else will he Inherit the Earth finally (after global warming and nuclear warfare and deforestation and species-extinction, when everyone else is done with it?)?

Anyway, long story short (such a waste of a long story, but I know you guys are all busy and stuff and I'm already in my second para) he refused to let me buy them. Hid my cards childishly, made me hunt frantically all through my car (not a mean task), finally give up and return home, only to find (voila!) my cards right where I left them in the glove compartment under a pile of old bills and chocolate wrappers. *Obviously* the work of a sadistic master-mind. We're not talking at the moment, he and I. He's in his room having some Quiet Time, thinking about what he's done. We will have a Conversation presently. Yes, we will *looks up meaningfully in his general direction with pursed lips and sternly drawn brow*.

Note to Self

2007-09-11T17:04:00.000-07:00

Please don't go there. You've been here before, you've done this before. I've been here to see you do this before. So can we just not throw ourselves against the same brick wall again? There are so many brick walls in the world. Why do we keep choosing this one? I can see it coming a mile off. Which is why I keep telling you, woman, watch out. Why is it so hard to listen? I know it's not a question of trust. You trust my taste implicitly when it comes to clothes, earrings, even shoes (how many times have you borrowed my stuff?). You love it when I cook and we normally order the same thing at restaurants. We both adore chocolate (same as every sentient being on this planet). *Obviously* we're both on the same page taste-wise. So why this hesitation to trust my discretion when it comes to men? Is it so hard to hear me when I say please, let's not do *that* again? Because really *please* let's not do that again.

To The Social (or Otherwise) Rejects of this, the Desi Blogosphere

2007-09-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

Have you been blogging for ages but noone gossips about you? Have you been blogging for ages, social networking, reaching out to people and yet having noone gossip with you about someone else (we are desi bloggers, for pity's sake. Why does noone gossip about anyone with me?? Why?)? Have you written spellbinding posts and received not one single fan mail? Have you never had a psycho stalker mail you with an anonymous death threats? Then, you, dear one, are eligible for application to the Society of Counter-Inners. We Count You In. This is our motto. Be warned though. Oversized, rhinestone studded sunglasses are a must-have as are silk scarves with sparkly threads. Oh and also there is the small matter of the Blood-Mingling-Ceremony that Must Be Performed before you can enter the club-hall (or room or hut or park bench or whatever). So pliss to perform your HIV tests and have the results handy before applying cos your Application Will Not Be Processed without the same (cept for you Ph darlin' cos you have been given an exemption as per our previous communication due largely to the No Weight Loss in Recent Times clause).

We are open to applications as of now. Citizens of the Blogosphere, this is a call to Arms. Yes, Arms we want and Arms we Shall Have or by God...well, something we will Have to Do (and it will Not Be Pretty).

Saturday Morning Blues

2007-09-08T16:10:00.000-07:00

She woke up. Images of large cans of water glistening on the outside with condensed droplets flooded her mind. She removed the covers to get out of bed and stumbled. She frowned. She hated waking up drunk. This is why you shouldn't eat nothing all day and then chug down beers like it's the last supper. You are such an idiot. She got back into bed and waited for her roomie to wake up. On cue she heard bare feet padding to her room across the wooden floor of the living room. Her roomie flounced in, fell on to her bed and looked at her accusingly. "What?", she asked her. "Why didn't you tell me you had a crush on him?" "On who?.... Whom?" "That chap who's in your class, whatshisface?" "I don't have a crush on anyone from our class!!" Her roomie looked at her consideringly for two whole minutes before she started giggling. Hysterically. "Then why did you tell him you did last night?" Sometimes if you close your eyes things just go away and pretend like they never happened.

I Adore Imagining Other People are as Whee as Me

2007-09-06T17:28:00.000-07:00

Her brow wrinkles in concentration and her ink-stained fingers tap the bench in rhythm. Coffee with what looks like whipped cream on top sits half forgotten next to her stack of notes. She looks up in time to catch a retreating smile. "I was singing out loud, wasn't I?", she asks the smiler. Exasperation Central.

In Which this Seriousness Thing is Carried to its Limits

2007-09-05T16:50:00.000-07:00

To my regulars (and I'm including you in that group, BM, even though you've decided to lurk and not comment of late!): I know all this serious feminist (uh oh used the f-word I did) rambling is totally below the belt. I know you're all going into shock, shaking your heads slowly and sobbing silently that I've joined the Dark Side. I assure you, lords and leddies, that I have not. Really really. This is just a riposte to Those Individuals who Suggest I'm Whee! Like As If!!! So I have decided to exhibit my Dangerously Grave Side (less of course I get an apology from Certain Slandering Individuals (didja see how I made you CSI? Cool, no?)). Yes, I have *nods head righteously* And sides it's kinda cool to think that any not-so-regulars who stumble in will now think I'm a bra-burning serious-thinking feminist. Joy.

Hennyway (and no, this is not a weapon, martial or otherwise), I sit in the backbench. Every lecture. Without fail. Even when I'm late. I have a buncha fellow backbenchers also. It's mainly cos I went through my first years in school being a front bencher (by compulsion not persuasion). Being emotionally and psychologically scarred by that experience at a tender age, I vowed to eschew anything resembling a front row for the rest of my life. As a corollary the only row I can inhabit during class now is the one right at the back, up against the wall. So, us backbenchers, we ask questions. Not incessantly. But whenever we can. Four of us are girls, the remaining eight are male. Of the four XXs, I'm the only one who asks questions. The guys all take turns being curious. Zat, m'hearties, is ze bachground and nov to ze foreground.

So, today during a really boring lecture on peptide analysis (yeah, it actually *is* as boring as it sounds), I had an epiphany. It was all because a girl in the front row asked a question (which had the unhappy incidental effect of waking up the guy sitting next to me who was taking what looked like a most refreshing break from the day's labor. He's Puerto Rican and he lends me all his Mana CDs so I really did feel bad that he was woken up). She is a confirmed prefacer, that one. You know the sort. Every question of hers is prefaced with an apology. "I'm sorry if this is a silly question, but...." "I think I didn't understand what you said right then but it sounded like...." " I'm sorry if you just said this and I missed it but..." Always. And then it struck me that all the prefacers in my class are female. Yes, it's true. Out of a class of a 100 people, where at least 10 questions are asked per lecture, with 10 lectures a week, that gives us a sample size of 100 questions. Of which prefacers are probably 25% or so. So that gives us 25 questions per week. And it's been 10 weeks since school started. Even a conservative estimate leaves us with a sample size of atleast 125 questions. In all this time only once was the prefacer a male.

I just wonder what those women are *really* apologizing for.

Cry Freedom

2007-09-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

It is our pleasure to inform you folks (idle pursuers of class and excellence as you have amply revealed yourselves to be) that we are Back! Yes! No more dinosaurically long story to worry about. No more sleepless nights, spent tossing and turning, worrying about RCW and her Papa. No nightmares in which Baron F sneers at the 'Umble Authoress while JAP attempts to run Her over with his Ferrari or Bentley or Aston Martin or whatever else he's decided is the Car he Requires. No more nasty comments from Certain Unnamed Sources about how they Have Been Anupam-Kherized while they weren't looking (and I still hotly deny this accusation! This is my stand and I'm sticking by it). Stead we have Various Unnamed People prodding us on to "Now come up with something else that is not a story, for Goodness' sake!" Since, as ever, we only aim to please, we Bear our Cross Gracefully and with Stiff Upper Lips mumble "Yes, I'm on it" (very hard it is, speaking with Stiff Upper Lips. You should try it sometime. When you're at work with nothing to do. Oh wait! That was an oxymoron right there *beams triumphantly at successful spotting of clever literary devices*). So, we produces our Theory of Why Men are B-s and Why Certain Presciently Intelligent Authoresses should be Invited to Write for Broadsheet Salon.

Last weekend, sitting by the pool (suitably inspired by 7 beers downed in quick succession chased by 5 popsicles) with a bunch of goralog, I proclaimed that Men were the Same B-s they've been for the Past Oh-so-many Years, by and large (notice the qualifier). Immediately, everyone jumped down my throat (metaphorically speaking), including my roomie (et tu brute, tsk tsk), and claimed that I was generalizingly making sexist comments. So ('course) I launched into my Theory, the latest one (not completely polished yet) where I cunningly pointed out that though some things have changed, some things have not. This stumped half the crowd and while they were working it out, I sallied forth with the full force of my theory. See, here's the thing. In the most equal of societies (genderously speaking), a woman who works always feels the extra pressure of having to keep her home in order by necessity while the man experiences the gratification of having made "sacrifices" or been a "great husband/father" for contributing even the littlest bit to the upkeep of the household. All the phirangs (after they'd worked it all out) pityingly looked at me and said "Maybe that's the case in your culture, not ours". Oh-so-condescendingly.

So, here's to you, pretty boys (and the not-so-pretty-ones). I rock.

Psst. Here's a question for you guys (on a totally different random thought). Are there people in the world who get easily tired of people or are there people in the world whom people get easily tired of? Chew on that one and gimme a verdict.

In Which the End Ends (as does the Story! the Lord be Praised)

2007-08-31T07:57:00.000-07:00

Baron JAP, his nerves throughly shot to pieces, buried his head in his hands and all TR could hear from him was "Oh no, Oh no, We're all going to Die." At least that's what TR *thought* he was saying. TR was more preoccupied with the fact that the car now under no control whatsoever was careening forward at close to 150 mph since JAP had decided to rest his foot on the gas pedal. "Hold the wheel, you old fool", yelled TR as loudly as he could. "Hold the wheel, papa", yelled RCW as loudly as she could. The last thing TR heard was the ear-splitting shriek that RCW emitted before there was a resounding cacophony of noises and a cloud of smoke surrounded by the stench of burning tires.

"No, actually", said the handsome stranger (who on closer inspection, it struck Baron F, looked derangedly handosme), "I'm Renovatio.........the Ripper! Muahahahaha.". "What?", BM asked politely. She could have sworn he'd said he was Renovatio the Ripper and he was laughing in what one could only call a psychotic manner. "He sez he's Renovatio deRipper", said Baron F, "whoever *that* is." BM turned back to John/Renovatio to explain that she didn't know him though she had first mistaken him to be a guy she used to know who had once written a poem for her in 7th grade, but really she didn't know any Renovatios from a deRipper family. Before she could say a word, Renovatio whipped out a knife from his pant pocket (like who keeps a knife there! he was *obviously* psycho) and brandished it in her face. The last thing Baron F remembered was the ear-splitting shriek that BM emitted before there was a resounding cacophony of noises and a cloud of smoke surrounded by the stench of burning tires.

Wiseling and CS viewed the scene from above. "But who was the girl who was crossing the road, daughter mine", asked CS in some concern. "Oh I believe she was some kid called Scout or some such. She was like the sister of someone in one of those cars. Who knows these things, mama? All the king's horses and all the king's men cannot put Destiny together again. An egg in time saves ninety nine chickens before they hatch." she ended hurriedly, hoping she had obscured the narrative enough. CS nodded wisely, "Yes, yes. Besides these humans need to be squelched a little. Survive everything they do. And multiply like rabid dogs." Wiseling wanted to point out that rabid dogs weren't really known for their breeding skills but the thought of making that a 55er exhausted her and she stopped herself just in time. "OK, m'dear our work here is done. The honor of our family remains unbesmirched", CS declaimed in satisfaction. The two women of the proud 55er-Oracular race looked at each other in triumph, their smiles slowly turning into laughter. The gloomy skies filled with cackling as they faded back into their own world.

FINIS and PHEW

In Which the End Begins

2007-08-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

BM fumed to herself silently. Damn this idiotic chap-from-the-backseat. Like who did he think he was. Without doubt the most annoyingly un-useful male person she had ever met. She glared at him. He had edged away till he was almost stuck to the passenger-side door. Like what did he think she would do to him. Very tempted, she was, to just lean over, open the door and push him out. He seemed to be attempting to write on a scrap of paper, though how anyone could even attempt that in a car going at 90 mph she couldn't fathom. "Hmmph!"

Was that a snort now? Baron F looked up from the poem he was trying to write. Inspiration had just struck him (very inconvenient this inspiration was, always popping up when it wasn't wanted, like a bad Penny) in the form of a poem (a villanelle actually, which would be palindromic, arrhythmic and at the same time able to do magic tricks while standing on its head) and he had to get it down on paper before it evaporated right out of him. And his train of thought had just been confronted with a human tied to the tracks right in front of it. Some people might have said it was just a snort, shrugged it off and got on with the job. But some people were just not sensitive, artistic souls. Baron F glared at BM. Before he could launch into his witty, yet subtly cruel cut at Women who Snorted Inappropriately, he was interrupted by a squeal. "What is she doing here??!! What is she *doing* here?? OMG! She's going to die!!! OMG". Baron F turned around just in time to see a rather fetching young woman running across the highway. The highway! He wasn't surprised that BM appeared to know this person. Just the sort of insane woman he would expect BM to associate with. Their car had come to a screeching halt and Baron F wasn't in the least tempted to see what the cars right behind them were doing. He saw no point in facing Death grimly. He much preferred the idea of turning his back on It and pretending It wasn't happening.

The smart black Jaguar behind them swerved just in time to avoid Crazy Highway-crossing Woman and then impressively swerved just in time to avoid their car (now parked in the middle of the highway) and even more impressively came to a neat halt less than 2 inches from their trunk at a 45 degree angle. The driver stepped out, checked to see if there were any scratches, smiled in satisfaction at seeing none on his gleaming hood, removed his DnG sunglasses and walked towards their car. He tapped on the driver's window, waited for BM to lower it, blinded her with a brilliant smile (displaying the cutest dimples ever!) and asked, "Are you ok there, Miss?" BM's heart did a little pole dance in the confines of its bony cage, took a bow and then eased up on her lungs enough for her to croak, "John?"

In Which the Author Ruminates on the Callousness of her Readers

2007-08-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

It strikes one that none of you lot (readers you call yourself! gah!) even realized that the title of the last post had nothing to do with the post itself. Not one of you Blunt-quoters commented on the fact that not only did Ph *not* wake up to a new dawn, she didn't wake up at all! Not one of you, *obviously*, bothered reading the title. One feels very unappreciated. Very.

However one is not the sort to hold grudges. One is not the kind of person who sniffs at people, tosses her hair and walks off huffily (fact one does not know how to walk (off or on) huffily). So, fortunately for you unconcerned folk, one is soldiering on (heroically) with one's story. Even in the face of much unappreciation. And unconcern. And general utterly bloody-minded callousness.

It would appear, to the lay-eye, that KSA and Sis have quite the advantage on Wiseling because did they not after all have atleast a 3 hour headstart while Wiseling was indulging in hysterical door-slamming bawlings and other such goings-on? Said lay-eye would in all fictionality be incredibly mistaken simply cos 55er-Oracles are Special People. Very Special People. Time and space bend at their will. In fact the Author has even heard Rumors that 55er-Oracles are the Very Creators of Time and Space. Having thereby summarily dismissed of any headstart KSA might have had, one can safely proceed with the Big Showdown Scene in which Everyone Gets Involved (not with each other (though you will have your luuuurve interest, BM, not to worry) but in the Scene). Though KSA was the first to stand up and admit that his Sis scared him witless (he would even go so far as to say she Terrified him), there are Times in every Man's life when such emotions as fear (and even Terror) take a back seat. They get up and politely vacate their front-row VIP seats for the village Elders namely, Love and Lust (this is cue for Adult Jokes *pointed glance in BM's general direction*). At Times like this, even the weakest of men, even the KSAs of the world are the first into battle, leading the charge so to speak. So it was that for the first time in their lives, KSA and Dobby were charging down the freeway ahead of the thundering hooves of Thunder. They could see the Aston with its precious cargo on the road in front of them and all KSA could hear was his heart pounding in his ears (very anatomically mobile the heart is one feels. For an organ that is. A bit unsettling.). Or it was Thunder's hooves (which normally built up to a crescendo within 5 minutes of any journey). KSA couldn't decide which. But either way it made a pleasant change from those damned bugles, he felt. As he was ruminating sadly on bugles and associated paraphernelia of every Knight's unfortunate lot, KSA heard a shriek and turned back to see his Sis gesticulating at him frantically. He couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his heart (or Thunder's hooves, he was still undecided) but his male inuition told him that Sis was trying to tell him something. Maybe even something Important. She looked a little red in her face. He gulped.

As KSA stared at his sister's face, moving closer to death (by Murder) with every jog of good ol' Dobby, Wiseling swooped down to the Professor's ear. She had decided that invisible was the best fashion move for the nonce. Shimmering slightly in waves of invisibility, she leant down and whispered, " Peace to all who leave this place and health to all who take their daily Vitamins. Especially Vitamin D as the most recent research suggests. Don't count your eggs before they have a great fall. Because all the king's horses and cabbages taste different. Based on the salt content. Reach for the battle or die.". She whispered the 'die' sibiliantly (55er-Oracles can add sibiliants to a non-sibiliant word. It's another of those special powers they have.) The Professor looked around wildly, almost knocking JAP on the head with his elbow, as he swished his hands over his right ear (head and ear belonging to one, Rasa, Tabula, Professor, not one JAP, Baron, Esq). "What? What?", yelled JAP swerving wildly as he instinctively burrowed deep into Panic Mode. "Did you say die or fly?", yelled the Fessor, even louder and in even franticer accents. Wiseling sighed. These old men and their deafness. Quite a trial. "Peace to all who leave this place and health to all who take their daily Vitamins. Especially Vitamin D as the most recent research suggests. Don't count your eggs before they have a great fall. Because all the king's horses and cabbages taste different. Based on the salt content. Reach for the battle or die." JAP jumped violently in his seat. He was clutching the wheel in a deathgrip. It was a pity that he was pointing it in a direction perpendicular to the rest of the traffic but that was probably because he wasn't looking at the road. "DID SOMEONE JUST SAY DIE????", he bellowed at TR, causing the last remaining ear cells in TR's left ear to throw up their hands and contemplate throwing themselves at Death's mercy.

In the backseat, RCW came to, slowly. Her eyelashes fluttered and she winced. Noone likes to wake up from a long nap with people yelling in their ear. She frowned and opened her eyes.

In Which Ph Awakens to a New Dawn

2007-08-11T17:01:00.000-07:00

Because I have exams next week. Because I have a huge list of things I'm supposed to know like the back of my hand by now. Because I've spent the better part of the day revising this list in such a way that though the number of things to do on it keep decreasing the amount of work I have to do appears to increase every time I look at it. Because I've eaten all the cookies in the cookie jar (double chocolate chip, totally delish). Because I've made three cups of tea in the course of three hours (and jasmine tea *is* proper tea!). Because I've run out of funny faces to make at my phone camera and send to everyone I know (mainly because some of them promptly sent back pics. The pain of seeing other people out shopping (thank you, bm) almost killed me. So.). Because my idiot roomie who was supposed to come back early so that we could go out and do something fun is still not back. Because I can't think of anything else to do that'll keep me from that awfully big textbook sitting on the bed next to me. Because, basically. I present the one in which KSA finds Ph (and surreal is all you're going to get (sorry Unkel ji) but surreal isn't all that bad. Really.).

The set up, you must admit, jobless reader, is perfect. We have two cars (both beauts, I hear) racing on the highway. We have a father on a desperate chase united with his beloved daughter (the Apple of his Eye) but in the process losing his equally beloved car (Sophie's Choice, one might almost say). We have an intrepid car-thief (with the coolest handbag for which crime I might have to kill her off) and a umm..well a Baron F. We have a damsel in distress who has captivated the heart of a Knight in Shining Armor (the KSA in question might or might not be the anti-Falstaff. But sshhh let's not give everything away). We have the gourmand, bibliophilic sister of the KSA (what do we call her?) and we have the prescient 55er-Oracle who has just swtiched camps. We, more excitingly, have the KSA and Sis in hot pursuit of the d-i-d who herself is en route to Portugal. Will Baron JAP take his daughter home considering a car lost simply a car gained. Or will he count a car lost, a heart broken and insist on recovering it? Will Ph think fondly of the handsome face (well, helmet and plume if you want to nitpick) of KSA and sigh as she loses herself in the rambling, rose-smelling maze of lurrrveee? Will KSA triumph over his alter-ego and claim the hand of his damsel-in-distress? Will ??! ever forgive KSA for interrupting her dreams of floating truffles? Will TR survive in the company of the strung out JAP? So many questions.

But none of these will be answered here-in. Instead let us focus our attentions on Wiseling, our 55er-Oracle. While some (numbskulls!) might sneeringly allude to comparisons with James Blunt, the truth of the matter is that the Wiseling's actions are imperative for the safe coming together of this entire story (the tunnel, in fact can be seen at the end of all these lights, never fear, folks).We left the Wiseling in a huff. Slamming doors onto empty rooms and making general drama. But not for nothing is she an Oracle. She unerringly knew where to go in her time of need. In her moment of truth. In her nadir of hurt despair. She floated with determined wafts to her house, flung in without knocking and throwing herself into her mum's arms, cried her eyes out. "Awww honey. There, there. Things are going to be fine. Who did this to you, then? Who?", murmured CS soothingly as she patted her daughter's back. "They- I mean- The gall- I didn't- Shut up-", sobbed Wiseling incoherently. "Yes, yes, I understand. How could they.", stated CS gently, getting up to get her daughter some water. At the end of a tear-filled 5 minutes, CS had the whole story. "How dare they?!", she said, her eyes flashing magnificently. "But daughter mine, this is not the time for tears and coming home. This is the time to go fight. We cannot let our proud name be insulted in this fashion. We are not the 55er-Oracles for nothing". The Wiseling drew herself up. "What do I do, mum?", she asked. CS' mouth became a straight line. "There is only one way, daughter. Find the Professor. He is the key." The Wiseling nodded. Hadn't she suspected this herself. "I won't return till we are avenged, mum", she said, turning back at the door. CS smiled proudly. "Daughter", she said. The Wiseling looked at her. "?" "You're forgetting your 55s.", she reminded her with maternal sympathy and a blow-softening smile. The Wiseling blushed, nodded at her mum and closed the door softly behind her as she left.

In Which the Plot Moves Along Gently

2007-08-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

They rode for a couple of minutes in silence. Mainly because TR couldn't hear himself think over the ringing in his ears. He had collected himself enough to deposit RCW in a crumpled heap in the back of the car. She appeared to be fast asleep. In fact so asleep it bordered on comatose. But he decided not to draw JAP's attention to that yet. JAP seemed a little high strung at the moment. He stole a glance at JAP and gingerly cleared his throat. JAP started a little causing the car to swerve and almost scrape the paint off the smart Lincoln cruising along in the next lane. TR winced. Both of them studiously avoided looking in the direction of the red-faced Lincoln-driver who appeared to be well-versed in the art of what is known in some circles as furious articulation. Obviously throat clearing was not the way forward. TR decided to sit back and await proceedings. He didn't want to spend too much time thinking about the events of the past half an hour because 1. he didn't know if he'd imagined them or they had really happened 2. he suspected that they had really happened 3. he was hoping desperately that they hadn't really happened. Besides JAP was armed and dangerous. Prudence seemed a very viable option.

Baron F looked at BM with all the fear in his heart showing in his eyes. "Whatever you do, please try not to use that voicebox of yours at maximum efficiency again. Please. Just put your upper lip down to cover your mouth and we can talk about this. Rationally. And quietly. No sudden sounds, now. Just keep your voice frequency where I can still hear it. Your last attempt was quite harrowing." He paused, looked down at his trembling hands and added, "And unsightly." BM didn't hear a word. "What just happened? Huh? Huh? What? Who is this woman? This female? What happened to the other one? Don't just sit there, for heaven's sake! Do something!!!" Baron F was bewildered. Noone in all his years inhabiting this planet had ever asked him to *do* something! Did this woman not know that he was a Baron? Did she not realize that he didn't go around *doing* things?! And *of course* he would just sit there! This was his way. He sat around. Sometimes he read obscure authors. Sometimes he drank wine. Sometime he wrote poetry. Sometimes he made up stories with terrible punchlines. Sometimes he did all of it together. How could anyone ask more of him? He looked at BM with undisguised horror. Something told him that an all-moving force had just met an immovable object.

Enough was enough, she decided to herself. I mean, she was a 55er-*Oracle* for pity's sake. People normally had to *pay* for her services. And here was this grumpy ??! yelling at her to shut up? Shut up??!! Sheesh. She didn't have to take this. Hmmph. Not for nothing had her mum named her Wiseling (this of course was *before* they'd found out about her oracular tendencies, otherwise she'd have been named Delphi). She was leaving and what was more she was leaving to a Better Place. She turned on her heel and flounced out, slamming the door behind her. For effect. Maybe the room was empty, maybe ??! and KSA had gone away on a horse's egg hunt, but the effect still remained. So there!

So when Flaffy promises nepotism, Flaffy produces nepotism. Watch all 4 (by clicking on *both* the links) and pliss to give me feedback.

In Which Cheering Up BM Continues to be the Driving Force of this Story

2007-07-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

KSA sat next to his sister, in front of the fireplace. She was dozing off, after a meal of wada pav, fish-and-chips and french toast with chocolate spread. "Dyspepsia, engorged, gargantuan, visceral...", she muttered. KSA sighed. He hated to wake her up (mainly because of her propensity to come up with theories he couldn't understand head or tail of) but some things Had to Be Done. And this was one of them.

"??!", he said, pronouncing her name with just the right degree of incredulous astonishment (she wouldn't respond otherwise). "Huh?", she woke up with a start, looking around. She noticed her idiot brother gawping at her and rubbing the last vestiges of apple-and-rhubarb-strudel-just-like-her-mum-used-to-make-it pipe dreams from her eyes, she looked at him questioningly. "What is it, now? Let me guess. You couldn't help make that Rowling woman's attempt at writing any better again? That job is just too hard for you. I should probably take it on.Has she already printed out copies?" "Wha-?", stammered KSA. "I only wanted to ask you if I could umm...err...y'know..ahem", he bleated.

"Cough it up, you dolt. What dya need to do?", really, she couldn't believe KSA! Waking her up from her nap (tearing her away from contemplations of Belgian waffles. With Honey. And Cream) just to blither away at her. "Well..would it be against the contract if I went back to the last d-i-d?", he mumbled, almost under his breath. "What?! Why would you want to go back? You mean the chick in the Aston? Oh and that really nice looking, Sean Connery look-alike old gent?", she allowed herself a smile. So rare to meet helpful folk during her missions. "Why would you want to go back?", she was curious now. Could it be? Had her brother finally.....she couldn't believe it. He turned a slow, tomato-red under her intent gaze. She started chuckling. "Which one of them?", she asked him in between chortles. "The one in the Bentley. With the nice man you liked.", he mumbled even more under his breath. "Nice, nice", she approved in her best elder-sister voice. She rubbed her hands together, "Let's get to work then. We need to find out where they are, don't we?".

Whirrrr.Too many cooks are better than one in the bush. Forewarned is forespawned. Tis better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all. So think wisely and as well as possible. Depending on how deep it is. The well, that is. Half a loaf, as they say, is enough for dinner. Whirrrr.

KSA looked up with startled attention. "Tch", said ??! irritably. The damn 55-er Oracle spewing out gobbledy-gook again. She didn't know why she even listened to it anymore. "Do shut up", she snapped in its direction and continued looking into the crystal ball. But KSA couldn't help thinking about it. Half a loaf was, after all, enough for dinner. As long as one wasn't ??!.

Brief Update on What Constitutes a Pain, Flaffily Speaking (Or Missives From the Trenches)

2007-07-26T14:47:00.001-07:00

Grad school is a pain.

Orientation is a pain.

Life is dangerously set on the brink of being a pain.

"So much to do, so little time" is a saying coined by someone who was definitely a pain. I can just sense it (I have a theory that most sayings can give a very nice peephole into the character of the coiner but more on that one later).

I'm sorry I haven't blogged more :( since that is one of the few things that right now wouldn't be classified a pain.

BM, pliss to accept the spaces in lieu of words and I promise a brilliant new post as soon as the weekend swings around.

In Which some Loose Ends are Tied Up and some Explanations are Made

2007-07-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

Remember the guy who asked me if this story was ever going to end? He recently took it upon himself to suggest that the last episode (as in the previous one-last not final-last, which would have been an entirely unamusing pun that I would never stoop so low as to use, thank you very much *sniff*) might be a good place to stop (he seems to think that I'm kowtowing to at least some of the laws of motion with much more fidelity than is required). So I thought about it and umm it seems reasonable enough. What do you guys think?

Secondly, June and July (so far) have been straggly months for poor Flaff. I've been using him very badly. Many apologies. But now I'm back (whoo hoo) and I shall take up the reins seriously and go back to my daily posting schedule (and no, that schedule isn't impelled by boredom and lack of anything better to do, Mr. Officious-person-in-the-front-row). I have some excellent posts all set up for this month (at least I have one of my renowned theory-posts, outlining a blog theory which the Prof was kind enough to proclaim a Quirky Theory, haha (the rest of you won't get the joke until you read that post, so sorry) half laid out umm kinda....sorta). Though first things first, I shall tackle the dreaded 8-tag of C.S. The rest of you can quake and tremble cos you never know where the finger of doom (ie my finger, very doomy it is) will come to rest among the lot of you. Muahahahahahaha.

Thirdly, this month shall see an unprecedented level of nepotism on this blog. Don't say I didn't warn you guys.

Fourthly (and also finally), I read two books reviewed by two blogger reviewer dudes whose judgments I normally find trustworthy. The first was Above Average which was passed off in the review as a book holding mainly rainy-afternoon value. While I ended up agreeing with a large part of Falstaff'take on it, I thought I saw something in it that set it apart from afternoon timepass status. The writing (while sometimes definitely amateurish) had that instinctive gift of storytelling implicit in it (haven't you found so often that some authors jerk along in fits and starts and while their finished products are perfectly passable - sometimes brilliant- there's something about it that doesn't sit right? Like one Christie, Agatha as illustrious example). And I think the book has more depth than it is widely given credit for and lumping it in the Five Point Someone category is quite unfair. I was never in IIT, never in Delhi, never a guy, but I totally identified with the entire book. Read it, you guys, if you haven't already. The second book, No Onions nor Garlic came recommended highly and left me totally cold. An unaffectionately rendered too clever to be called book trying vainly to imitate Wodehouse of all people and not managing to pull it off at all in my ever-so-vain-and-totally-conceited-and-infallible opinion. Give it a miss, I'd say :).

So to sum up the minutes of this post, I'm starting school next week ( :((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( ). All sympathetic contributions will be accepted in the Comments section. Thank you vairy vairy much.

In Which Wiseling's Legacy is Revisited

2007-07-08T22:58:00.000-07:00

Now, before everyone jumps on my back (and leaves snarky comments like 'About time'. 'Lazy git', etc) let me just remind you guys that I'm not 1. as jobless as I am in the US when I'm pretending to work 2. left to myself for more than an hour at a stretch and 3. equipped with access to the internet (cos I've been having the funnest time roaming around forests and such like - read that and burn..muahahahaha). And also let me prove my devotion to this enthralling story (which someone despairingly asked me if I'd ever end, and to him I say (snootily) "Yes, I will! All in Good Time!!") by telling you guys that while I was driving on some of the worst roads I've come across in India (mainly cos they were completely washed away by the monsoons) I totally planned this episode out in my head. So there. Let your tears of remorse at your unjust complaints fall freely and wash the sin from your souls (I was recently at an Islamic prayer meeting and have been muchly inspired).

So, getting on with the Life and Times of an Unfortunately Unconscious RCW, we switch back to JAP, TR and Ph. Unsuspecting of the adventures that had befallen his precious Aston, the Professor walked out with JAP and Ph, guzzling a coke (which might or might not have had a drop of Something Stronger in it - and yes I'm talking about Folic Acid). JAP prided himself on his unerring sense of direction and memory. He had never lost a car in a car park in his life. Naturally, he was a little puzzled when he walked to the spot where he'd parked the Martin only to find a grey Bentley in it's stead. He scratched his head in baffled silence, walked around the car, even looked under it. But nothing. He looked at TR and Ph who were standing around idly, observing him. "Forgot where you parked it, didja?", sighed Ph. Not for the first time was she wishing she was anywhere but here with these two idiotic old men. She glared at TR who was now making bubbling noises with his straw. "No!", JAP drew himself to his full height and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest, "I *never* lose a car. It's been stolen." Ph shook her head and turned away to start looking for the car, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a little grey car zipping towards the exit. She whipped around, yelling, only to see the Aston pull out of the driveway onto the feeder, a girl driving it and someone who looked uncannily like RCW in the passenger seat. "Guysssssss. They've got the car. She's in it." Before she could finish the sentence JAP and TR were gazing open mouthed at the exit through which the Aston has just disappeared. "Call the police", screamed TR. "Catch them", said JAP running helplessly towards the exit. "Get in the car", yelled Ph. Not for nothing was she a high school student. She knew all there was to know about jacking open locked cars (not that she'd had to do it, someone had left the key in the car door. Rich idiots!). TR was beginning to register a protest and take the high ground re: integrity and morals (hard as BM might find to believe that) when JAP barreled into him, pushing him into the car and slamming the door locked behind him. He then ran to the other side, almost shoved Ph into the middle, got behind the wheel and in a puff of dust, the car roared out of the parking lot. The Bentley was turbo-charged (you *cannot* grumble about this, Senor JAP).

Ph and TR found themselves clutching onto the seats for dear life. "Slow down, slow down", yelled Ph against the wind trying to claw JAP's right eye out while holding onto her own hair which seemed fit to tear out of her scalp and fly away. JAP pulled out a Smith and Wesson, "Shut up, you guys. Not a peep out of any of you. RCW is in that car and we Will Save Her", he yelled pronouncing his capitals viciously. Ph moved closer to TR. JAP was obviously off his rockers. She had often told RCW that. "You're bloody off your rockers", she said, deciding to share the information with JAP himself. These things were better out in the open and treated on time while there was still hope. "You need psychiatric help" , she continued. And found herself lifted out of the seat and onto a saddle. Of a white horse. In front of someone who could be none other than the KSA. Trumpets blared in the background, she looked up into cold, blue eyes. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes and started kicking and screaming. Really, this highway banditry was getting quite uncontrollable. T White horses and armor! What next? TR looked on in bafflement. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much coke. Or maybe he shouldn't have put so much of the Stronger Stuff in it (still talking Folic Acid - which is sinetifically proved to have hallucinogenic side effects).

The KSA irritably hissed at Ph to stop being an idiot. Sometimes it annoyed him, how these wretched damsels in distress could never accept help graciously. Always kicking and biting. If it weren't for them he wouldn't even need the armor (which was dreadfully hot and had no scratching room). He urged his horse on faster. The trumpeting was giving him a headache. But it was in the terms of his contract and he could do nothing about it. Bugger it. He ran through his instructions in his head. He had to find a grey Aston Martin. Ah, there it was. Drop this d-i-d into it. Ok done that. He heard a yelp and a slight thud. He seemed to have dropped her onto someone else. Oh well. Not everything in life was perfect. He stopped in front of the car, his horse gracefully lifted up her fore-hooves (Good Ol' Dobby, you could always count on her). The trumpets reached a crescendo, and he galloped off. He patted Dobby on her back. A job well done.

Two minutes later, his sister smacked him on his head. "Why can't you get the simplest things right, you dolt? It was an *exchange*. Get it?? Means you give each party something the other party had!! Do I have to do everything myself?" She picked up the reins of Thunder, her velvet-black stallion and thundered back down to the freeway. She reached the Aston, identified the girl in the red blouse (at least this was better than last time when she had had to find a nose-ringed girl wearing a black tee in a high school), lifted her out of the car, bowed graciously at the driver (a girl who seemed to have lost her scream somewhere in her throat), smiled a twinkle and said "My apologies. My idiot brother screwed up". She galloped towards the Bentley that was following at a tearing pace. The driver (a total Sean Connery look alike, she thought appreciatively) was dangling a SnW in one hand and frantically pushing what appeared to be buttons on the dashboard. Before her eyes, the Bentley's carriage rose from it's wheels by a good two meters. How nice, the slightly oldish S.C type was trying to help her. She smiled gratefully at him, and neatly placed RCW on top of the man in the passenger seat. The girl seemed a bit limp. But that wasn't any of her concern. The contract was fulfilled, that was 1 grand in her pocket. One month's rent. Horizon Clouds were becoming bloody expensive real estate. She sighed as she galloped off into the horizon.

Both BM and JAP found their screams at the exact same instant. One can only sympathize (in some futility) with the Professor and Baron F. But that, gentlemen, is how the cookie crumbles.

(I hope to see at least a couple of happy campers now!)

In Which RCW is Treated in a Way that Might Please Scout

2007-06-24T03:46:00.000-07:00

It was a matter of minutes before RCW and BM were sailing back down the freeway (especially because someone - and by someone we mean the sort of dastardly old man who would compare Bridget Jones to Elizabeth Bennet- daftheadedly left the keys in the ignition). Except this time in a beautifully sweet-running grey Aston Martin. RCW was just beginning to wonder where they were headed when she saw a sign. "Portugal 60 miles that-a-way" it said. She started humming along to the radio, feeling pretty chirpy. She didn't know the words to it but she hummed anyway. BM hated people who hummed along with the radio but short of pushing RCW out of the car she could think of no way to shut her up. She was just about to suggest that any humming could be taken elsewhere (in the sort of nasty tone that comes naturally to some people and is really extremely hard to learn if you don't have the knack of it from the cradle onwards - haven't you ever noticed how some babies bawl in the nastiest of tones? Sorta like a scary Exorcist type crying) when someone cleared their throat from the region of the back seat.

"Excuse me, ladies", said an unmistakably urbane voice that RCW had often heard quoting Iranian poetry with her dad in their living room (hers and her dad's living room, not hers and Baron F's or Baron F's and her dad's which would have been a tad weird). BM almost shrieked but she was proud to think that she'd managed to choke it back in the last minute. Her arms still trembled a little bit but she bravely said, "Umm are you an axe murderer, mister? Because you need to know that I'm wanted by the cops so they could be chasing us right now!" Baron F, a little taken aback said, "No. But this happens to be my neighbour's car. Are you perhaps one of RCW's friends?", he nodded in a glacially friendly way at RCW to show peaceably good intentions (since the thought of upsetting the crazy woman driving the car while they were cruising at what seemed like 120 mph on the freeway seemed like a bad one). "No no she isn't my friend and this is the Prof's car???? OMG I had no idea I am insuchamessandnowireallydontknowwhati'll-", RCW slumped forward.

This time I have to regrettably inform my readers that BM *did* scream. It was a quickly choked off scream though (if that makes it any better). "I simply detest people who mess up their punctuations and use all those acronyms", drawled Baron F as he pocketed what looked like a Beretta. BM gulped.

In Which an Aston Martin Lost is an Aston Martin Gained

2007-06-16T00:21:00.000-07:00

JAP and TR have been completely ignored for a bit one feels. So let us turn the spotlight of our immense fascination onto them. We left TR cowering in his seat with JAP pretending that TR was not being embarrassing, when in fact he was (y'know how those situations are, the there's-a-pink-elephant-sitting-next-to-me sort). Very. Before TR could get another word out, the car door on his side was wrenched open and a visibly flushed and breathless Ph piled in. "How could you both leave me and go? Huh?", she asked in between pants (the ones involving air and lungs, not the trouser sort). "Didn't I tell you? 'Let's leave, let's leave' I said. But oh no, we have to find pants" (the trouser sort), continued TR, still muttering defiantly under his breath. Baron JAP blustered gamely and with regrettable futility, "But beti, you know that this sort of thing is not suitable for a young, beautiful girl like you. No? Come, we don't have time to waste. So you go home and wait and we'll be back before you know it. Umm maybe you could have some hot tea waiting for us or something....." TR sank lower into his seat. Sometimes, he didn't know how Baron JAP had survived into his dotage.

Ph drew a breath, her eyes shot sparks of anger and resentment, and her bosom heaved (in an appropriately delicate (but totally non-feminine, which is not to say it was masculine-i *have* met men with heaving bosoms but that is beside the point-it was just extremely gender-neutral and very PC, by which I don't mean Phil Collins) way of course). Before she could launch into a speech on feminist rights, or even worse burn her choli, TR thought it wise to stem the flow. "Now, now, Ph darling, you know that we would love to have you with us. And I understand that RCW, your friend from childhood, your sister almost-" "Like Damon and Pythias", offered JAP in mumbled support of TR's brave attempt. "Yes, like D and P. Or even like that guy who came back as a ghost to visit his friend. Remember?" "Which one? Wasn't that D and P?" "No, of course not, my dear JAP. You have got it all mixed up. These two were Japanese. If I remember right." "Really? Japs? Hahahaha", laughed the Baron with a dash of the old Sean Connery charm of manner (really one does wonder how he made it into his dotage).

"If you've both quite finished", pronounced Ph in glacial accents, "maybe we could go and search for my friend who might be dying in a ditch for all we know?" TR had the grace to blush. The impatient tongue-clicking of Ph made both TR and JAP a tad bit nervous. "Maybe, we should just take her along", capitulated JAP (isn't it sweet how men always pretend that they have a choice?). "Fine, do whatever you want. It's your chase. I'm only in this for the ride", said TR cleverly pushing all responsibility onto JAP's shoulders (not for nothing had he slaved as a Professor for so many years). "Hey, it was your idea", protested JAP as he slid the Aston into gear and continued down the driveway.

TR's obstinate silence refusal to engage in conversation caused JAP to lapse into an ominously petulant silence. Ph, triumphantly maintained a stream of chatter (mostly reminiscing about her childhood spent frolicking with RCW around the countryside, which didn't help stem JAP's injured and now a tad bit appalled silence). They had been coursing along the highway for almost half an hour when Ph, spotting a restroom and refreshments exit yelled (over the radio, which she insisted on playing loudly - Westlife was gamely chirruping Uptown Girl at the moment to TR's acute pain and discomfort, the latter of which was exacerbated by his irresistibly flapping dressing robe attracting more than its fair share of comic attention from Ph - girls these days encapsulated TR's opinion of the situation)for JAP to stop the car. Which he almost did in the middle of the highway before TR managed in the last minute to remind him politely that they were in fact on a road populated by very many very fast-moving cars. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do", said Ph gaily, oblivious to the near death experience she had just survived (I have a theory that NDEs kill people by their very near-deathiness which is why there is so little verifiable evidence for or against them), "and right now this girl's gotta-" "Yes, yes, we get the picture", said TR hastily interrupting what promised to be awkward revelations. JAP pulled up at the service stop and the three of them trooped into the McD's that was flashing its message of peace, love and cholesterol bravely into the afternoon sunlight.

As the threesome disappeared through the revolving doors, a couple of girls whom we've gotten to know pretty well revolved out. RCW was by now as excited about the new car they were going to umm borrow as BM. In fact more so, cos BM seemed quite blase about the whole thing. They had been walking in the parking lot for 2 minutes (give or take - length of a minute depending on other stuff and so forth), when they both stopped short and sighed in chorus. Their eyes had almost simultaneously come to rest on a lovely little grey Aston Martin shimmering alluringly. This was it.

In Which Wiseling Does her Bit Introducing KSA (if only I had one, sigh)

2007-06-14T20:21:00.000-07:00

RCW hummed along with the strange music that BM seemed to prefer. The monotony of the landscape had slowly lulled her into an almost dreamlike state. She was rudely jerked out of her reverie when BM suddenly, and rather forcefully, slammed on the breaks. The silver Mercedes right behind them managed to screech to a halt, but the other cars were not so lucky. RCW turned to BM, demanding to know what the hell possessed her to do that, only to see BM staring straight ahead with her mouth hanging open. RCW followed her gaze to see what the fuss was all about, and unconsciously mirrored BM's incredulous expression.
In the middle of the road stood a magnificent white stallion, the kind you only see in the movies. Distracted by the majestic creature, RCW was jolted once again, when on looking up, she found arresting blue eyes staring into her own. Mounted on the horse was none other than, (surprise, surprise) a knight in shining armour. The wind seemed to be whipping around the pair, all in all making the scene rather cliche and surreal at the same time.
The knight slowly trotted up to RCW and charmingly extended his hand. "Good Evening, M'lady. I, your knight in shining armour, am here to rescue you from the evil clutches of...." At this, he suddenly glanced and BM and looked confused. He retracted his hand to (aristocratically, ofcourse) scratch his head, looking more and more confused.
KSA suddenly got a bright look in his eyes, (y'know.. the light bulb look,) only to slump down and exclaim, "Oh no. Not again!" At this the stallion let out a snort, turned around and began to trot away, all the while muttering about stupid humans who refused to ask for directions.
On this note, BM turned to look questioningly at RCW, and finding nothing to say that could quite fit the situation, shrugged and hit the gas. They drove off, completely oblivious to the destruction that they left in their wake.

In Which Suspense is Preserved At All Costs

2007-06-12T08:15:00.000-07:00

BM and RCW raced down the highway. RCW, after a coupla hours finally screwed up the courage to ask BM, "Umm do you always drive this fast?" BM looked at her (which made RCW even nervouser, cos shouldn't BM be watching the road considering the speedo showed 120?), grinned and said, "Nope. Not always. Only when I'm driving a stolen car that I mean to ditch ASAP. Or a float on one of those Pride Parades" she added as an afterthought. "Ah-ha-ha", laughed RCW nervously. Surely, BM was kidding. She looked at BM again. Just to make sure. The slightly manic gleam in BM's eyes didn't make her feel any better. "You're kidding, arent you?" "No, course not. But don't worry. We'll ditch this one as soon's we can find an alternative. This one's a little flashy, no? What dya want to ride in next? An Aston Martin?" RCW gulped. "Umm. Can't we just like rent a car or something?" "Hahahaha. Now tell me *you're* kidding.", chortled BM, with what RCW could only think of as inappropriate hilarity. "I have *never* rented a car in my life. Haha. Rent a car, it seems." RCW was seriously worried now. Maybe this hadn't been the greatest idea. "Don't worry, kiddo. We'll be fine. If the cops follow, you just lie low. In your seat, I mean.", BM smiled at her kindly (again looking away from the road!!). "Only in case of stray bullets. But they hardly ever shoot. Just relax, OK? And don't frown, kiddo. You don't want horrid lines on your face now, do you?". RCW seriously considered opening the passenger door and jumping out. But then, considering the pros, BM seemed perfectly nice. And had a strangely reassuring air about her. Maybe it would be a good idea to stick it out for a bit?

In Which We Follow JAP and TR For A Bit

2007-06-08T11:01:00.000-07:00

Last we knew, JAP was banging impatiently on TR's door, remember? Well, to resume the narrative from there, the door opened creakily (around ten minutes after JAP started knocking - which of course was when we were occupied discussing RCW and her exploits - these details are for the saint btw- the celluloid side) to reveal the Prof, in a ratty dressing gown-type thing (atleast there was reason to believe that the thing started its life off as a robe though one would scarce think it to look at it now) with tousled hair and a pipe stuck in his mouth (this was for ??!). "Erm", he enquired politely. "Get dressed. There has been a Crisis", yelled JAP (who had what we must confess a habit of stampeding into other people's houses yelling at them and also of pronouncing his capitals). "Erm", replied TR even more politely, allowing the distraught Baron to walk into his hallway. "RCW has run away", continued JAP sticking to the decibel level calculated to make hair raise. "Could we tone it down a notch, old chap?", asked TR in his cultured tones, "Had a rough night and I'd appreciate some sensitivity in the yelling department".

A half hour later, a much calmer JAP was settled on the sofa with a glass of port in his hand, as TR bustled around getting dressed. Or at least trying to. "Oh fuck this. We don't have time for pants. The chase is on. Let's just go before RCW beti gets further away from us". "But Professor, are you sure you want to come in just your dressing robe?", asked JAP a little hesitantly. It seemed to him that it wasn't quite the thing. "Enough with this childish need for sartorial elegance, JAP. Let's be on our way. Your car or mine?" JAP thought about the grey Aston Martin gleaming in TR's garage and the forest green Jeep in his. It didn't even deserve a passing thought. "Yours", he said gleefully.

As they pulled out of the driveway, JAP behind the wheel there was a sudden scream. "Unkel ji, don't go without me", screeched a familiar voice. "OMG", said TR, trying vainly to scrunch further into the seat and disappear. Since he hadn't yet mastered the art of becoming invisible, this didn't have a visible effect.

(To Be Continued)

In Which a New Player is Introduced (with a Bang)

2007-06-04T11:09:00.000-07:00

RCW woke up with the sun shining in her face (which is one of the top 10 nicest ways to wake up, *I* think). She swallowed the bit of toast that she'd stolen from the kitchen and finished it up with a bar of melted chocolate from her pocket (y'know the ones that are so melted that you have to lick them off the wrapping?). She realized with a pang (at her own stupidity) that she hadn't thought to bring any water with her. She'd have to remember that for next time. Feeling quite happy overall (mainly cos of the chocolate. There's nothing like chocolate for making everything feel better - even suffocating in an air-conditionless airport with really sleazy men giving you the once over till you feel like punching their eyes out and then being assailed by what you believe is a wasp that has somehow gotten under your ankle-length skirt and proceeding to yelp and flap around (you, not the wasp) thereby attracting even more unwanted attention and almost missing your flight out of this hellhole- yeah, that's another story), she folded up her dupatta, stowed it in her bag and set off on her merry way.

By mid afternoon I'm happy to tell you that RCW was at the freeway. She had been hearing the noise of cars and trucks speeding by for almost half an hour before she caught a glimpse of the tarmac. But she was unprepared for what she saw in spite of that. The speed at which the vehicles were traveling was actually more than scary. However being a brave girl with a *lot* of gumption, she decided that the nicest thing would be to be inside one of those vehicles moving away from the blogosphere rather than standing at the side of the road, looking. She decided to hitch a ride. This is, in all cases, a very delicate venture and successes are far and few between (or few and far between). But RCW was lucky (beginner's luck it's called no?) and within 5 minutes of standing looking hopefully at passing cars did the trick. A fire-engine red BMW stopped with a screech within feet of her and the passenger side window lowered.

'Need a ride?', asked the lady who was driving, hitching her dark glasses up over her forehead. 'Umm...yes, please', said RCW hesitantly. 'Good, hop in', said Fashionable Lady with the Sunglasses and the Extremely Pretty Scarf. RCW got in to the car, feeling like she was entering a spaceship to an alien world. 'Name's Brown Magic', said the Lady, 'and boy, am I glad to get some company'. She flashed a dazzling smile at RCW. RCW gaped back at her. She could have sworn she'd seen a distinct twinkle in Brown Magic's eyes (y'know like the one in Tony Curtis' baby-blues in The Great Race? Remember?). Something told her this was going to be *quite* the ride.

In Which the Unlikely Rescuer is Revealed (no it isn't me)

2007-05-30T19:22:00.000-07:00

Baron JAP knew exactly what he was going to do. He knew the perfect person to help him out here. If a retired detective (with a reputation similar to that of one Holmes, Sherlock, Esq) who had years of pontification, deduction and logical over-analyzing under his belt couldn't figure out where to start hunting for RCW, JAP didn't know who could.

He strode down the driveway (Gracefully, always Gracefully) and walked across the dusty road to the Professor's house. TR and he went back a long way to the Days of their Callow Youth. They would have a pow wow. And things would get Sorted Out. He banged on the door unceremoniously and waited.

Now to return to our heroine whom we left to the tender care of the bushes and her annoying brain. Or at least I meant to return but I'm gonna be a bad author (no donut for me) and put it off till tomorrow. I'm tired and out of inspiration today (and also annoyed with men, in general, and I don't want to write the rest of this and allow it to become tinged with bitterness (which it undoubtedly will). We shall leave that for another day).

Didja see the bracket in a bracket? How cool am i?

Also, also, how about the Unlikely Rescuer, huh? Did any of you guess? Didja? Didja?

In Which Baron JAP Shows his True Colors

2007-05-29T18:21:00.001-07:00

We shall now leave RCW sleeping peacefully (like a babe in the woods - which reminds me of the time I proposed to a friend whom I was hiking with that we gracefully give up trying to find the way outta the woods we were in and just sleep under a tree like babes in the wood; she did not seem to think it was a good idea; wasted opportunity one feels) and retrace our steps to Baron JAP's mansion. The soon-to-realise-he's-bereft father woke early that morning. Maybe it was intuition. I've heard tell that parents have the most amazing intuition when it comes to their children (like how my mum knows the weirdest things about me that I've never breathed a word to her about). So maybe it was that. Anyway, he woke up early, stretched and went quietly about his morning ablutions. Now, along the way I might have given the wholly erroneous impression that Baron JAP was a slothful lush. This is actually far from true. *Far* from true.

Baron JAP, in reality was a man of discipline. A man who kept himself very fit, went for a daily jog (in spite of his advancing years he was extremely sprightly, think Sean Connery in Entrapment - I hope some people, let us not name names, are happy with this aside), brushed twice a day and twice at night and did his morning yoga faithfully. Yeah, he indulged in the distilled spirits a little more than was preferred but this was only to drown his private sorrow. You see, Baron JAP was a man who had been very much in love with his wife. Said wife died tragically (of one of those diseases that seemed to wipe out half the population in those days of once upon a time - polio or measles or some such) and no man could have mourned his wife as Baron JAP did. Every hair in his not inconsiderable moustache had drooped like one man. A strong man nursing a private grief is allowed to be a bit of a lush. No?

So, anyway. Baron JAP went about his morning rituals as he always did (this is the bit about him running around like a headless chicken that I had mentioned in the previous episode, just so you know). It was mid-morning by the time he'd showered and was sitting down to breakfast. It displeased him mightily that his daughter (the Apple of his Extremely Healthy Eye) was not at the table, ready to pour out his daily glass of morning milk. This was unlike the dear child and he was most disappointed. Forbearing to shout, yell or make a scene (Man of Discipline, see?) he quickly finished his breakfast before going in search of her. He knocked on her bedroom door before entering and immediately saw the open window. Tsk, so careless the child was becoming. He went over to close the window and as he turned around, he noticed an envelope on the pillow.

Dearest JAP papa it said in what would have been termed trembling accents if it had had a voice. Feeling a cold hand clutch his heart (which I've always wanted to have happen to me), he picked up the envelope and tore it open. On a scrappy sheet of notepaper he saw the tragic little farewell note (I've often wondered why females of the species always feel impelled to write notes letting people know where they're going, why, what for, etc. It's a dreadfully self-destructive need for self-explanation, one feels).

Dearest papa, it said, Please do not hate me for leaving you. But I feel the need to be free and so I'm going away to the city (which will have bright lights). Take care of yourself and listen to Doctor Uncle Ji. I will always remain your loving daughter,. And she ended it by signing RCW with a flourish. Baron JAP was gobsmacked to say the least. That any daughter of his could write a farewell note like this (with not even a quote from Longfellow or anyone) was beside the point. That his Eye's Beloved Apple had run away from home almost broke his heart. He sat on the bed clutching the note in one hand. And suddenly, from inside him there came a big upwelling of anger. No, call it rage. He was furious. How dare she. How dare she!!!! Moustache bristling, he stood up from the bed. He was a Man on a Mission. He would Set Her Straight. Run away, would she. Hah!

I know, I know, I said the Unlikely Rescuer would be introduced in this episode. But I find myself past the rough space limit I've set myself. To make you guys feel better, here's a question. Guess who the Unlikely Rescuer is and whoever guesses right shall be awarded a Great Honor. The Great Honor of having his/her guess incorporated in the next episode. Never let it be said that I'm not an interactive blogger. As interactive as they come, us Revealeds. Guess, guess. Hint: Look around the Blogosphere.

In Which RCW Almost Admires the lone star state

2007-05-28T16:36:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've found time to continue chronicling the eventful life of RCW (yes, in my life two days away from my blog is a while. You have an opinion on that?). And I would totally understand if my honorable reader(s) has(ve) totally lost track of where we were at. In the event of this (rather unthinkable, I admit) happening having happened, one asks h.r to respectfully scroll down (because blogs get slighted easily and then it takes a devil of a lot of work to charm them out of their sulks, that is they way) and read the previous post. It's just down the hall and dead center. You cannot miss it. Really.

So, to continue where we left off, RCW crept down the driveway and out of the gate (skilfully avoiding the watchful eyes of the alert young chowkidaar - ok, I lie, the rather agewise advanced chowkidaar was fast asleep and snoring in his charpoy in the little watchman shack and nothing short of a thousand stampeding elephants mounted by a thousand screaming Chengiz Khan descendants thundering directly at his bed would have woken him up. But it seemed appropriate to add some skill to RCW's woeful repertoire), slinging her knapsack over one shoulder (hers). I can truthfully report that she stopped only once, in considerable regret. To remove a pebble from her chappals (don't you hate when that happens?). She wanted to make good speed out of the immediate surroundings of her charming village in the Blogosphere because she had a pretty shrewd idea of the sort of hullabaloo that would ensue in the morning when she was found missing.

Feeling rather full of beans (in spite of the late hour and though she really hadn't had coffee ever because her father frowned upon the beverage) and reckless with that gay feeling of adventure (adventure is totally gay, isn't it? It looks enticingly delicious, makes you feel totally cool when you're attempting to do it and then lets you down on your backside with a thump when you realize you can never really get your hands on it the way you want to) she jauntily covered almost two miles over some fields in the general direction of the freeway. Though she had never been allowed to go this far away from home, she had heard talk that there was a freeway in the north boundary of her village which was inhabited by fast vehicles that could whisk you away to a totally different world. She was very keen on trying one of those.

After the first couple of miles though, she began to feel tired. The going was tough. It was bush country and so, populated with bushes. Most of them thorny. All of them annoying. Impeding her path, throwing hurdles in the way of her progress, making her take ridiculous detours instead of letting her tread the straight and narrow. She was exhausted by the time she had crossed halfway through the second field. As all heroines are wont to do, she decided to sit for a while under one of the bushes and wait for the first signs of dawn before continuing. It couldn't be too far away now.

So she took out her bright red silk dupatta from her knapsack, spread it out on the grass and sat down on it, with her back to a bush. She looked up at the night sky. It was a largely cloudy night, with the moon a glimpsed halo attempting blusteringly to evade the clingy vapor. As she stared at the sky she saw a single star, tiny, twinkling courageously, somehow having escaped the mists of the clouds. Just far enough away from the moon to get its personal lionizing glory. It made her feel hopeful somehow, made her empathize with it. That something so tiny could have escaped the clutches of all its enemies to shine steadily (okay, a little unsteadily but still) and silently, all alone, on its own two feet made her want to smile. Wasn't that what she herself wanted to do, after all? But it's not really that tiny. You're microscopically microscopic in comparison, her brain piped up. Yes, but still such a brave thing, no? No, not really. Why do humans feel this need to first anthropomorphize every object they see, and then invest those objects with attributes that they think are attractive? Tsk, she thought, a little irritated with her brain. I suppose now you'll say that shining against all odds isn't an attractive attribute. I don't see anything attractive in it, really. Besides all the rest are shining too. You can't see them is all. If anything the star highlights human imperfections. Gah! Fine! Whatever! She sniffed, turned her back on her brain and fell fast asleep. She was tired.

In the next episode, Baron JAP Wakes Up and Runs around like a Headless Chicken (but Gracefully, always Gracefully). Then, Baron JAP Realizes his Daughter (the Apple of his Eye) is Missing, he Plans a Rescue Attempt and Enlists an Unlikely Rescuer. Also RCW Proceeds with her Journey. Really, how can any of you not stay tuned? I'm not even going to say it!

In Which Alarms are Discussed in Detail and RCW makes her Getaway

2007-05-24T12:18:00.000-07:00

The most annoying thing ever is to wake up before your alarm goes off. It leaves you lying on your bed knowing that something's missing, filled with this feeling of nervous anticipation (like the sort that visits you just before the question papers are handed out). It can sometimes be suffocating. That's exactly what happened to RCW. She woke up with a start at five minutes to 12 and lay there in the darkness, which suddenly seemed vaguely threatening. Something about the way the curtain moved in the breeze, whispering something sinister just out of earshot. Suddenly her decision to climb out of the window and creep away (well not creep exactly, I suppose charge would be better?) into the night with her knapsack seemed scarily idiotic. She had that distinct feeling of 'wtf was I thinking' that is such a common phenomenon in the middle of the night (and sometimes first thing in the morning - but that's a different story).

Before she had time to get cold feet (I hate cold feet, which is why I always sleep with socks on. Yeah, I do. So?)thankfully, the alarm went off. With a sudden buzz that almost startled her. There's something about the buzzing of an alarm. It galvanizes you. Maybe it's social conditioning or maybe there's some deep, dark psychology behind it(I think it's because alarms are a deeply sadistic form of AI and the buzz is actually their evil cackle. That's why you feel that deep dread when you hear them go off. And you thought it was because you weren't a morning person. Tsk.). At any rate, it galvanized her and she quickly switched it off in case her dad heard it. Picking up her knapsack, she quickly opened her window. The drop to the ground was minimal since her room was on the ground floor. (How any concerned father could give his daughter a room on the ground floor is still a perplexing mystery to me. But well, let's not be overly critical of Baron JAP. He had his own problems). She dusted off her hands on her skirt and made her way down the driveway. As she passed her dad's bedroom window she tiptoed. She could hear him tossing and turning in his sleep. Overcome by a sudden daughterly impulse, she looked in at the window to get a last glimpse of Baron JAP before she set out to find her destiny.

As author I feel a decided responsibility to remark on how important a role impulses play in all our lives. If she hadn't stopped at the window this story would have been completely and irrevocably different. Gives you something to think about, huh? Because as she peeped in, dutiful daughter that she was, and watched her father splayed (gracefully, always gracefully) on the bed, with a single, fat tear rolling down her cheek (Rani Mukherjee-style) she distinctly heard him mutter "Have to go to Portugal, jaanu. Go to Portugal". This gave her quite a start (because really it's quite eerie when people talk in their sleep) and her heart jumped into her throat for a second (how unruly hearts are) as she thought her father was talking to her. But being quite ordinarily bright she quickly realised that in fact he was talking in his sleep and wiping away her tear, stopping only to swallow her heart she continued towards the driveway.

But, dear reader, in the back of her mind, the name Portugal was seared. Seared, I tell you. In nine inch red letters. Of fire. No less. Yes, yes this is in ways, a spoiler. On the other hand I might be planting a red herring. One never knows, does one?

(To be continued).

Red Choli Wali Thinks Herself a Think and Makes Some Decisions

2007-05-23T08:39:00.000-07:00

The last we heard of our Intrepid (if this was Clueless I'd have said intrepid not!! but we can't have everything and this is not Clueless *sigh*) Heroine, she was gaily dancing to the tune of Lal Dupatte Wali in the arms of Baron Falstaff. Any unwary (unwary - or maybe stupid) reader could have been pardoned for thinking that that ending was in fact the beginning of a Happily Ever After. Tragically (this being a real life story and all) it was no such thing. There was no Walking into the Sunset for the two of them, no white picket fence and 2.39 kids. Nope, none of that. What happened was that as the song wound to a close, RCW thanked Baron F politely for the dance, hauled Baron JAP up by his elbows (he was a tad under the influence) and lurched down the avenue back to her casa near the plaza (listening to Volare too often, I am, apparently). And since that day, Baron F and RCW haven't spoken more than two words to each other. They've both taken to pretending not to see each other (in my opinion, pretty childish behavior but then that's how people *are* and there's nothing you can do about it). Meanwhile Baron JAP felt quietly satisfied with himself. He felt that he had achieved something that day. It's true he didn't know what exactly. He remembered being awfully embarrassed in Baron F's mansion. He remembered vaguely trying to thunder at random people and failing dismally. But the rest was a haze of distillate. He was not the most perceptive man in the world and so didn't notice the weirdness between RCW and Baron F. (Besides Baron F *was* a weird man himself and he did some strange things. You couldn't go around taking notice of all of that. Really.)

Having exhaustively brought you lot to speed, I hasten forward with the rest of the plot. One does not want to be accused of meandering (just as one does not wish to be accused of philandering unless one is blessed with Y chromosomes). RCW was rapidly becoming disconsolate with her situation in the arid desert of the Blogosphere. She wanted laughter and gaiety and pretty boys (everyone wants pretty boys, no? And what'dya get instead? Icky boys who fall all over you in bars. Pshaw and ptuii). But more than anything, she wanted to dance again. To Lal Dupatte Wali. It was that song or no other. She might or might not have decided that she had to dance to it with Baron F or noone else. (I'm not completely sure on that point. Mainly because she isn't completely sure on that point herself.) In any case, that is a mere trivial inconsequentiality. The sum and substance of her pain was the guilty need to dance, dance to *that* song. She felt burdened by this embarrassingly hideous secret wish of hers. It made her acquire mood swings, cry over the smallest things and then have bursts of uplifting and slightly eerily manic cheerfulness (oh wait, maybe she had that earlier also). She even considered taking to a life of alcohol and becoming a devdasi. But that plan was fundamentally flawed and nothing came of it (when you have a father who sucks up all alcoholic beverage within sight, it's very hard to get a sip in edgewise). She was dejected enough to think about losing her appetite. On the brink of it, though, she realized that she had to exercise some rationality. One did not give up food lightly. There were Considerations.

In the midst of all this angst and sorrow, RCW had a brainwave. (Isn't it weird how one has brainwaves in the midst of angst and sorrow in stories? I mean, I've been in the middle of tons of angsts and sorrows and *never* had a brainwave. Like ever.) She decided, in the true tradition of heroines everywhere, to pack all her belongings (including elaborate ghagras weighted down with mirrors, tons of lipstick and other essential cosmetic accessories, different pairs of shoes to match all her outfits and nothing to wear at night) into a tiny napsack the size of a folded handkerchief and climb out of her window in the middle of the night. She would head for the bright lights of the city (she didn't know which city but that there was bound to be some city somewhere with bright lights that she could head for, she knew for a fact).

Muchly cheered by this minor brainwave, she lost no time in putting the plan to action. When she kissed Baron JAP good night for the last time, I'm happy to inform her wellwishers that she did feel a twinge in the region of her heart. She wasn't sure if it was the excellent dinner she'd had or some sort of Cardiac Communication from her Soul. In morse. Suffice it to say, she felt a little heavy inside, a little sober. Her childlike mind was a tad troubled at leaving her dear father behind. But fathers are made to be left behind and so she didn't let it weigh too much on her mind (childlike minded people are so sensible, one feels, that they're almost Alarmingly Adultish). She set her alarm for the Stroke of Midnight (everyone and their uncle knows that you always climb out of windows at the stroke of midnight when engaged in making a desperate getaway into the darkness) and decided to take a little nap while she waited for the alarm to buzz.

(To Be Contd)

Perspectives XI : Cuts both ways, doesn't it?

2007-05-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

It was a nice morning. Sun out, birds in the trees. At least he suspected there were birds in the trees. He sure couldn't hear them over the sound of the traffic. Rush hour, commute, cars zipping past him every second. He enjoyed this morning walk to the drugstore. His dad sent him out for ciggies every day. He'd used to hate waking up this early to get them for his dad but now it was the high point of his day. He liked feeling like he had somewhere to go, something to do. Liked studying the other morning people. There was the usual crop of runners - the serious ones with iPods stuck in their ears, the couples also very serious, egging each other on, the panting amateurs who'd probably just begun and looked like they would be having so much more fun snuggled up in bed right now. Then, there were the power walkers. Stepping briskly, hair in perfect ponytails, dressed in appropriate walking clothes. Mostly stay-at-home wives he suspected. Squeeze in a walk before the ten o' clock manicure. He grinned at his own sexist stereotyping. There was a girl walking towards him now. Bag slung across her shoulders, over her back. Looked like it was full of books. Probably a student. Yeah, she was making for the bus stop with shuttles to the college. She seemed happy to be out here this morning too. Not in a hurry (those shuttles came every 15 minutes if he remembered right). He saw her look up and notice him. An involuntary frown fled across her face and he saw her look around. She seemed nervous. She started walking faster, holding onto her bag tightly. When they were almost abreast she veered off the walkway onto the grass verge, so wide a berth that he almost for a second felt like a leper. Managed to walk even faster. He could almost hear her sigh of relief after she'd walked past him. He turned around to look at her. She turned around at almost the same time, still clutching onto her bag, still walking fast.

Maybe he should just get himself some white skin.

Note: Red Choli Waali goes on a Junket coming soon to a blog near you (this blog, that is, exclusive rights and all). Stay tuned, peepuls.

To The Next Big O clink

2007-05-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

My folks have this strange way of making every little thing a celebration. You come back home and tell them that you walked three blocks from school and you did it in 40 minutes and the next thing you know there's a celebratory dinner and you're surrounded by a bunch of people - a good mix of those you know well and want to be around, those you can't stand and want to be away from and those you just plain don't know. And everyone packs into the car and chugs away to some fancypants restaurant and stuffs their faces while glowering at the people they recognise as the ones they don't like. That's how we are. So, in that fine tradition (what with it being in the vicinity of Mother's day), I'm having a celebratory aperitif-post on this blog. Because this, blog peepuls is my ninety ninth post. Yesh, yesh the big nine nine. Ninety-nine is a good number to celebrate one feels. I always wanted 99 to be a 100 (especially when Dravid was batting). Because if 99 was 100, then there'd be no pressure when you got to a 100, which would mean that you'd get to a 100 ok (course that is if you made it past 99).

My long term plan with respect to the whole celebration thing is to keep decreasing the Achievement Number by one. So the next celebratory aperitif post will be at 198 and then 297 and so on. See? Until finally a celebratory aperitif post will end in a zero at which point there will be a proper IRL celebration (drinks on me and all) and *all* my bleaders are welcome to attend :D. All of you. Yes, yes, *even* you (though you meanly decided to hold a summit meeting of the Passive Compassionists without me! Hmmph). You shall all come drink with me :D. On that day. Leaving you with that cheerful thought, I shall make my dignified exit (Ninetyniners have to be dignified. That is the code by which we live our lives).

Psst, for those sticklers who will now proceed to point out that there *is* no aperitif and they feel cheated, I would like to remind them (gently) that I said aperitif *post*. Which simply means that the post will make you feel lightheaded, dizzy, mildly confused and bewildered and ready to eat something. Feeling hungry now, aren't you? That's always the sign of a good aperitif post. *nods in satisfaction and continues dignified exit*

Update: What the professor wants, the professor gets.

Update 2: What ph wants, ph gets. *Sigh*. This is sheer pandering now. But what the heck. If not on the 99th post, when?

Update3: JAP's request honored (above and beyond the call of duty one feels).

Szerelem, this for you :D, with lotsa love and all that

And finally Bailey..tada... cept couldn't find one of him on the rocks :(

What is the difference between a riffled draw and a snatched bag?

2007-05-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

It all happened so quickly. Looking back, she couldn't quite remember the exact sequence. Yes, before it happened she was with 1 bag, 4 credit cards, 1 driver's license, 1 Motorola Razr, pink, 1 lucky charm, 1 ID badge. After it happened she was without. It was the inbetween bits that remained hazy. She thought he had had a knife but she wasn't sure. He had cut her bag from its moorings around her neck, so he must have had a knife. But she wasn't sure. "Did he hurt you?" the cops kept asking. "Does your shoulder pain? Did he yank at it?" I don't know, she wanted to say. But she said no. She didn't think so. All her friends asked her but what happened? Where were you? How could this happen? She gave them the detailed story that she'd arrived at. The version that she'd culled by compromising what must have happened with what she'd remembered happening. They were satisfied. I can't believe you take it so calmly. She laughed it off. She was ok. Everything was fine. Just minor hassles to overcome. Cards to replace. Phones to buy.

But in the middle of the night she could see his brown eyes. Looking into hers the minute before he snatched her bag. Filled with a vindictive delight. I am taking what ought to have been mine.

When is a premonition not a premonition?

2007-05-10T00:35:00.001-07:00

She ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time and then the last three with a jump. As she rounded the turn and continued down the next flight, she had a sudden premonition. She saw herself tripping on a stair, falling, lying sprawled at the foot of the staircase, right next to the door. Like a scene illuminated by the flash of an old-fashioned camera in one of those old black and white murder mysteries. She slowed down without realizing it, taking the steps one at a time decorously. There had been something unsettling in that flashing scene. She reached the bottom of the stairs safely and walked out of the building into the sunshine. Sunlight fires neurons: known scientific fact. Oh fuck! Why had she stopped hurtling down the stairs? Now she'd never be able to decide if it had been a premonition or not.

Is it still a premonition if you see it happening and then take steps to prevent it from happening? Which would stop it from happening. Which would make the premonition false. Since it didn't happen. Right?

Choices are Impossible to Not Regret

2007-05-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

She wanted the Steve Maddens. They were beautiful. Fawn, strappy, sexy kitten heels. The sort of shoes that were her. She almost bought them. And then she saw the Nikes. Thought about how she needed to run. Imagined that she wanted to leave the familiar behind. She bought them.

Some people should stick to Maddens.

I wouldn't exchange places with it

2007-05-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

There's a HEB plastic bag waiting to cross the road with me. It bobs politely by my side, patiently waiting for the lights to change and then crosses. I watch it climb higher, rolling onto its back. A break for the sun is what it's attempting. Yayy, bag. I worry about it, though. Remember Icarus?

If I'd had coffee I'd have thrown it in her face. Sometimes I scare myself.

2007-05-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

She 1: If only I didn't have such a big butt, y'know what I mean? I'd be able to wear a much smaller size. Though, y'know even now it's only a size 8. So, it isn't that bad, y'know what I mean?

She 2: You don't have a big butt! It's worse being me. I have no butt to speak of.

She 1: *I* think I have a big butt. I never used to have one this big, y'know what I mean? It's only since I started dating Ian. We eat so much, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Yeah, I know how that feels. It's no use just you being on a diet if he's pigging out all the time.

She 1: Yeah, but I'm totally going to stick to this regimen, y'know what I mean? Like those ads on tv. Lose two dress sizes in 2 weeks, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Haha. Those adverts are just crazy.

She 1: They remind me of my bro. He's an exercise nazi, y'know what I mean? That's why I never work out with him. I just say leave me alone, y'know what I mean?

She 3 (standing up from her seat in the row in front of them suddenly): Yes, yes, woman!!!!! She knows what you mean!!!!! We *all* know what you mean! For pity's sake STOP SAYING THAT!!!

*exit bus right*

Some verbal habits are so annoying I feel like shaking the speaker in an attempt to make them stop talking. Especially on Monday mornings.

I am partial to Monet though I love Van Gogh for his sliced ear

2007-05-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

Never saw so perfect a sky,
so blue. Where did those blues come from?
Even startled cypresses shriek they
never saw so perfect a sky
with boats floating on sunset rays.
The tragic inspires. Bet joy
never saw so perfect a sky.
So blue, where did those blues come from.

ShowerGod Epiphany #3: Boredom makes one do strange things, especially if one's just gone and seen too many French masterpieces (the words too many making the phrase an oxymoron).

Falstaff and the Red-Choli Waali

2007-05-04T06:21:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any living people (even bloggers, who can loosely be termed people, after all) will be consistently and furiously denied. And also vehemently.

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of the Blogger Barons, there lived a particularly intrepid Baron called Falstaff. Baron Falstaff was one of the most interesting Barons of the land because noone knew *anything* about him. Ladies would stand outside the gates of his property whispering to themselves, wondering who he was, what he did shut up in that grey, towering mansion and why it always felt like rain within its walls.

As Ms. Austen astutely observed, a single man in possession of an aura of mystery and superhuman intelligence must be in want of some solitude. At least if she had been present in that land, she would have astutely observed that. And as the author of this tale has observed often and often, anyone who wants solitude or privacy is just asking for public interest in his affairs.

Now the Blogger Baron Falstaff lived in a land of The Curious. Everyone knew everyone else and this whole not knowing bijness was driving all the leddies crazy. Vying with each other they tried to get his attention. They threw clever quips at him as he read by, they dropped Shostakovich's, Dostoyvesky's and leading observations on controversial topics like whether sestinas in iambic pentameter were more sophisticated than haikus in blank verse and so forth in his path. While Baron Falstaff had been brought up very well and was never obviously rude to any of these fine leddies, he committed the fatal sin of refusing to dance with them. This, of course (in the tradition of all good stories) annoyed one partickler leddy in this illustrious land, called the Red-Choli Waali (the leddy that is was called Red Choli Waali, not the land). She was the heir to one of the other big-shot Blogger Barons of the land, called Baron JAP.

Baron JAP being a doting father and Red Choli Waali being the apple of his eye (JAP's eye), he would stop at nothing to make Baron Falstaff dance with his daughter. So, though himself an illustrious holder of many lands, overlording many serfs, still he professed great admiration for Baron Falstaff, he haunted his mansion, sent him invitations to all the parties at his own mansion, offered him the prime cuts from his table, the usual machinations of a scheming, fond father. Baron Falstaff, while luxuriating in all this attention and admiration did not bend from his stance of not dancing with the leddy. One rule for all the leddies, basically was what he was thinking. And being a very logical nobleman, the sort who doesn't like things being out of place or irregular (some might call it OCD, and the rest of us can only stand back and applaud their perspicacity), he wasn't even close to agreeing to dance with Red Choli Waali. In fact, it can even be argued that he didn't suspect the dastardly plan of Baron JAP, lost as he was in abstractions of obscure Iranian poets.

So, where were we? Haan, yes so Baron JAP finally decided to take things in his own hands, tired of waiting around. So he twirled his moustache (he had a beautifully luxuriant moustache that was his one vanity -always excepting Red Choli Waali that is-which he oiled everyday and dyed a magnificent red, because red is the theme of this story and I know it's kind of harsh to give him a red moustache but he's in *my* story so he'll just have to lump it), wore his favourite red lungi and clasping his beloved daughter by her arm, dragged her to Baron Falstaff's mansion.

Now, you might have noticed that other than being mildly annoyed at refusals to dance with her, Red Choli Waali is a pretty pathetic female, allowing herself to be all slighted and dragged around and suchlike, but such is life and this story, being a real life story, has pledged to be true to itself.

So sadly, we have Baron JAP dragging Red Choli Waali down the dusty road (was very dusty, no monsoon rains yet, everyone looking to the skies every day that sort of thing) and on reaching the doors of Baron F's mansion, he yelled "Oye Falstaff, ki khobor?". Baron F, rudely awakened from his perusal of Hatef's immortal line, "All things difficult to reason become easy when with full goblets of wine you are dizzy", had only time to yell back "Aami bhaalo, aapnar daya", before Baron JAP had charged into his mansion with RCW in tow, now looking worried and a little ill at ease (and who can blame her? quite the awkward social situation). Baron JAP looking wildeyed but still jauntily twirling his moustache stood a little defiantly in front of Baron F (now that he had rushed in, he was unsure of how exactly to start proceedings, it's a tough business this). Baron F, a little regretful over the lost Hatef still managed to be politely rude and refused to make this easy (and indeed why should he?). Turning glacial by degrees he eyed askance at Baron JAP.

Meanwhile a little to the back and the left, RCW stood with heaving bosom, doe-eyes moving from JAP to F and back to JAP again, wringing her dupatta (also red) and panting (a tad too loudly for the occasion which outta have been more like a silently charged man to man confrontation type thing, but what with JAP feeling a little foolish and F being totally bewildered besides just not being *into* these testosterone based activities it was turning out to be a little bit of a failure). JAP who felt somewhat obligated to make the first move at this point (having stormed the castle and all) cleared his throat and thundered, "Baron Falstaff" or at least tried to thunder. But being a naturally timid man and also because of the sheer frightfully glacial appearance of Baron F, he got out only "Ba-" before he fainted dead away (quite gracefully considering his age and weight).

RCW was most taken aback by this turn of events and wrung her dupatta harder, looking wildeyed in her turn and calling to Mother Earth to come and help her (in her head only and not out loud cos y'know she felt a little silly actually saying the words). Baron F, however being a singularly unflappable kinda guy (and also having faced this sort of situation before) calmly (but with a wrench of regret) poured the rest of the wine in his glass on JAPs face (in an attempt to revive him of course and purely because there was no water in sight) but to no avail. A little worried (cos he didn't want the cops coming into his house now), Baron F knelt down by JAP and was most relieved to see his eyelids fluttering. JAP stretched out a scrawny hand and yanking the surprised Baron F closer to him whispered words in a failing breath.

"Please just dance with my daughter, the apple of her mother's eye, once, dear Falstaff. This is a dying man's wish", he gasped out, "and also pass me some more wine, I tasted some of it and it was pretty good, which year?". Baron F, while a little flummoxed by all these requests did what any card carrying member of the Land of the Curious would have done, he knew better than to dishonor a dying man's last wish. It was not to be thought of. He was a Man of Honour. So handing Baron JAP (still sprawling but gracefully on the floor) a glass of wine, he clapped his hands. Twice. The sound of a record settling into a gramaphone could be heard loudly in the silence in the room (spoilt only by JAP slurping wine and RCW still panting a little more heavily than was ideal). Through the golden tube of the gramaphone came the sweet, unmistakable starting chords of the song. RCW waited anxiously, still wringing, wondering what was happening as slowly through the room echoed the words, "O Laal Dupatte Waali.."

Suddenly feeling calm, muchly cheered up by the good taste displayed by Baron F, RCW dropped her dupatta and entered into the spirit of things. JAP feeling much better now, leaned back on a convenient diwan to watch the show and for the first time that year, fat raindrops fell from the laden skies on the dry dust. Plop plop.

FINIS

Still More How To Gyaan

2007-05-03T11:25:00.000-07:00

In the fine tradition of this blog (flaffing since '06) I present you another in the series of How To that was first featured many moons ago (three and a half months' worth to be precise) in this very hallowed space. It is the duty of all super-intelligent beings to educate and uplift the less fortunate (this is part of the mission statement of Flaff, Inc) and with this laudable purpose in mind I shall now expound on How To Understand and Grapple with the Ever-Increasing Profundity of English Proverbs and Catch-phrases. Often and often it has been made manifest to yours truly (which is a fancy way of saying me, originating from the letters written by Mid-Victorian forgers and imposters who never used to sign off with their real names -duh obviously!- and hence were identified as 'yours truly' serially numbered) that people do not perfectly grasp the meaning of the fine proverbs handed down to us by our ancient English counterparts. To my keen and perspicacious mind the reason for this is immediately apparent: the lack of understanding of the true meaning of the proverb. This is mainly because of our faulty school system (which works on the principle of if it's fixed it can be broken) and its inability to explain the fundamentals to young, enquiring minds.

Consider this simple example. Many of us are familiar with the phrase 'You can't have the cake and eat it too ', yes? Now, most of us have a misguided understanding of the phrase, imagining naively that it means once you've eaten the cake it can't exist in its original physical unblemished state anymore and hence, it cannot be had. This (obviously) misbegotten idea that not only fully misses the point but also dangerously leads one into the realm of metaphysics and relativity is a typical example of How English Folk Wisdom is Mis-hunderstood. Having buried myself in literary research for a long time (3 minutes and 45 seconds now, including a break to talk to a nosey chap who came around to my bench) I would like to respectfully submit that the actual meaning is far different from the purported one. What the proverb says in truth is that when you have a cake, it's normally for your birthday. And when you have a birthday cake, you obviously have to have a party! Cos sitting at home alone ogling your birthday cake and hogging every last bit of it yourself (while satisfying) is a little...well, on the lame side (this is not to say that this has not happened in the past, of course, but it's not ideal for digestive purposes). Now, once you decide to have a party, this inevitably involves guests (those pesky people who'll talk too loudly, laugh too hyenaically, drink too slurpily and eat you out of house and home). And as the cleverer among you must have realized this will most definitely result in you not having even a single piece of cake left for yourself. Ergo, it is *impossible* to have your cake and eat it too. See? Not only does this proverb explain to us why having a birthday party is the most ridiculous thing in the world, it also has an underlying, deep philosophy that helps us understand why really good birthday cake is hard to find at birthday parties.

Now, I understand that having had your eyes opened (as Nash would say, gone are the dark clouds that had you blind) you must be reeling under the impact of this revelation and its many ramifications. So I shall leave you with the gentle admonition that it's vital to always investigate deeply any proverb placed in front of you in order to understand fully its scope and breadth. Some of you might think that *this* is what proverbs like Don't judge a book by its cover are hinting at. But you would be grievously wrong. *Grievously*.

But that is another post.

Happy Feet

2007-05-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

She painted her toenails last night. Pale, pale, pale pink. So pale that it looks like silver with all the grey bleached out of it. You wouldn't notice if it didn't catch the light now and then. She lotioned her feet, admiring their inherent pinkness. Aloe for extra moisture and then wrapped up safely in socks. She went to bed, comfortably aware of her soft, babied feet. Work, the next day, in borderline uncomfortable heels, closed toes, stockings. A quick run in the evening (it was a beautiful day), cotton socks, clunky keds. A walk around to her neighbour's for a chat and a cup of tea (hadn't seen him in a while), stuffy little black slip-ons from NY&C. But all day, underneath it all, she could feel her feet smiling.

It's what's inside that matters.

Endpeace

2007-05-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

So, having successfully finished Tag Week, shamelessly resting on my laurels, bathed in the gentle glow of fulfillment and satisfaction, some thinking was done (not by me of course, but my stupid brain which doesn't know when to quit).

Y'know those people who tirelessly work towards making this world a better place? Sweat shining on their brows as they give talks in air-conditioned rooms, sipping from a bottle of Evian, explaining how global warming is an awful threat to mankind and the best way of stopping it is to make hungry Mexican farmers hungrier. Or faces frozen into expressions of righteous indignation as they inform us that taking thousands of lives of people who happened to be born on the wrong side of a border is perfectly acceptable, an inevitability in fact, during our march to Save the Earth. Or charmingly candid smiles on their faces as they expound on how people of a certain religion are in fact naturally violent, something in their blood, no doubt caused by all the animal flesh they eat, always a threat to us, the more superior, the more human humans, no? Yeah, those people.

Well, my brain's decided that it's time I joined their ranks. Shoulder to shoulder We shall stand, making Lives More Meaningful, and No, We Are Not Condescending or Superior or Hanything Like That *stares icily through newly acquired monocle at the captive audience (mainly this guy whom she's managed to chain to a chair in the basement of her apartment)*

Getting back to matters that matter, let me recap (Got a tad carried away back there. I don't *really* have a guy chained to a chair in my basement *laughs nervously and wipes sweat away from brow with trembling hands*). As I said, my brain did some thinking and came to the conclusion that this whole tagging funda is not managed properly. We (my brain and I) believe that it lacks umm a certain something. Like, most importantly what do we learn from this tag bijness (we're great believers in learning)? Is it of any use to anyone to know that I'm not upstairs at the moment (unless you're a cat burglar in which case we empathize with your interest but respectfully point out that you don't know where we live anyway and so you couldn't really have needed to know that)? Or that if there was one place I'd like to be it's Rotterdam (I mean, even if I made a successful lab break I'd still not go to Rotterdam cos now I know that all the Feds will be sent there directly, no?)? So, basically we feel that some drastic reforms have to be made. By all you guys. If not now, then when? If not you, then who (never us, of course, that's against our creed)?

So, the thing to do now, in the true spirit of reform is no, not to form a Board (we're the Post Modernist Reformists and we fashionably scorn Boards of any size, shape or kind) but to come up with better tag questions. That'll help us gather vital information.

Like think of this tag, right? The first question is If you could be a spy, which one would you rather be? James Bond or Matahari? Now after this slightly sinister but still zanily funny question we fill in a few random, normal tag questions, like have you ever stood on your head and recited the 9 times tables followed by are you smiling now, things like that. And then, sneakily, we slip in this question, Male?. Now some smartasses will answer with quips or wisecracks (morons, the lot of them) but most people will give you a straight answer because they'll deem it an irrelevant question and quickly move to the next one to be all smartassy about, no? Sykology, people, is a powerful tool. Now, having gathered this information we once more lapse into random tagspeak. And then in a masterstroke, we quickly ask What is your sexual orientation?. Of course none of the taggees will blanch at this or think it too nosey. If it's on your blog, it's private anyway, no? And voila, we now have more than enough material to write up a paper and send it to Social Texts (a very influential journal read by everyone who's In The Know) by simply correlating the fact that people of a specific sex with a specific sexual orientation will always want to be either Bond or Mata. Thereby providing extremely vital information to RAW who now need never worry about gathering Intelligence, monitoring movements, sending counterspies and all that. Pshaw. Those times are past. See how with one master stroke tags can be used as deadly weapons of mass destruction (this of course was found in Saddam's bunker, a hard disk full of completed tags, extremely classified info btw procured from one whole informer)? As soon as RAW realizes that there's a spy on the loose, all they'll have to do is find his/her blog, locate the relevant tag, gather the requisite information and then they'll immediately know whether to look for a man swigging martinis standing next to a black sportscar with impressively funny looking gadgets affixed or a black veiled red-lipsticked cigar smoking Russian accented lady on a train. See how simple it all becomes? And they say espionage is a complicated business. Hah!

Zis is vy hit is said zat life is a lot simpler than ve vere led to beleef.

And now, to work leetle children (and the not-so-leetle ones, like TR's ours is also an Equal-Op blog). Let's see pen to paper, hand to keys, neurons to the forge. Onwards always to more superbly executed learn-from-able tags. Chop chop. *goes back to laurel-resting and glow-bathing, humming Imagine softly to herself in that slightly mad totally eerie fashion (think Anne Wilkes, Misery) that's been in horror vogue since the 70s*

80 Random Facts About Me

2007-04-30T17:07:00.000-07:00

1. I sucked at math. Awfully. What always puzzled me was how zero could have no value. But today I understand completely. Zero has no value, of course. Drop it and it makes no difference to anyone. No? That's what my math teacher (who scared the bejeesus out of me) told us in school anyway. Not that he was a bad guy. Infact, in hind sight I believe he was a misunderstood genius who outta have been in some far better institution instead of stuck in a high school class teaching empty headed giggly girls. Another time, another place and he would have been an inspiring teacher one feels (especially with that habit he had of charging to the front of the class and banging his head against the wall when someone gave him a wrong answer, I still get nightmares where I hear thud! thud! thud! dully in the background. Inspiring no?).

2. I do this thing where when I'm talking to people, I take random phrases from the conversation and assign each letter a finger on my hand, sequentially. Then I see if I can spell out the entire phrase so that it's a multiple of five and uses all the fingers on my hand with no finger left to spare. And then if it doesn't turn out to be a multiple I try to make it a multiple by including/removing the spaces between the words, counting punctuation marks, etc. And then if it still isn't a multiple of five I see if I can modify the phrase slightly by using connectors, operators and all that jazz so that it does become a multiple. It can get quite exhausting sometimes. Also makes me lose huge blobs of conversation in a haze of feverish counting.

3. I think Plato was unnecessarily drastic. Just my opinion. Let's not have a fistfight.

4. I have an aversion to throwing things away. I often virtuously get up a pile of stuff that's just rubbish or that I don't need anymore and then on the point of lowering it into the dumpster, I'm seized by the conviction that I will definitely need all of them or at least some of them at some distant point in the future (like of course that broken heel from that Madden pair will come in handy as a hammer or something surely, and that day when I've just moved into a new house and I don't have a hammer handy and I need to put up my pictures won't I look back on this fateful moment and regret it dreadfully? One has to be provident). So I just cart around all the junk with me, from house to house, country to country. Bleddy nonsense.

5. When I'm driving or even just riding I tote up the numbers on license plates of cars in front of me. I know lots of people do it. But, I have a twist in my tail ;). Ever since I learnt from my infamous math teacher that all multiples of nine have digits that add up to nine, I've been fascinated by the concept. So, I need the numbers to add up to nine. By hook or by crook. Mostly by crook. Very dishtracting it can be! *shakes head at God's folly in foisting one more weird habit on her considering she's already weighted far beyond the average*

6. I can't remember people and names for peanuts. Social occasions involving distant family members always pass by in a blur of having my sister or my mum whisper names and relationships of mamas and mamis as they rapidly approach us. Quite stressful. Break into a cold sweat just thinking about it. It's worse than Board exams. Why does everyone ask you if you remember them? Sometimes, I think they feel somehow validated after they wrack the confession out of you that no, you don't, in fact, remember them. *Sigh*

7. I hate it when people around me feel uncomfortable or awkward. I feel impelled to jump into the breach and somehow make things okay. Uncomfortable social situations reach a new level of uncomfortableness for me cos I feel everyone's uncomfortableness on top of mine. The burdens I have to bear and all that.

8. I'm the most impulsively contradictory person I know. I change my mind in the space of a breath. Not just decisions like what shoes to wear today but major life decisions, or sea changes in opinions that I've held for the longest time. Vairry epiphanic, we are.

The writing finger writes and then pauses to decide whom to finger next. Muahahahaha. I hereby tag the scion of the And-Baffleds (payback! Hah!), Scout (if that tag junkie hasn't done it already) and....and....sheesh I can't think of a third person who deserves a tag. I option the third and shall wreak vengeance at a later date on some unsuspecting soul. Oh wait, wait I've got it...Brown Magic (the one that almost got away). All taggees pliss to do either the original (which was 80 random facts) or my much improved version :).

FINIS

Inter alia 2

2007-04-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

Overheard,

"It's hard being a male man"

Hahahahahaha *wipes away tears*. One is compelled to observe that it hath come to this in this the great United States. Cos *obviously* he's referring to the fact that he's *completely* male and has *never* ever been anything else or even *considered* drag/sex change.

The new era of social introductions:
"Hi, I'm XYZ, a female man. How dya do?"
*insert little old grey-haired, black-bulging-bag toting lady complete with bun and monocles*
"Oh, how nice. So you *were* female and became male or you just swing both ways depending on the mood?"

Just remember you heard it here first.

PS: I might be a *tad* sleep-deprived.
PPS: Tags will resume soon. Sigh. Unless I'm killed by conversation strings that wrap themselves around my neck and strangulate me (and I'm actually rooting for that, right about now).

Facts About Me You Never Thought You'd Know

2007-04-25T16:56:00.000-07:00

1. EVER BEEN GIVEN AN ENGAGEMENT RING?
To hold? Yes :D. Mighty shiny it was. Had an irresistible urge to slip it on my finger and then pretend I'd lost it. But all to no avail cos of my freakishly small fingers onto which nothing normal-sized fits! Tch.

2. LONGEST RELATIONSHIP?
Twenty four years this December.

3. LAST GIFT YOU RECEIVED?
Hmmm. Ready-to-eat Pasta sauce (do I have cool friends or what? :D).

4. EVER DROPPED A CELL PHONE?
Hahahaha. Ever not dropped a cell phone is the question to ask. And the answer to that is no, I have a spotless record.

5. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU WORKED OUT?
Ugh! Bad question! No donut for you.

6. THING(S) YOU SPEND A LOT OF MONEY ON?
Shoes (*sigh* I think it would be best to marry the CEO of DSW, currently trying to unearth him/her), clothes, chocolate (3 bucks for a bar, it's daylight robbery!), alcohol, ciggies (damn those things! You'd think they'd make death tubes cheap, wouldn't you?)

7. LAST FOOD YOU ATE?
Umm lemme think. Cashewnuts for lunch :D.

8. FIRST THINGS YOU NOTICE ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX?
Ass, of course! And then, the drink in his hand. You can find out everything you need to know about him from these two things. Trust me *nods head wisely*

9. ONE FAVORITE SONG?
Oh no oh no oh no. Can't answer this one. As someone told me recently, I opened the door to that one a crack and then had to shut it on the avalanche :D.

10. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
Mostly, in my head. Sometimes outside of it. The outside bits are shockers.

11. HIGH SCHOOL YOU ATTENDED:
What made you think I attended high school? Was it my sophisticated, cultured, upper-middle class British accent? Cos that's just fake.

12. CELL PHONE SERVICE PROVIDER:
Cingular (morons! service with the lowest dropped calls, my foot!)

13. FAVORITE MALL STORE:
Elementary, m'dear Tag-maker! Disney.

14. LONGEST JOB YOU HAD:
By job, we mean? Cos based on my definition of job, I can think of any number, including watching pots boil while attempting to cook, trying to update my lab book after two months of just letting it slide, cleaning my room, endless list see?

15. DO YOU OWN A PAIR OF DICE?
Umm no. Not even one douse.

16. DO YOU PRANK CALL PEOPLE?
Yesh, yesh. We are much in demand for the prank call service. We excels at it.

17. LAST WEDDING YOU ATTENDED:
My best friend's sister's. Oh wait! Was that a wedding? I can't remember. I think there was a groom around somewhere but I'm unable to confirm it (there was Scotch though, so maybe it wasn't a wedding?).

18. FIRST FRIEND YOU'D CALL IF YOU WON THE LOTTERY:
Tsk! Don't be stupid. Wouldn't call anyone. My precioussssssss.

19. LAST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Hmm. Technically I don't have one best friend. I'm gonna say four months ago was the last time I saw any of my best friends.

20. FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT
Don't do fast food.

21. BIGGEST LIE YOU HAVE EVER HEARD:
It's gonna be okay.

23. WHERE'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO EAT WITH FRIENDS?
Absurd. I don't know.

24. CAN YOU COOK?
Hahaha. If Yan can cook.

25. WHAT CAR DO YOU DRIVE?:
Toyota. Whoo hoooo.

26. BEST KISSER?
Me, definitely.

27. LAST TIME YOU CRIED?:
Hmmm. Dunno. I cry easy. Bits of Luce's In Spite of the Gods made me almost cry! Go figure.

28. MOST DISLIKED FOODS:
McD's fries. Ewwwwwwww.

29. THING YOU LIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
Like everything equally well. We don't believe in fear or favor.

30. THING YOU DISLIKE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF:
Tsk. What's not to like? I rock.

32. LONGEST SHIFT YOU HAVE WORKED AT A JOB?:
16 hours. I don't remember the last couple of hours. But somehow I made it to bed cos I woke up in it (my bed, I mean).

33. FAVORITE MOVIE?
Uh oh. This is really like my closet at home. I can't afford to keep opening it up and have years of accumulated stuff fall on my head.

34. CAN YOU SING?
Awesomely well. Anyone who's heard me murdering songs in my car or in the shower will attest to this fact.

35. LAST CONCERT ATTENDED?
Snow Patrol.

36. LAST KISS?
No, no. At least I hope not. I have miles to lay before I sleep, surely?

37. LAST MOVIE RENTED:
Blue.

38. THINGS YOU NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT?
Keys, cell phone, gloss, in theory. In practice there's nothing I haven't left the house without.

39. FAVORITE VACATION SPOT:
Hypothetically (since I've never been there but I've always wanted to and I *know* I'll positively adore it), Rotterdam. Ever since I heard it.

43. LAPTOP OR DESKTOP COMPUTER?:
Lappy.

44. FAVORITE COMEDIAN?:
My sis. She's the funniest person ever :).

45. DO YOU SMOKE?
You can make me answer a 100 irrelevant questions about myself, and you can make me force innocent people to read my answers but you cannot make me lie. Hah!

46. SLEEP WITH OR WITHOUT CLOTHES?
Depends on the weather. Because of this fan-phobia I have, I have to keep my fan running at a specific speed because my bed is positioned such that at that speed even if the fan breaks and falls down it won't fall on me :D. Precise calculations (based on angle of bed to fan, direction of blade rotation, velocity of blade speed and torque) that can't be upset, y'know? So, since I can't adjust the fan I simply adjust my clothes. Simple :)

47. WHO SLEEPS WITH YOU EVERY NIGHT?
Of late heh heh's ghastly reptilian sheep. Sigh.

48. DO LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS WORK?:
Nuh uh! Are you fucking kidding me?

49. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN PULLED OVER BY THE POLICE?
Once, just once. Was plenty.

50. PANCAKES OR FRENCH TOAST?
French toast if the thing *has* to be done. Ghastly waste of bread, milk and eggs if you ask me though.

51. DO YOU LIKE COFFEE?:
Better than I like headaches, si.

52 HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?
Umm inside my ovary where they belong?

53. DO YOU BELIEVE IN ASTROLOGY?:
Astrology, as in horoscopes? Why? Did my mum send you? Is that a horoscope you're hiding behind your back? *looks around suspiciously for lurking horoscope-holding mum*

54. LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?:
Hmmm. Girl friend. One of the best :D.

55. LAST PERSON ON YOUR MISSED CALL LIST?:
A guy I know. Or atleast think I do.

56. WHAT WAS THE LAST TEXT MESSAGE YOU RECEIVED?:
"Revealed, you rock. Life without you is like a desert with no oasis in sight. Let's please go out tonight and drink the seconds away. Together. For the rest of our lives."

And then there's the truth and all.
"so did you finish the tissue culture?"

You get to pick. Don't ever say I'm not good to you guys.

58. NUMBER OF PILLOWS?:
3. Minimum.

59. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?:
Shorts, tank top.

60. PICK A LYRIC, ANY LYRIC:
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All those voices
I hear in my mind

This tag is really, really, really long and I find I cannot complete it herein! So: to be continued shortly. Pliss to not go away, or even if you do to come back. At decent hours. Or indecent hours. We likes indecent hours.

Tagathon

2007-04-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

The And-baffleds are a proud race and apt to take exception to imagined slights. So, considering it most politic to dis-slight them, I've decided to tag along (hehehe, I can be so funny, no?). Along the way, I've apparently picked up a few tags (she being the main culprit) and never gotten around to doing them. So, I'm officially declaring this Tag Week. No tag will be too boring or too long. None shall be slighted while there is still breath in these lungs and nerves in these hands *points to an unsettling pair of lungs and hands hovering in the air next to her*. Also, in other news I'm officially declaring war on shrink wrap. Anyone wishing to enroll on my side (which is also the side of the righteous and the just), pliss to leave comment delineating hatred of shrink wrap of all sizes, shapes and colors.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
Hah. From the mists of my early childhood comes this gory tale of sibling rivalry and bloodshed (also villainy). I have a ridge on my skull. Thanks to my evil sister who made me hang onto one end of a dupatta while she was holding the other and insisted I tug on my end with all my might. She said it was a game! Tch. And while I was pulling with all my might, she, that sadistic Hitleresque sharer of my genes let go of hers, casually, I might add. We all know how this story ends. I went spinning to the floor tragically and cracked my skull on the clawed foot of an incidental table (may all incidental tables form the firewood of Hell). The sheer evilness of my sister (flesh of my flesh) does not end there. She then insisted that I not make a sound or shed a tear even as blood seeped sinisterly from my skull. Banquo had nothing on me, I tell you. And my mum comes into the room to ask what the commotion is all about. I'm sitting on the floor pathetically holding my aching skull in tender hands while blood ekes a miserable trail down my head and my mum looking shocked and horrified asks me what happened. And my sister (if you can call her such) stands at her shoulder mouthing dire threats at me if I so much as dared make a peep. Sigh. Such was my childhood.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Which room? The one here has a CnH comic strip, three hand painted masterpieces given me by various kids who've visited the lab (mainly kids of my boss and the other people working here), a double digest table, a DNA ladder chart, various post-its in various hues commanding, pleading, adjuring me to do various tasks (75% of which I have not, I'm sure) and a diagrammatic representation of my pet theory (ewwww geek!!!!) :D.

The one at home has a postcard sized poster of a painting of downtown with fireworks and all (very pretty, unknow artist, cut out from a promo mail describing the beauty that is this city), a coupla sketches by my sis (she's an awesome artist - though she insists on making sketches of her and me, in which invariably I look awful and she looks beautiful), and yeah I blush to say this but an Indian flag (I promise there is a story behind this that'll make it sound reasonable).

3. What does your phone look like?
It looks beeeyooootiful :D. Razr, pink (and I dare anyone to say *anything* about my choice of color, unless it's something nice 'course).

4. What music do you listen to?
Anything! Absolutely anything! You play, I'll listen :). What sorta question is that anyway?

5. What is your current desktop picture?

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Sleep. Please. Oh, and world peace *hand wave beauty queen style*.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Tsk. How can one believe in gay marriage? That's like asking if I believe in sand.

8. What time were you born?
About time, one feels.

9. Are your parents still together?
Umm still together is an ambiguity, no? I mean how dya know they were together in the first place and second placedly what does together mean? I plead ambiguity.

10. What are you listening to?
Creep in one ear and the sounds of this other chap in lab washing out test tubes at the sink while maintaining a yelling conversation with me regarding how I hoard lab equipment (which I don't!) in the other.

11. Do you get scared of the dark?
Only the creepy dark. The nice dark I totally adore.

12. The last person to make you cry?
Me, me. It's always me.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
Kenneth Cole's Reaction for men, Zinzibar (The Body Shop) for me.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Depends on the person. If I like him, his hair/eye colour will be the exact ones I like :D.

15. Do you like painkillers?
Well, if I was introduced, maybe. One doesn't want to trash people one has never met. One is very polite (and yes yes by one I mean the lady standing over my shoulder reading this).

16. Are you too shy to ask out someone?
Dunno. Never had to find out. Some day, maybe?

17. Fave pizza topping?
Not so much a pizza person. Like the ones at home with paneer in them. Sigh. So near but yet so far.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Ask me if I could drink anything right now, what would it be and I'll have some good answers :D.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
Jeez. Can't remember. I don't normally make people mad. Spreader of sunshine and good cheer and all that. Oh wait, wait lab chappie grumbling about me hoarding stuff can be him being made mad? Cos then, it's that.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
What a question to ask a married mother of three!

Tune in again for further facts about me that you never wanted to know which will be faithfully and randomly updated herein. Also, I tag heh heh, double tag tr and tag/doubletag *anyone* who skipped *any* part of this fascinating post.

Sea Spilled from a Cup

2007-04-23T15:03:00.000-07:00

Three spotlessly white steps lead up to the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center. How innocent words sound. Today dappling sunshine's making an unexpected appearance on the steps. A guest role. Not bright, cheery yellow sunbeams but mysteriously grey, convalescent sunshine. Struggling to recover from a bout of clouds.

There's always people milling around in the little green oasis that surrounds the white steps. Sometimes nurses, sometimes white-coated professionals. Doctors, lab technicians, gardeners, service men, sales men. Actually, more sales women than men. Maybe because women can be trusted to sell death machines in much softer voices. More appropriate, perhaps. Who knows these things? And then of course the patients and their assorted family members. Always a different group of patients. This part of the hospital has a lot of flux. From one reason or another. Mostly one reason, though.

One of the patients allowed out today is obviously a rebel. Disregarding any semblance of shelter, he sits in his wheelchair in the single patch of lawn with a hope of direct sunlight. Atleast he looks like a he. Sometimes it's hard to tell. All hair shaved away from the head. Because even one extra strand will obviously be too heavy a burden for what remains. Fragile skeleton that can be seen so clearly straining against the skin at the neck. Delicate features lifted up to the straggling sun rays. Even diluted sunlight shines right through the skin. Maybe that's why his knobbly wrist is tagged. In case the sun melts him completely away. The little tag atleast will be left behind. As evidence. The shapeless hospital gown flattens against a puff of wind. Macabre uniform.

He turns to his mum standing next to him and removes his oxygen mask to say something. They both smile. The mum lifts her right hand up again, rhythmically, almost automatically, rests the elbow in her left palm. Old school. Breathe in, breathe out. Puffs of smoke coiling into the air. She says something back to the kid, through the smoke. The kid nods in agreement, accepting her words as truth, cocooned in smoke and trust.

Maybe we all need a sign. A big, fat, smokin, fire-engine red 'No Stupidity' sign.

Look All Around, There's Nothing

2007-04-22T14:47:00.000-07:00

She switched the conditioner on to full blast. Ice cold air hitting her face. She stuck the cigarette between her lips, bent forward towards the steering wheel and lit it with a practiced click of the lighter. She lowered the window down a crack, letting pent-up wind rush in. Turned up the volume to drown out the noise of the freeway. Speedo touched 70. The sun shone gently, approving the Sunday morning. Half a weekend gone. Blown away with ciggie smoking, sucked down with cheap Scotch. A lot of talking, a lot of keemah, a lot of pipe-dreaming. The feeling of content that was blowing in with the wind spread through the car, invading space ruthlessly. Johnny Nash, "I can see clearly now the rain is gone". She turned the volume up even higher and sang along, her fingers tapping time on the wheel.

It's funny how these moments happen when you least expect them, moments of descending peace, things falling into focus or rather falling out of focus, perspective reigning for a brief interim. And then just like that, a click of the fingers, a blaring of horns, a confusion of impressions, reality leaps back and it's over.

The cops filed the report. A summary of her life, a briefly telling epitaph, a three-letter-long fullstop. DUI. Shit happens. Shoulders shrug.

Hearts on sleeves aren't in vogue anymore. Keep yours safe.

Dedication: To the Commenters of the Blogosphere, Peace be with You

2007-04-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

Cursor beguiles blinkingly here-gone-here.
Asking begging hoping. Whitened space needs
definition, outlines to contain it.

Classified: "Emptiness looking for
content. Spelling immaterial, no
punctuation also is ok. One
condition only - must leave behind a
token of presence, of engagement, short
long does not matter. Color - black preferred."

Words wait to happen. Tis their religion,
rebirth. One must not show intolerance.
Beliefs should be upheld. Give life. Comment.

Perspectives X: Legality

2007-04-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

He loved the freedom of the freeways. He figured that's how they got their name. Radio on in the background, not too loud, just the quiet hum of the engine and the feeling of miles being eaten. Speedo steady between 60 and 70. He wasn't into any weird speeding shit. Nor was he a safety nut. Like sometimes he forgot..oh goddamnit! Why was the cop asking him to pull over. Sirens in the rearview mirror, irritation burgeoning, he pulled over onto the shoulder. The cop ambled to his side. "I wasn't speeding, officer", he blurted out before the cop could get a word out. "Are you aware that it is illegal to drive/ride in a car without fastening your seatbelt, sir?", unctuously enquiring. "Awww, cmon! Jeeesus!", the one thing he sometimes forgot. A ticket. Just great. Fifteen minutes later he was on his way. It was his decision dammit. Wearing a seatbelt! The only life at threat was his own. He didn't speed, didn't drink and drive, was not irresponsible! How could they have a law that made his decisions for him. What next? Telling us what to read? When to eat? He fumed all the way back home

The cop got back into his vehicle and pulled back onto the highway. That had been the last fifteen minutes of his shift. He drove back home. Wife was in the kitchen cooking, kids playing on the back porch. He sat on the rocker, watching them, enjoying the sunlight and smoking a cigarette. Blue smoke swirled lazily into the air. Drifting, unclenching into tendrils, hazy fingers apparently aimless, tousling his son's hair. His wife watching through the kitchen window had a sudden fanciful image. For one second, the wraiths of smoke hovering over her children's head became the fingers of a skeletal hand. Playfully fingering her kids. Tag. You're it. She frowned. She had to get him to stop smoking. Not that she wanted the Government to ban smoking or anything. That would just be totalitarian. What next? Telling us what to read? When to eat? She smiled to herself. This wasn't Iraq.

Perspectives IX: Twilight Room

2007-04-15T17:31:00.000-07:00

He watched her toss her hair and revolve herself out. He blinked. Young people these days, he shook his head. Taking his film out of the casette, he went about developing it. The things they did, he thought pottering about the dark room. His daughter was singing to his plants. Plants!!! More head-shaking. Weirdly, the plants seemed to be growing much better now. The orchids were blooming. Out of season. Probably a coincidence. He didn't believe there was any correlation, of course. Definitely not! He shook his head firmly to himself. If only his daughter could get his blots to turn out perfectly, though. He sighed. It had been a month since he'd got a good blot. All cloudy, no data could be recovered. He felt depressed just thinking about it. Through the baffled depression, an embarrassed thought crept into his brain, hunching its shoulders, pretending to not be there. He turned the spotlight on it grimly, examining it, flinching at its daring in entering his mind. Tsk! He was a scientist!! He didn't believe things like this. Of course, dancing didn't make blots look cleaner! The idea! The dancing girl was just mad. And young. Sometimes, he thought they were both the same, anyway. He firmly turned his back on the thought, transferring the piece of film to the fixer. But it lurked, tempting him, saying just maybe, saying why don't we give it a shot. Pshaw. What idiocy! He took the film out to dry, frowning. Compulsively, without warning, in spite of himself, his legs did a little two-step. He stopped quickly, looking around furtively in embarrassment. Imagining grad students in the shadows. He found himself smiling foolishly as he removed the film from the dryer, feeling a little sheepish but curiously light. He looked at his blot as he left the darkroom. It was beautiful. Just perfect. Clear as daylight. Distinct bands. He chuckled.

Hmm, he thought in mid-chuckle. Did *everyone* dance in the darkroom?

Skinful

2007-04-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

Some days, she can't remember who she is. Words like "And I’m not sure where I belong, And no where’s home and I'm all wrong....And all the dark and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me" buzz around her head like peculiarly relentless bees, assuming malignant significance.

So she seeks out the sun. Lets the light wash over her face. Feels the warmth soaring through her. Watches her skin darken gradually into a deep mocha brown. Somehow this causes a release of relief. No more bewildering camouflage.

Browning skin reminds her elusively of something. Maybe half imagined, half remembered afternoons filled with the smell of Madras summers and the silent patter of flying feet. Long-ago tree branches conquered by dangling legs and lazy talk. Running around in pigtails, flushed and breathless, bent on some game more serious than all of life itself.
She doesn't know. But the reminder is reassuring, grounding somehow.

She steps back into the cool of air conditioning feeling like she's been reintroduced to herself. This is me, she feels like she's flying a banner. Proclaiming it contentedly to every one of the disinterested. This is me.

Like a pigmentary badge of honor, fleeting in victory, fading to anonymity in pokey disused corners of the attic, rediscovered on rainy afternoons. An affirmation of things that make a life.

Perspectives VIII: More Dark Room Adventures

2007-04-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

She revolves the revolving door closed. Smiles happily as the darkness, womb-like, engulfs her. Couching her in watered-down red light. As she starts taking the film out to develop it, her iPod sounds the familiar starting chords of River of Dreams. "In the middle of the night..." with its inevitable rhythm fills every corner of her head. As she feeds the film to the developing solution her toes start tapping. Irresistibly, as she dips the film in the fixer, she's nodding her head in time with Billy. While she waits for the film to dry, an impromptu little dance breaks out. Involuntary, like a rash. "In the middle of the night", Billy finishes up all too soon in grandly circular style. She regretfully gathers up the this-and-that she came in with and turns to leave, slightly breathless. The white-coated, bespectacled, white-bearded Russian professor from the neighboring lab stands just inside the door, washed a faint pink, looking at her. She (fortunately?) can't see his expression. His glasses glint meaningfully, though. "When did he come in?", she wonders, a little embarrassed, flushed cheeks flushing a shade brighter. Then with a toss of her hair, she walks past, revolving herself out. He can't possibly be startled.

"How can anyone *not* dance in a dark room?"

Less Dark Room Adventures

Paving Stones

2007-04-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

She blinked furiously, involuntarily struggling to swallow. She needed to think without tears fogging up the view and scrunching mountains into molehills. The reasons. They were the important things. Not reason, that treacherous bog but reasons. Was she doing this for the right reasons? That was all she needed to focus on. Using reasons had got her this far. She didn't know what other signposts to use for this ultimate decision that was proving so impossibly difficult.

She knew she couldn't keep waiting for something to happen. Hoping somehow to know when she was finally faced with the immediacy of absence, was left communing with a bunch of inanimate cells, pretenders to the throne. How did one know these things? Would there be a sign? Poignant last words maybe. It seemed fitting. Mumbled extractions of promises by the dead governing the rest of wretched lifetimes. Didn't the best movies dictate it? But the doctors, those grim purveyors of reality, had ruled that out. "Don't expect miracles. Comatose patients who haven't come out of it in half a year are not going to get up all of a sudden and be themselves." And if you're not going to come back and be yourself, what are you gonna be? she asked him silently, stupidly praying he'd answer. Vegetables can't hear, she reminded herself. Letting him go was the only thing she could do for him. Wasn't the hope of something better the best possible reason?

The thing that scared her was the shadow of selfishness. Just that subtlest suggestion that she was doing this for herself and not for him. It was true it would liberate her. But liberate her from what? From the struggling hope of someday. The nobility of the griefstricken but steadfast survivor, the sympathy and love lavished on her by everyone she knew. Liberate her to what? Endless nightmares, lashings of guilt. An irritated conscience. Irritated but never pearl-productive. Wasn't the acceptance of her own inevitable private darkness the best possible reason?

She got up briskly. There could be no farewells, no promises of eternal love. One did not kiss a tomato goodbye. She pulled the plug.

The Ultimate Quest (or Meet Shane)

2007-04-08T12:12:00.000-07:00

Recently it was gently suggested to me that I was taking myself too seriously. In my defense I present the Gay Theory or the Theory of Why Women Keep Banging Against the Brick Wall of Man's Idiotic Inability to Provide Any of the Things Women Need. When people realize that this in effect was what was occupying my brainspace I believe that I shall be excused from the charge of hyper-seriosity.

Now, some of you might know that I do not consider posting pictures of hot people on a blog the ideal method of increasing readership. However, in this case I've made an exception simply as added evidence for my theory. Really! Only cos of the evidence factor. Tsk, this whole not believing me thing, I do *not* appreciate.

That's Shane. Is she hotttttt or what? One of my girlfriends and I were talking about her and we both agreed she was perfectly delicious. I hasten to add that neither of us normally display lesbian tendencies (mainly cos well when it comes right down to it, you have to face the fact that though you can't live with guys, you definitely can't live without 'em - for reasons that will be expounded on below). And neither of us has ever called another girl delicious. Pretty yeah, beautiful quite a few times, interesting well you know what that means, ugly oh yeah, but never delicious. Ruminating about this peculiarity we came to the conclusion that there's a hidden lesbian in every female. Being mggs (yeah, she's one too) we quickly devised an experiment that would prove our theory. Being relatively practical human beings (read not insane fanatics) we also came to the conclusion that the experiment would probably never be carried out. Not, you understand, because it would be cruel to take a bunch of infants and grow them in isolation for 25 years and then let them interact with each other to see which way their sexual leanings lie but simply because of time constraints and the availabilty (or lack thereof) of specimens. At this point it is appropriate, we believe, to present the seminal work of Travis in their celebrated publication, Flowers in the Window.

Being thwarted of our interesting experiment, we decided to extend out theory to it's logical conclusion. It seems to us that there's nothing women get from men (other than the obvious) which cannot be provided by women in a much nicer fashion. Women talk, men are constitutionally incapable of listening; women shop for the sake of shopping, men shop in order to get something they need (the idea!!!); women like the sensuality of touch, the feel of skin on skin, the warmth of closeness, men well, for them it's basically a means to an end. The list of unfounded generalizations and blatant sexualisms I can produce is hypothetically endless and detracts from the main point. Which is the question : What would be simpler than for women to seek out what they need from people who can actually provide it, rather than continually and fruitlessly hope to find it in a section of the population that has repeatedly exposed its inability to supply the demand? Obviously the answer lies in the selfish gene and any living being's helpless need to procreate.

So we figure (my girlfriend and I) that if an alternate source for sperm was found, men would become totally defunct and extinct within our lifetimes. While the solution postulated by Travis et al is interesting it doesn't serve the purpose because of one grave failing namely, exhaustability of the resource due to eventual mortality. Besides, we would much rather not be cruel to anyone (women are the gentler sex, after all).

Men, as a wise woman once said (I'm sure some wise woman said it somewhere, or if she hasn't it's about time someone did), are for the birds. The search for an alternative, ladies and gentlemen, is on. Any ideas?

Note: We already thought of sperm banks and such like, but obviously it's again an exhaustible resource and once men disappear where will that leave us? We are *nothing* if not provident.

The Right Address

2007-04-06T09:44:00.000-07:00

She starts the letter again. Dear sir, she writes, in her flowing cursive script.

She sits back to admire her calligraphy. She has a very neat hand. Not only is it legible but it has a certain, fragile, perfect elegance. The letters don't lean onto each other, sagging under their own weight. Nor do they stand stiffly upright, pompously wanting nothing to do with each other. They establish an ideally friendly camaraderie. Each word forms a convivial meeting place and neighbouring words enjoy the most cordial nodding relationships.

The compliments she cherishes the most are the ones about her hand. She knows that they're true. Not lies told in sympathy or in a desperate attempt to provide solace and compensation. None of the extravagance of "You look delicious tonight" or "You make for delightful company". Nor the suspect offerings of people who love her. Or think they do.

Dear sir, she reads out loud, releasing the letters, allowing them to take shape in the air. She frowns in dissatisfaction. Too formal. But the 'Dear' suggests an informality, doesn't it? An endearment. That should be whispered into receptive darkness. Not demarcated graphically on glaring white, making claims that can't be sustained.

Another paper ball joins the gathering heap in the trash. Acquiring creases and crumples. Un-virgins sacrificed at the altar of character-building. She squares her shoulders and begins again.

How does one start a letter to a father one never knew.

The GodAbsolutely-Non-Theological-but-Wholly-Whimsical Delusion

2007-04-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, her skin can't contain her. She feels peevish, restless. Disconsolate, fretful. Helplessly watches the most important characters in the drama slip in unnoticed, unremarkable, mouthing banalities. Hearts breaking in bright sunshine. Humor and pathos melting into confused mediocrity. Disregarded stage directions. Somewhere, someone's mismanaging the whole show.

If only they’d let her run it.