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.
Showing posts with label Contemplations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Contemplations. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 14
Tuesday, May 13
Three Months, It's Been. Let's Hear a Rousing Welcome Back Cheer.
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.
Saturday, November 24
Another Theory Flash
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.
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.
Saturday, November 17
Theory Flash
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?
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?
Thursday, November 1
He Ate a Slice of Wonderbread
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.
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.
Saturday, October 13
Metaphorically Speaking
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 5
In Which this Seriousness Thing is Carried to its Limits
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.
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.
Sunday, April 8
The Ultimate Quest (or Meet Shane)
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.
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.
Thursday, March 29
Perspectives VII
She listened to her oldest friend rant about home. And her mum. And how hard it was to go out with her boyfriend without her mum knowing. She listened to her talk about curfews. About wearing dupattas when she went out to avoid the cat-calling lunatics that are called men in Madras. She empathized with her. Sympathizing in memory of not-so-long-ago. They ranted together for a while. It was an old rhythm and they settled into it comfortably enough. Like worn-in denim. But for one startled second she felt out of sync. We're in the 21st century!! You can tell your mum about your boyfriend!! Girls are allowed to talk to boys these days. Heck, girls do a helluva lot more. She wanted to yell it down the telephone line. Just for one second. She caught herself up guiltily. And continued empathizing.
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They discussed Tapas bars in the city over dinner. They dissected the best place for martinis. And the worst places. They laughed at how she'd had three martinis at one of the godawfullest bars simply cos they were there and someone else was buying. And how it had made her sick. So sick she couldn't even eat the olives (which everyone knows are the best bits of a martini). They talked about how Olive Garden had the worst sangrias (too much juice), and how Mi Luna had the best (lots of wine). They both knew where the best mimosas could be had for a late brunch. And suddenly she had a disconnect. Since when had she become the person who knew which bar was the best to buy a bottle of tequila from if people wanted to take the party home. Then, he brought up mojitos and she was kneedeep in conversation again.
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That night just before she fell asleep she had a thought. A wandering, bewildered, stray one. Maybe somewhere in all of this, this hectic recent life, this moving from one country to another to another, somewhere inside of all these sometimes contradictory selves, she'dlost temporarily misplaced herself. Just maybe.
Update: I just found R.W's Love Supreme on my iPod. Who *am* I?? No, really.
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They discussed Tapas bars in the city over dinner. They dissected the best place for martinis. And the worst places. They laughed at how she'd had three martinis at one of the godawfullest bars simply cos they were there and someone else was buying. And how it had made her sick. So sick she couldn't even eat the olives (which everyone knows are the best bits of a martini). They talked about how Olive Garden had the worst sangrias (too much juice), and how Mi Luna had the best (lots of wine). They both knew where the best mimosas could be had for a late brunch. And suddenly she had a disconnect. Since when had she become the person who knew which bar was the best to buy a bottle of tequila from if people wanted to take the party home. Then, he brought up mojitos and she was kneedeep in conversation again.
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That night just before she fell asleep she had a thought. A wandering, bewildered, stray one. Maybe somewhere in all of this, this hectic recent life, this moving from one country to another to another, somewhere inside of all these sometimes contradictory selves, she'd
Update: I just found R.W's Love Supreme on my iPod. Who *am* I?? No, really.
Tuesday, March 20
So you don't believe, huh?
Warning: Brilliant argument ahead. Pliss to watch out for sudden curves, road-blocks, cul-de-sacs and terrifying leaps of faith.
Atheists! Gah!! What do they know? They're like color-blind insomniacs attempting to appreciate Dreamland. Missing the essence for the smell, the texture for the taste, the tone for the color. I would like to propose, hereby, that atheists cannot exist. Not that they do not exist, or that they will not exist or they did not exist but that they simply can't. It's impossible. Wait, wait, do not jump down my throat just yet. There shall be plenty of time for that in a bit.
My argument is simplicity in itself. Let us consider the believers. The devout-when-in-trouble ones, the not-so-pious priests and the sometimes-pious common man. And yes, yes also the truly hypnotised believers (I fear I'm allowing some bias to creep in here, but let us pass along merrily pretending to not see it). The ones who see God and his mum in subway puddles (interesting anecdote: I was once accused by a grad student in my lab of seeing the Virgin in my southern blot! I would like to restate my total innocence in the face of that accusation, just for the record). These multitudinous hordes of believers, the religious Muslims, the lacklustre Hindus, the righteous Christians, the martyred Jews, the we're-not-asking-for-trouble Buddhists, all of them believe strongly in a God. A supreme Saviour. A Man for Every Crisis. Yes? Is everyone with me so far? Right. Now, we realise that some beleagured believers are born with a miracle, some achieve miracles and some have miracles thrust on them. But, by and large, most of us never catch sight or sound of a miracle. Still the believers believe. They genuflect. They rejoice in the knowledge that they are Taken Care Of. And this, this is the seduction of God, isn't it? A receptacle for all that needy belief.
What about atheists you ask me. After all you began with a bitter diatribe on atheists, you point out smugly. Please do not interrupt sir, I say coldly and with merciless dispatch. I was coming to atheists. Now, these great atheists, these supposed non-believers, these heretics. Can they attest that they have no belief? Can they vouch for this and say we don't believe, with one voice? Can they swear on the Bible in a court of law? Of course not (cept maybe for the last, cos that's a little umm..suspect)! They can't. Because they do believe. Just that they believe in themselves, or they believe in their family, or their country, or money. Or Science. Or something. They still believe, don't they? And no, this is not mere semantics. This is Truth! The thing we guard most jealously, protect from all those other heretics, nurture among our children, foster within our communities and argue about most passionately is Belief. It is immaterial whether God exists or not. For people who tell me they can't decide whether there is a God or not, I have only one word : Pshaw! It is not about whether he exists or not, it's not about which one is the true god. It's not about how many times you pray or in which direction or how long your beard is. It's about this: Do you believe or not?
I might not know whether God exists or not, I might not know whether God can work miracles or even if God cares about each and everyone of us. All of that is open to doubt. But what I do know is that the world would be a million times worse off if we didn't have Belief. I do know that God cannot exist without Belief, but Belief can exist without God. So, in the eyes of Belief, putting all my trust in It, I summarily reject all my claims to being an atheist. Cos I Believe. I do.
PS: Click on all the links. They're good ones. I promise. None of that annoying wiki stuff. Also I'm sharing all my glory with Picoult (because I was inspired to write this because of her, even though the thoughts were mine before I read hers, or so I'm claiming, as Belief is my witness! :P).
Update: A guide that facilitates understanding of the post. Like an easyreader.
KG: You're not saying that faith is a good thing
Revealed:
or a bad thing
KG:
you're saying that we have an all-pervasive need for faith
Revealed:
yeah
KG:
so if there wasnt god
there would have been something else
Revealed:
there'd b smthng else
zackly
so we re all asking the wrong q
it dsnt matter whether there's god or not
tats jst totally beside the point
atheism mks no sense
cos they're protesting the wrong thing
god is jst a name
at the end of the day
its jst a means to the end
KG:
we need to question our need for faith
Revealed:
yeah
zackly!!!!!!!!!
whoooooo hooooooooo
Update 2: And I give you someone who said it much better than either of these two pathetic attempts.
Atheists! Gah!! What do they know? They're like color-blind insomniacs attempting to appreciate Dreamland. Missing the essence for the smell, the texture for the taste, the tone for the color. I would like to propose, hereby, that atheists cannot exist. Not that they do not exist, or that they will not exist or they did not exist but that they simply can't. It's impossible. Wait, wait, do not jump down my throat just yet. There shall be plenty of time for that in a bit.
My argument is simplicity in itself. Let us consider the believers. The devout-when-in-trouble ones, the not-so-pious priests and the sometimes-pious common man. And yes, yes also the truly hypnotised believers (I fear I'm allowing some bias to creep in here, but let us pass along merrily pretending to not see it). The ones who see God and his mum in subway puddles (interesting anecdote: I was once accused by a grad student in my lab of seeing the Virgin in my southern blot! I would like to restate my total innocence in the face of that accusation, just for the record). These multitudinous hordes of believers, the religious Muslims, the lacklustre Hindus, the righteous Christians, the martyred Jews, the we're-not-asking-for-trouble Buddhists, all of them believe strongly in a God. A supreme Saviour. A Man for Every Crisis. Yes? Is everyone with me so far? Right. Now, we realise that some beleagured believers are born with a miracle, some achieve miracles and some have miracles thrust on them. But, by and large, most of us never catch sight or sound of a miracle. Still the believers believe. They genuflect. They rejoice in the knowledge that they are Taken Care Of. And this, this is the seduction of God, isn't it? A receptacle for all that needy belief.
What about atheists you ask me. After all you began with a bitter diatribe on atheists, you point out smugly. Please do not interrupt sir, I say coldly and with merciless dispatch. I was coming to atheists. Now, these great atheists, these supposed non-believers, these heretics. Can they attest that they have no belief? Can they vouch for this and say we don't believe, with one voice? Can they swear on the Bible in a court of law? Of course not (cept maybe for the last, cos that's a little umm..suspect)! They can't. Because they do believe. Just that they believe in themselves, or they believe in their family, or their country, or money. Or Science. Or something. They still believe, don't they? And no, this is not mere semantics. This is Truth! The thing we guard most jealously, protect from all those other heretics, nurture among our children, foster within our communities and argue about most passionately is Belief. It is immaterial whether God exists or not. For people who tell me they can't decide whether there is a God or not, I have only one word : Pshaw! It is not about whether he exists or not, it's not about which one is the true god. It's not about how many times you pray or in which direction or how long your beard is. It's about this: Do you believe or not?
I might not know whether God exists or not, I might not know whether God can work miracles or even if God cares about each and everyone of us. All of that is open to doubt. But what I do know is that the world would be a million times worse off if we didn't have Belief. I do know that God cannot exist without Belief, but Belief can exist without God. So, in the eyes of Belief, putting all my trust in It, I summarily reject all my claims to being an atheist. Cos I Believe. I do.
PS: Click on all the links. They're good ones. I promise. None of that annoying wiki stuff. Also I'm sharing all my glory with Picoult (because I was inspired to write this because of her, even though the thoughts were mine before I read hers, or so I'm claiming, as Belief is my witness! :P).
Update: A guide that facilitates understanding of the post. Like an easyreader.
KG: You're not saying that faith is a good thing
Revealed:
or a bad thing
KG:
you're saying that we have an all-pervasive need for faith
Revealed:
yeah
KG:
so if there wasnt god
there would have been something else
Revealed:
there'd b smthng else
zackly
so we re all asking the wrong q
it dsnt matter whether there's god or not
tats jst totally beside the point
atheism mks no sense
cos they're protesting the wrong thing
god is jst a name
at the end of the day
its jst a means to the end
KG:
we need to question our need for faith
Revealed:
yeah
zackly!!!!!!!!!
whoooooo hooooooooo
Update 2: And I give you someone who said it much better than either of these two pathetic attempts.
Wednesday, March 14
S.O.S
She likes to leave the lights off. That way the greyness of the day seeps into the living room. Conquering surfaces. Till the red of the rug is only a remembered red. She likes looking outside, rain-gazing. Feeling it diffuse into the air around her. Soon the room will be a ghost room. Her hand holding the cup of tea a shadow. The tea a deeper ring of darkness. With every sip, it's darkness pooling inside her. She wonders why light is associated with warmth when darkness is so much more blanketing. She imagines the sun setting behind the clouds. Unheeded. Unheralded. Quietly into the sunset? All the clouds huddle together. Rumbling in bass. Flashing in tenor. She doesn't even light the candles. Suppose the flickering chases the grey into corners. She looks up at the ceiling, it's ghostly paleness hovers over her comfortingly. The constant drumming of the rain on the garage roof reigns, with panicky chatter, over the stillness. A desperate tattoo. She listens for the refrain. Three dots three dashes three dots. God patiently waiting for help, Art and Paul humming about pocketfuls of mumbles that are promises. It rains all night. Until faltering hope is finally washed away with the first rays of the sun. Maybe next time.
Tuesday, March 13
Think String Theory
Gather around, children. It's Theory Time again. This is one of our pet ones. So if anyone, and we mean anyone (cept you, of course *smiles disarmingly*) dares pooh-pooh it, they have another think coming (Get it? Think. And the theory is called Think Theory. See? :D). So, in the grand tradition of Einstein, Newton and this upstart Stephen dude, we have decided that it's time for a Unified Theory of Thoughts. It's also called What Happens to Thought Thoughts (yeah, I have tons of those pun type things happening. Do not groan. It's impolite!).
To start at the beginning (the best place to start, we hear), it's most politic to examine the Origins of Thoughts. So basically, in lay terms, a thought comes into being the instant a brain thinks it, right? It's created, it has an existence. What's more, it has a reason. A purpose for being. It was brought into this world to accomplish something unique. Something only it can achieve. There is no existential angst in the thought community because for the most part they know where they come from, where they're going, and being more sophisticated than mere humans, they know who created them. Now though they're all created equal, in the fine fashion of our world some are more equal than others. So the more equal ones are given proper houses and admiration. They're given credit. They're feted and idolized. They're set down in pages and other brains and some remain immortal.
But (and it's a big but) what happens to the fraction of thoughts that are thought and then abandoned by their creator? The ones that are brushed aside. The destitute ones that stand at traffic signals begging for sustenance. The refugees, the unwanted ones. Do they have a Home for Orphan Thoughts? That takes in the strays. Puts them all together in a Thought Lounge? With a little dart board and a TV? No. We must be practical. Such things don't happen in the real world (and we're nothing if not realistic). So, we postulate that as per our findings, the stray thoughts evaporate. Right. You heard me. They just slip out of the numbskull who stuck them in a dusty unused corner and they flit around. Because they have to fulfill their destinies. See? It's like a survival instinct. They are born along with the notion of a niche to fill. It's like a MPD type thing. Two thoughts in one. The thought itself and the corollary notion (their relationship we have reason to believe is a lot like a person and his doppelganger). So these flitting thoughts earth themselves in new places. Hoping eternally to find the bliss of transforming into an epiphany. This is a lot like the caterpillar-butterfly transformation. Now, some brains are more receptive to these Stray Thoughts than others. They work as lightning poles. The s.t enters, earths itself and after five minutes of incubation explodes as an epiphany. Now, an epiphany, we all know, is paid attention to simply because it comes out of the blue. Elementary psychology. You see a thing for the first time, suddenly, and it seems splendiferous. So, basically it's all strung together, see? A think string. New thought born, evaporates, earths itself, explodes and is immortalised. In other words, every thought exists as a string, encompassing it's past, present and future avatars. And the whole sentient world is made of these Think Strings. Floating around. This in a nutshell, is the Think String Theory.
It has not escaped our notice that our theory not only explains what happens to unused thoughts, but also with perfect economy explains the occurence of epiphanies. In a previous paper we had spoken about epiphanies (we wanted to link to the paper, but couldn't find it! Which makes us wonder whether we just thought it or if we really wrote it. Or if we are yet to write it but having given the think string existence, we have a memory of the thought in it's future epiphanized form) and their likelihood of occurence in passing. We feel that this work is only a continuation of that one, a small cog that helps turns the huge wheel (of umm..Whatever). We expect great things from this discovery, in its own small way. We're very proud of it. Sort of like our protege. Huh? What was that? Oh right. We've exceeded the word limit. Just one more thing. We'd like to thank the editors of Science for considering our little theory worthy of publication in their journal. Initiative like this will bump up their readership numbers, we believe. So goodferya, old chaps. Two thumbs up.
To start at the beginning (the best place to start, we hear), it's most politic to examine the Origins of Thoughts. So basically, in lay terms, a thought comes into being the instant a brain thinks it, right? It's created, it has an existence. What's more, it has a reason. A purpose for being. It was brought into this world to accomplish something unique. Something only it can achieve. There is no existential angst in the thought community because for the most part they know where they come from, where they're going, and being more sophisticated than mere humans, they know who created them. Now though they're all created equal, in the fine fashion of our world some are more equal than others. So the more equal ones are given proper houses and admiration. They're given credit. They're feted and idolized. They're set down in pages and other brains and some remain immortal.
But (and it's a big but) what happens to the fraction of thoughts that are thought and then abandoned by their creator? The ones that are brushed aside. The destitute ones that stand at traffic signals begging for sustenance. The refugees, the unwanted ones. Do they have a Home for Orphan Thoughts? That takes in the strays. Puts them all together in a Thought Lounge? With a little dart board and a TV? No. We must be practical. Such things don't happen in the real world (and we're nothing if not realistic). So, we postulate that as per our findings, the stray thoughts evaporate. Right. You heard me. They just slip out of the numbskull who stuck them in a dusty unused corner and they flit around. Because they have to fulfill their destinies. See? It's like a survival instinct. They are born along with the notion of a niche to fill. It's like a MPD type thing. Two thoughts in one. The thought itself and the corollary notion (their relationship we have reason to believe is a lot like a person and his doppelganger). So these flitting thoughts earth themselves in new places. Hoping eternally to find the bliss of transforming into an epiphany. This is a lot like the caterpillar-butterfly transformation. Now, some brains are more receptive to these Stray Thoughts than others. They work as lightning poles. The s.t enters, earths itself and after five minutes of incubation explodes as an epiphany. Now, an epiphany, we all know, is paid attention to simply because it comes out of the blue. Elementary psychology. You see a thing for the first time, suddenly, and it seems splendiferous. So, basically it's all strung together, see? A think string. New thought born, evaporates, earths itself, explodes and is immortalised. In other words, every thought exists as a string, encompassing it's past, present and future avatars. And the whole sentient world is made of these Think Strings. Floating around. This in a nutshell, is the Think String Theory.
It has not escaped our notice that our theory not only explains what happens to unused thoughts, but also with perfect economy explains the occurence of epiphanies. In a previous paper we had spoken about epiphanies (we wanted to link to the paper, but couldn't find it! Which makes us wonder whether we just thought it or if we really wrote it. Or if we are yet to write it but having given the think string existence, we have a memory of the thought in it's future epiphanized form) and their likelihood of occurence in passing. We feel that this work is only a continuation of that one, a small cog that helps turns the huge wheel (of umm..Whatever). We expect great things from this discovery, in its own small way. We're very proud of it. Sort of like our protege. Huh? What was that? Oh right. We've exceeded the word limit. Just one more thing. We'd like to thank the editors of Science for considering our little theory worthy of publication in their journal. Initiative like this will bump up their readership numbers, we believe. So goodferya, old chaps. Two thumbs up.
Friday, February 23
Pointlessness Abounds
"Blimey, there are so many different people inhabiting this planet. Tis rather sweet how everyone is unique, and special in their own way."
"Are you kidding me? What are you still 8??"
"And what, might I ask, is that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that your attempts to convince yourself that you are an individual rather than another indistinguishable speck in the seething faceless mass that is humanity are laughable and honestly, puerile"
"Well, I say, there's no need to be so dashed rude about it. I was just expressing an opinion. A well founded one, I believe. Haven't you noticed how hardly any two people take the same things away from a book or a movie or a piece of music or a work of art? What do you suppose that is about?"
"I suppose that is about how things that happen to people are different. Not the people themselves."
"Hah! The old 'people are a product of their circumstances' argument. It is a quite outmoded belief. One hears that expressing naive gullible appreciation of every person's uniqueness is all the rage now."
"I, fortunately, do not bow down to the whims of passing fads. I have held this opinion all my life, and will continue to do so till the day I die. Everyone is quite depressingly the same. People from similar backgrounds, and similar lifestyles will 9 out of 10 times come up with very similar responses to the same set of stimuli. The only thing that saves us from eternal boredom and dreariness is that people are normally either out of phase or from different cultures/backgrounds/countries. But the way it's going, we'll soon end up with only two types of people: the Americans and the dregs of the universe."
"You know, old chap, your cynicism does not impress me in anyway whatsoever. You're just seeing this from too broad a perspective. Mostly life is simply about setting the right frame. You, I have had occasion to observe earlier, always use the wide lenses or the microscope. You forget the normal range."
"Oh yeah?! Well, I atleast don't have a godawfully fake British accent. Living a year in that country does not make you a pommie y'know."
"I merely happen to be more sensitive to my environment and the cultures to which I'm exposed, you filthy Philistine."
There should be a law against the voices in my head. At least a Ceiling Act or something. So distracting *sigh*
"Are you kidding me? What are you still 8??"
"And what, might I ask, is that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that your attempts to convince yourself that you are an individual rather than another indistinguishable speck in the seething faceless mass that is humanity are laughable and honestly, puerile"
"Well, I say, there's no need to be so dashed rude about it. I was just expressing an opinion. A well founded one, I believe. Haven't you noticed how hardly any two people take the same things away from a book or a movie or a piece of music or a work of art? What do you suppose that is about?"
"I suppose that is about how things that happen to people are different. Not the people themselves."
"Hah! The old 'people are a product of their circumstances' argument. It is a quite outmoded belief. One hears that expressing naive gullible appreciation of every person's uniqueness is all the rage now."
"I, fortunately, do not bow down to the whims of passing fads. I have held this opinion all my life, and will continue to do so till the day I die. Everyone is quite depressingly the same. People from similar backgrounds, and similar lifestyles will 9 out of 10 times come up with very similar responses to the same set of stimuli. The only thing that saves us from eternal boredom and dreariness is that people are normally either out of phase or from different cultures/backgrounds/countries. But the way it's going, we'll soon end up with only two types of people: the Americans and the dregs of the universe."
"You know, old chap, your cynicism does not impress me in anyway whatsoever. You're just seeing this from too broad a perspective. Mostly life is simply about setting the right frame. You, I have had occasion to observe earlier, always use the wide lenses or the microscope. You forget the normal range."
"Oh yeah?! Well, I atleast don't have a godawfully fake British accent. Living a year in that country does not make you a pommie y'know."
"I merely happen to be more sensitive to my environment and the cultures to which I'm exposed, you filthy Philistine."
There should be a law against the voices in my head. At least a Ceiling Act or something. So distracting *sigh*
Friday, February 16
Epiphany #1
The problem isn't that there aren't any answers, the problem is in that there *are*.
(I'm still not sure if this is an epiphany or crap, but it seemed ridiculous to title it Crap #1, though I know not as ridiculous as some of the other things these pages have seen :D).
So, I was measuring stuff out (cos that's what the scummiest of the scum does* in a lab) and distributing it among various measuring cylinders all day today. That sort of activity fatally gives you time to think, and eventually your mind comes up with these dazzling flashes of intuition (or whatever the heck it is). And I figure that the whole bloody thing** is just a result of not being able to accept the answer. (It's like when a guy asks you out, and you politely say No, but Thanks, which he then interprets to mean I really truly absobluminitely wanna go out with you but I'm such a shy retarded half-wit that I can't bring myself to say Yes. And then he hounds you.) That's the problem with the world. And that's why we need god. Cos otherwise what's the answer to the question why?
*Is scum a collective noun? Should the verb be do?
**'thing' meaning all those awful 3 in the morning questions like 'What is the meaning of all of this?' and 'Why am I here?' (though that one is often caused simply by a combination of alcohol and high spirits, and can quite easily be answered by conscious bystanders) and 'If I disappeared tomorrow would it make a difference to any freaking person in the world?' (also all too often most easily answered).
Update: See the strip right on top? That is what I'm talking about. XKCD rocks!
Tuesday, February 13
Perspective
She squinted in the sudden, dazzling sunshine. She had forgotten how bright her country was, how every sense seemed to go into overdrive as soon as she crossed the border. Recognition and then, an irrepressible smile. She stepped into the familiar embrace, the inimitable fragrance she had grown up with, a combination of something floral, sandalwood and talcum, enveloped her. She was welcome. For an instant she stayed in the circle of reassurance, felt all her hard won independence and strength seeping out of her. The one place she didn't feel like she had to communicate, that she had to work to be understood and to understand, that she was in a parallel universe, on one bank of a raging river shouting over the wind to the other side, trying to be heard. She sighed, her second skin shed. She belonged. Her mother stepped back from the embrace. "You have become a skeleton, papa. Skin and bones! At least I can fatten you up now that you're back". She laced her arm through her mother's as they started walking towards the car, "Amma, what are you saying? I'm fattttt!!!!!!!!" she exclaimed, thinking, for an instant, of all those mornings in the gym and all the calorie-watching that never seemed to be enough. She looked at her dangerously thin daughter. Sometimes she didn't even know who this human being was; where had the child who couldn't get enough of her cooking gone. She felt like she had to communicate, that she had to work to be understood and to understand, that she was in a parallel universe, on one bank of a raging river shouting over the wind to the other side, trying to be heard. She sighed. Her daughter had grown up. She'd have to learn to adjust, to accept her changes.
Wednesday, February 7
The Sad Story of Nemo (or The Wisdom of Naming Only Once but Naming Wisely)
Cautionary Note: Maudlin folk who cry during Hallmark commercials, be warned. Possiblity of tears ahead.
He brought home the little clown fish. The latest addition to his aquarium. He couldn't wait for his niece to see the little squirt. He hid the bag behind him as he walked in, and slipped the little fish in when his niece wasn't watching. After dinner, he was watching the news when he heard the squeal. Of delight? The patter of little feet, and his niece was standing before him. Her cheeks flushed. A worried frown creasing her face. Feet planted apart, all earnestness,"There's a new one in the tank" she confided gravely. "Really??" he responded with appropriate incredulity. "Yes, chachu. I just saw it. How dya think it got there?" He professed bafflement at its miraculous arrival (much as Mary must have to her querulous husband). They both stood in front of the tank, discussing the ramifications of the new arrival until it was time for her to go to bed. She turned back for a final glance, "Let's call him Nemo", she said. He smiled at the intrusion of pop culture into even this nook of the world, and nodded in agreement. It was a fine name.
He came home, to find her in a corner. All queries replied to with a shake of the head, and welling tears in her eyes. He thought the fish would cheer her up, and suggested they look in on Nemo. For a cup of tea and a chat, he quipped. She proceeded to burst into tears. Alarmed, he backed away. Tears frightened him. Made him feel clumsy. Helpless. His bhabhi rescued him, saying "She's been like this all day. Some fish in that tank of yours. Dead, I think." Casually, an offhand remark, of no importance but for its consequence. He went to the tank, in trepidation. Nemo was listing to one side, one of his fins ripped off. His eye looked at him, not in accusation, but in listless acceptance. As he stared, a small hand crept into his own. She was still crying.
Is it just me or do names take over the named?
Update: So, in the spirit of scientific enquiry and ratiocination and all that, I propose an experiment, brilliant in it's simplicity and general doableness. All I need are brave and noble human volunteers (but no scruples please, I can't deal with people with scruples, nuh-uh). Please step up, said b and n volunteers. Here is the plan. Sally forth (and no, Sally is not a girl) and procure some infants (or toddlers, but preferably infants). Select distinctive and characteristic names for them (these are important criteria, pliss to remember). Then, 25 years from today (please make note of date), we shall meet at the eldritch hour of 3 in the afternoon, at the haunted house in the corner of 9th and 88th (I will not tell you the specific city because in the tradition of the genre of movies to which Serendipity proudly belongs, if it's meant to be, we shall all find ourselves in that city on that date at that time), with the said 20-something year olds in tow. That shall be our finest hour when we will know for certain whether names take over the named or not. Suggestions for the names will be provided on demand - I have already thought of a few like Nietzche, Hawking, Bush (see, why I said no scruples?).
Update 2: Betcha the cuplrit's name is Danny Ocean. Any takers?
He brought home the little clown fish. The latest addition to his aquarium. He couldn't wait for his niece to see the little squirt. He hid the bag behind him as he walked in, and slipped the little fish in when his niece wasn't watching. After dinner, he was watching the news when he heard the squeal. Of delight? The patter of little feet, and his niece was standing before him. Her cheeks flushed. A worried frown creasing her face. Feet planted apart, all earnestness,"There's a new one in the tank" she confided gravely. "Really??" he responded with appropriate incredulity. "Yes, chachu. I just saw it. How dya think it got there?" He professed bafflement at its miraculous arrival (much as Mary must have to her querulous husband). They both stood in front of the tank, discussing the ramifications of the new arrival until it was time for her to go to bed. She turned back for a final glance, "Let's call him Nemo", she said. He smiled at the intrusion of pop culture into even this nook of the world, and nodded in agreement. It was a fine name.
He came home, to find her in a corner. All queries replied to with a shake of the head, and welling tears in her eyes. He thought the fish would cheer her up, and suggested they look in on Nemo. For a cup of tea and a chat, he quipped. She proceeded to burst into tears. Alarmed, he backed away. Tears frightened him. Made him feel clumsy. Helpless. His bhabhi rescued him, saying "She's been like this all day. Some fish in that tank of yours. Dead, I think." Casually, an offhand remark, of no importance but for its consequence. He went to the tank, in trepidation. Nemo was listing to one side, one of his fins ripped off. His eye looked at him, not in accusation, but in listless acceptance. As he stared, a small hand crept into his own. She was still crying.
Is it just me or do names take over the named?
Update: So, in the spirit of scientific enquiry and ratiocination and all that, I propose an experiment, brilliant in it's simplicity and general doableness. All I need are brave and noble human volunteers (but no scruples please, I can't deal with people with scruples, nuh-uh). Please step up, said b and n volunteers. Here is the plan. Sally forth (and no, Sally is not a girl) and procure some infants (or toddlers, but preferably infants). Select distinctive and characteristic names for them (these are important criteria, pliss to remember). Then, 25 years from today (please make note of date), we shall meet at the eldritch hour of 3 in the afternoon, at the haunted house in the corner of 9th and 88th (I will not tell you the specific city because in the tradition of the genre of movies to which Serendipity proudly belongs, if it's meant to be, we shall all find ourselves in that city on that date at that time), with the said 20-something year olds in tow. That shall be our finest hour when we will know for certain whether names take over the named or not. Suggestions for the names will be provided on demand - I have already thought of a few like Nietzche, Hawking, Bush (see, why I said no scruples?).
Update 2: Betcha the cuplrit's name is Danny Ocean. Any takers?
Tuesday, January 23
Cluttered
Like my closet just after I've gotten ready to go out for the evening. The lines between my closet and my bedroom are generally blurred by then. I'm always astonished at the sheer number of clothes I have, and even more amazed at the way none of them make me look good (yeah, yeah I know, there's gotta be something there to begin with, in order for clothes to help in anyway).
Like my living room after I've had friends over. Wine glasses behind the sofa, crumpled rug, throw pillows everywhere, books off the book shelf lying around on the floor, crumbs behind the TV, and under the sofa, and under the floor light, all the places which you can't imagine people designating as the one spot where they'd adore to have dinner.
Like my kitchen after a cooking binge. Pots and pans in the sink. Stacked, greasy, begging to be washed. Cutting boards and knives everywhere. A million spoons for a million reasons. Used and discarded. An assortment of bowls and mugs pressed into service as measuring cups (if you can call it measuring to randomly fill utensils up to different levels based purely on whim).
Like my car. Period.
My mind today. I believe I'm blue. Is this the SAD everyone's talking about? If only I could pick thoughts up, fold them and put them away, systematically into different draws and on various shelves. Sort through the pile on the floor with the laundry basket handy, a convenient depository for those that are to be (at some later date) washed out thoroughly and then re-examined for stubborn stains. Hang up the ones that I know I'll wear again, really soon, cos they're lucky (some clothes are lucky) for me. Strategically place lavendar sachets between the folds. Step back, knowing that everything's in its place. If I was God, I'd make minds like closets.
Update: I should move to Denmark. People there are very happy with their lives apparently. Way above the global average. Of course the root of their happiness is their perrenial pessimism. See, how well some people sort their lives out?
Like my living room after I've had friends over. Wine glasses behind the sofa, crumpled rug, throw pillows everywhere, books off the book shelf lying around on the floor, crumbs behind the TV, and under the sofa, and under the floor light, all the places which you can't imagine people designating as the one spot where they'd adore to have dinner.
Like my kitchen after a cooking binge. Pots and pans in the sink. Stacked, greasy, begging to be washed. Cutting boards and knives everywhere. A million spoons for a million reasons. Used and discarded. An assortment of bowls and mugs pressed into service as measuring cups (if you can call it measuring to randomly fill utensils up to different levels based purely on whim).
Like my car. Period.
My mind today. I believe I'm blue. Is this the SAD everyone's talking about? If only I could pick thoughts up, fold them and put them away, systematically into different draws and on various shelves. Sort through the pile on the floor with the laundry basket handy, a convenient depository for those that are to be (at some later date) washed out thoroughly and then re-examined for stubborn stains. Hang up the ones that I know I'll wear again, really soon, cos they're lucky (some clothes are lucky) for me. Strategically place lavendar sachets between the folds. Step back, knowing that everything's in its place. If I was God, I'd make minds like closets.
Update: I should move to Denmark. People there are very happy with their lives apparently. Way above the global average. Of course the root of their happiness is their perrenial pessimism. See, how well some people sort their lives out?
Monday, January 8
Chemistry
As I warned you guys, this blog is going to become an extremely serious one. You might have thought to yourselves "Heh! How could she possibly come up with serious stuff" and laughed lightly at my claim. But now you will know that I meant it in all earnestness. As Dumbledore wisely said, "These are dark and desperate times." At least I think he said it, and if he didn't one feels he ought to have!
Under normal conditions of pressure and temperature,
Me = Happy
Me + Being Liked = Happy + Happy = 2 (Happy)
Me + Being Liked + Associated Paranoia (Generally-Being-Freaked-Out-ness) = 2(Happy) - Vague Unease = (2-n*)Happy
Me + Being Liked + AP (G-B-F-O) + Long Conversations with Best Buds About Source of AP = (2-n*) (Happy) + n*(Relief)
Therefore,
Me - Being Liked = Infinitely Happy?
* Where n is a function of the extent of being liked divided by the strength of associated paranoia
And Ramesh sir thought I never paid attention in Chemistry classes. Hmmph.
Under normal conditions of pressure and temperature,
Me = Happy
Me + Being Liked = Happy + Happy = 2 (Happy)
Me + Being Liked + Associated Paranoia (Generally-Being-Freaked-Out-ness) = 2(Happy) - Vague Unease = (2-n*)Happy
Me + Being Liked + AP (G-B-F-O) + Long Conversations with Best Buds About Source of AP = (2-n*) (Happy) + n*(Relief)
Therefore,
Me - Being Liked = Infinitely Happy?
* Where n is a function of the extent of being liked divided by the strength of associated paranoia
And Ramesh sir thought I never paid attention in Chemistry classes. Hmmph.
Tuesday, January 2
Of Irrational Anger at Other People's Foibles
Why do I worry about becoming fat? I can't claim to be insecure, I can't talk about a childhood experience that left me emotionally scarred for life, abusive parents..not even one, a lust for all kinds of fatty food which triggers an alarm response in my system making me skip meals..nope. In fact I can't think of one concrete reason that would make Freud lean forward in his chair and rub his hands together.
BUT I can admit that I have a fear of fat creeping up on me, unheeded, stealthy, molecule by molecule, until one day I will be like the man who couldn't walk out of his apartment cos he couldn't fit into the doorway anymore. Maybe its my generation? Maybe its a symptom of how shallow a person I am (though I honestly have no hang ups with other people being fat)? Maybe the constant presence on the television of stick insects parading around, defining the way women have to look? I don't know.
I know in the larger context this suggests a serious social consequence of the media portayal of 'attractive' women, but sticking (in persistently self centred fashion) to my own narrow perspective, I have to confess that some days when I'm trying on size zero pants in AEO and they fit perfectly, I'm happy with my irrational quirk.
BUT I can admit that I have a fear of fat creeping up on me, unheeded, stealthy, molecule by molecule, until one day I will be like the man who couldn't walk out of his apartment cos he couldn't fit into the doorway anymore. Maybe its my generation? Maybe its a symptom of how shallow a person I am (though I honestly have no hang ups with other people being fat)? Maybe the constant presence on the television of stick insects parading around, defining the way women have to look? I don't know.
I know in the larger context this suggests a serious social consequence of the media portayal of 'attractive' women, but sticking (in persistently self centred fashion) to my own narrow perspective, I have to confess that some days when I'm trying on size zero pants in AEO and they fit perfectly, I'm happy with my irrational quirk.
Sometimes,
I impress myself. Two huge issues that have been worrying me all morning, have miraculously vanished in a puff of smoke and left me smiling. We all know the moral to this one: when you think it must be freezing outside, it hardly ever is. Maybe its going to be a nice year, 2007 (bloopers and all :)
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