Wish I did, but I take it..I could not have written something so thoughtfully hilarious.. So with my limited capacities, I could at best Copy-Paste this amusing Forward (Courtest: Santosh, a dear friend) for you guys.. It also does good to my sense of guilt for not Blogging (only Twittering all day) for a long time now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
The following is an actual question [so say all Forwards] given on a University of Washington chemistry mid-term exam. The answer by one student was too "profound" to miss out...
Q. Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.
One student, however, wrote the following:
First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it cannot leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.
As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different Religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.
Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1.. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2.. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa (a girlfriend of mine during my Freshman year) that, "It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you", and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number 2 must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is Exothermic and has already frozen over.
The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct...leaving only Heaven thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting "Oh my God."
No guessing...THIS STUDENT RECEIVED THE ONLY "A".
PS: The pic's one of my favorite and when I found it while searching for Heaven & Hell pics, couldn't resist using it although it doesn't suit the content perfectly.
Read more!
Movies being two dimensional allow the closest depiction of the Makers' imagination. But to churn out that exact desired effect, the Maker is dependent on diverse factors (actors, animation etc.) – the "end product" might not be the "intended product". Again, there's the time constraint. And isn't the Maker yet another artist and would he/could he breathe easy till he has made his own additions and subtractions? The Book, on the other hand, is a two man show – if the Writer is the God, so is the Reader. One describes, the other imagines. Besides, words can engulf details the eyes might miss on-screen. What a turn of head and batting of an eye-lid did in 2 sec, in the book it might be two pages with everything from the length of her lashes, her ambrosial smell, to how she heaved under his stare and the exact thoughts racing through her mind. In the end, both are work of art and to the respective artist, we should give it.
Take one of my most loved novels, The Color Purple (1982) by Alice Walker, for instance. One of those Most Challenged Books of that age, The Color Purple is a Feministic novel made of a series of letters, that sum up the dire straits of black women in Southern US, that of the black natives in Africa and that of women, in those time, in general. Stephen Spielberg's star studded movie had Whoopi Goldberg (as central protagonist Celie) and Oprah Winfrey (Celie's foil Sofia), and although it looked shrunk and barely touched upon few core themes like female homosexuality – you end up loving the film just as much. Please listen to Miss Celie's blues. It played in my head the whole week thereafter and is, even now, as I write it.
I would not know how was my favorite Forest Gump, Shawshank Redemption, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Slumdog Millionaire, The Reader, Big Fish, Shrek, and needless to repeat, Harry Potter, worded in their Original versions. But if someday I happen to settle down with their novel, would I will love these wonderful movies any less? I think not.
P.S.: Here's a list of Books turn Movie you might want to surf through.
(Contd. from Birthday Diary I) 13th July, 2009, Monday: It's amusing, how different the past looks every birthday. Like last year, when D didn't know me enough and thought I'm not the cake-"wrapped" gift type and when Ma was here, 13th July ended with this blog "Just another day called Birthday" and I piled it up in "Drafts" with my other intensely senti ones. This year, it was nostalgia. When I was a kid, the 'birth day' would typically start earlier than other days. Ma wakes up about the same time as crows (since I always hear the crows first, me-thinks they're the earliest risers) and being in India's North-East, it means her day begins at 4 am. On birthdays she wakes me up by 5 with a deluge of wet greasy kisses. I was in Assam Board (Jan-Jan cycle) and Julys and Decembers were vacations – so I could never relish hopping to school in my Bday dress (Bdays & Children's Day were no-uniform days) with my bag of toffees and flitting from one bench to another distributing them in the class. Only once, in my entire schooldays, vacations got postponed and I went to school wearing a super-frilled, white 'umbrella' frock and Pa so bloated my bag with toffee packs that instead of one, I distributed four per head. By evening, guests would begin to pour in and after all important ones have arrived, I'd cut my Mani Mahi (=Mousi/Aunt) made cake (still the bestest in the world) and blow the candles exactly as many as my age. The entire evening would be spent scuttling about the entire house amidst people. All the while I'd also be waiting patiently for everybody to leave so that I could open the gifts. To my dismay, no Barbie doll, box of chocolates or teddy bears ever came out of those wraps, but almost always came out books and comics, Legos & board games, dresses & tiffin/pencil boxes and the likes. Much later I discovered that that was MaPa's doing – advising people WHAT NOT TO gift me. That was the ideal-case-scenario – birthday bashes and all. More than often it would end at that greasy kiss, a hug from Pa and my favorite roasted chicken for dinner. Advent of telephones made birth days important. After I hit mid-teens I even began to secretly imagine I am a princess waiting for Charming and would most unabashedly accept just every gift that came my way on Birthdays (from you know who all). Besides the usual soft toys, chocs and by-default Archies cards, there were few interesting gifts in my compilation, I have to mention – a silver ring with a moon-stone (whether that implied I need to calm down or that I remind him of the moon, I could not tell), a dog-collar (he must have taken my love of dogs and the fact that MaPa wouldn't let me have one, too seriously, and meant he'd let me have one if we got together. Second thoughts, did he call me a "bitch"?) and a Jaipuri quilt (presumably from his father's shop, but when he brought that to my hostel, on a hot July day, that quite made history!). Kamrupa's (my Hostel during Grads) birthdays were special. Like we dressed as gypsy women for Shaheeda Ba's (=elder sister in Assamese) and as vampires for Nilanjana Ba's. Along with other gifts, the Birthday bonus was a hand-drawn, super-vulgar greeting card, with the obscenest thinkable message. But for me, once again Julys were spent home, as Delhi University opened every 15th July and MaPa would let me go never before July end. Next came this phase when I'd plan special birthdays for those close to me ("exes" mostly). But as luck would have it, I was almost always home or un-engaged just when it was my birthday. This year, 13th July was spent at work. Varsha & Harleen (D's colleagues) came over with a bag of my favorite Chocolate Hut chocs, just when I was sighing and Twittering – all books, no chocs for me. Boo Hooo. Where to for dinner was again a surprise. I was expecting Lebanese, but it turned out to be the pool-side Mexican joint at our neighbourhood Novotel. We were only settling down when the manager came with a cake and a bouquet. Over-kill – I thought. Besides, more than half of my Bday cake was waiting back home, and I'm trying to lose weight for gods sake. I was little embarrassed at first, but when the waiters began the birthday jingle and everybody turned to see who it could be – I got back to being 16 and gave D a quick kiss right across the table. Had I dared that on any other day, I would have got a nice one on my rear there and than. Later found it wasn't D, but the divinely chocolicious cake and the bouquet were complimentary and D had no clue they're coming. He just happened to mention it's his wifey's bday when he reserved the seats. We then went on a long drive with Boom. I was high and we sang aloud like madman&wife. And it was drizzling. Tell you the truth, dear readers....this was my grandest birthday. More than the events and incidents that spanned that 24-hour, it was the contentment – there's somebody who takes my little wishes seriously, tries hard to decode my subtle hints, loves and respects me with all my imperfections and now when I'm terrified at turning 28, he does everything to preserve the child in me. Here's to all husbands who make their wives feel 16 all their lives. And to all wives who groom their husbands' right and make it possible. :)
12th July:
The day before 'the day' is most tormenting – the bouts of anxiety and excitement, in turns, make you want to drop dead and wake up straight at 12 am. Anxiety, because, if you're married to a geek of a husband like I am, you never know whether to "Expect" or "not Expect". And Excited because, there's this faint ray of hope that a surprise might be waiting at 12, triggered off by a belief – MAY BE he remembers he's married to a hopeless romantic.
With the love of my life - D, the Pain of 12th July doesn't end at that. I have to go through this another tormenting exercise of suspending curiosity – my faintest expression of wonderment might make him give in and explode, if he is planning something at all. He's just not the "Surprise!!!!!" type, like most men. But our honeymoon made me reassess – he, at rare and special occasions does walk the 'Extra mile' and when he does it – boy, you're swept off your feet – Really!
So even though I saw him messaging secretly, hush-hushing to people over the phone and sneaking outta home around 5pm – I feigned total ignorance and thought – let this one go….next, I am grooming him on "How to SURPRISE your Wife on her Birthday".
10:00 PM: Seeing D still with the godforsaken Stargate and I had to re-consider my guess. I like the series too, but on a day like today when I am almost sure "something's" happening at 12 and at home, I was expecting him to clean up the house, charge the camera cells, ready Boom (food, poop) etc. May be he's planning it out somewhere else, may be at Firangi Paani, like we did last year on his Bday! Knowing him, I still volunteered to do all wrap-up work and since I wasn't sure where exactly the party could be tonight, as a precaution, I also tidied up the house. ["Birthday Girl" with a broom…Sigh!].
10:30:
D: Let's skip dinner and check out Irani Chai. You love that creamy thing with Osmania biscuits, na?
That sure is a catch. Sacrificing DINNER for cuppa and biscuits, not even something I'd die for – that's not D!
And since we came back home soon after, it was confirmed, it's a house party. If not the guests, the cake and food are coming for sure.
11:30 PM: To give D the "I did it" feel, I gave him a 'good night' yawn and retired into the "lounge" (a low-lying arrangement I hype up by calling it a lounge) with Booms, switched off the lights and tried hard to catch some beauty-nap. Btw, I didn't change or wash off the make-up. :P
11:45 PM: Booms sirens off.
12J: Rachita-Santosh, Scarlett-Sharanya (he was another surprise, coz I had no clue he's back from Hong Kong), Geetu ba-Poohar da, Vikas-Ajay, Rajoo, Pritish, Ady – all walk in one by one, and along comes the cake and food. And we've a blast till 5.
(To be contd.)
Our Hydie does not have many cinema halls where you can sink in the seat comfortably and glue on to the screen undisturbed, munching buttered popcorns, without the fear of some runty bug crawling into your shirt or your neighbor startling you out of your trance every now and then by his hooting and clapping at every ‘hit and miss’. PVR, Prasads & the IMAX, Gold Spot, newly opened INOX (GVK1 Mall) and Cinemax, and our neighborhood Talkie Town – barely six. The agonies of a Hydie movie addict does not end there.After you guys in the Delhis and Mumbais are done ‘eating and digesting’ the fresh releases, we in Hydie race for the ‘stale’, a week later. Happened for few films of my much awaited films, in the past! Again, the non-Telegus also have to bear with the order of preference – Tollywood comes first followed by Bollywood and Hollywood. Hence, my MUCH loved Ice-Age 3 was released in only THREE theatres and since I did not book it way in advance, on Friday I see all seats, for the entire weekend, booked. Usually, in such situations I thrust my claws out and spring at D – a woman has to vent her anger somewhere right. But this time, I decided to gulp it down and remember to book tickets way in advance of films I can’t wait to watch. I could not wait for another weekend and come Monday and I set it up with D and our friend Scarlett. Me: Ice Age? D: Sure. But I have a meeting till 7:30 Scarlett: Yoga from 6-7. Me: Great. I’m booking the 8:20 show. D & Scarlett: Done. So the plan was D and me will leave office at 7:30, go home, go pick Scarlett and we all leave for INOX and 50 min was decent time to wrap it all up. 7:30: D & me leave office. 7:40: Reach home. I take Boom down. I wait patiently for him to do his ritualistic sniffing before he could bring himself to poop, but he seemed to be in his sniffing-on-and-on mood. We leave home praying he does not relieve himself in the house and give his poor mother a nauseating time ahead. 8:00: Scarlett calls D to say she’s stuck in a jam and that we should take the other road to her house via Novotel. That said, D’s mobile conks off and we lose touch. I realize, in the hurry I had left my mobile and purse home. 8:10: We reach her house taking the choked, but shorter than the other, road. There was no trace of Scarlett. I raced for her house. But she wasn’t there. And there was no way of contacting her. D and me wait. [I swear to God to never ever leave home without mobile and purse] 8:20: [Movie starts. BOOO HOOOO] Scarlett finally reaches. Seems she took a ‘U’ from the choked road and ended up spending more time travelling. [Scarlett could have gone on her own, but GV1’s parking is spiral and “the most difficult in the world”, as she says, and it’d be late by the time we’re back and we stay close] 8:40: Petrol pump [Wahi baaki thaa…the car was already in reserve and looking at the time I did plead with D to go in Scarlett’s car, but D insisted we take ours). Scarlett suggests we take a new route to dodge the mad traffic at Jubilee Hills Check-post. I ask D to slow down so that "Ice-Age" ke chakkar meh we do not reach the other Ice-Age [heaven being up there, must be cold, which is why the Angels wear as less as possible and disperse some warmth] 9:00: Apparently, all this while D was thinking Cinemax, whereas our destination was INOX, GVK mall. Which means we travelled around the entire KVR park, which was a short-cut to INOX, only to come to Cinemax, a place only a stone-throw (if it’s a giant throwing the stone) from the Check Post because of D’s misunderstanding. And Scarlett and D starts off with their “What an adventure this will make”, while I lose it and begin my “tum logo ki wajah se” melodrama. 9:10: We FINALLY reach INOX. D goes to park while Scarlett and me race up. After losing our way at least thrice, we reach the Box Office. Thankfully D also joins us just in time [but not without losing 10 more secs checking out the flock of hot babes just outside the hall]. 9:15: Trio enter hall. Ellie, Manny, Diego, the two possums and a new character with a pirate-patch on one eye (Buck) were doing the Ice-Age’s characteristic pun and the hall was roaring with laughter. Quietly, we join in….and in no time we crack up......clapping, howling, hooting, falling off our seats…..That’s how we enjoy movies here in Hydie…[even when it is the last 45 min]..
Though the best of my Bong friends defy my not-so-listenable opinion about Bongs in general, I still can't let go of my bias...but I have to confess I absolutely DOTE on their ROSHOGULLAs (besides Jhal-muri, Tagore's songs, Bong beauties, to name a few).
O why did I decide to sit and blog hop so early in the morning and land at Bongspeak. Hilarious post and an admirable attitude to go with it (very un-Bong-ly), but just as I was jotting my comment and closing that tab, I had a second full look at the pictures.....roshugullas.......and I kept looking.........helplessly.....where in Telegubad would I get authentic Bong Roshogullas...at least I never found the ones of my taste till date.....Even the ones in Delhi were better. Back home, my hometown is flaked with Bongs, Marwadis and Bangladeshis. Though dal-bati-churma could be had by invitation-only (at Marwadi friends house), the Bongs had made their Roshogullas pretty ubiquitous and along with the local Bongs, we Assamese think of it as our staple dessert. Just that we have it with yoghurt (doi-rosogula, as we pronounce it, without emphasis on 'sh' and 'll'). This time when I was home in April, I had this finger-licking-great Khejooror Rosogula (made from dates). And man, it was something tellya. But I have never tasted Kolkatas Roshogulla and it'll be months before Reah-from-Kolkata will come Hydwards.
Good Lord...it's 10 am and I've to wake D up, switch on the geyser, take a shower, pack my lunch, have breakfast and head for work. And I do not have TIME to go surf the city for my Roshogullas. He Bhagwaan aj ka din kaise bitega without Roshogullas.......Boooooo hooooooo
[Just why I steer clear of Bongs]
D turns 33. Next is my turn to turn ___.
Options: a) 16, b) 16, c) 16
Contest closes on 13th July.
Read more!
It was D’s birthday yesterday and the birthday blog was shaping up in my mind since the day I started preparations – bought gifts, ordered for a photocake (inspired by Mama Mia) invited friends over for a surprise party at 12, booked movie tickets.
But now when I sit to share it with my blogger buddies, an inexplicable pain is welling up.... I realize I have not shared it with somebody I have been sharing just everything from stomach aches and heart breaks, to new dresses and broken toe nails, since childhood. Brooding, I also realized D’s birthday is just one of the piles of events and incidents that have affected me in the near past, which I did not bother to tell them the way I used to. Not that they’re altogether unaware. We talk often. But the ‘need’ to download upon them is no more there. It was more of reporting a piece of news than sharing an experience.
Conjoined to D, it feels improbable that I belong to a different family, that I am bonded to somebody else with flesh and blood. Did Maa feel the same when she moved in with my father? I do not have the heart to ask her this. We were a nuclear family and without siblings, they were ALL I ever had before I got married. No emotional involvement has been so strong to wean me away. But today I feel different and this makes me feel so very guilty.
Until recently, my understanding of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ was – all those things I can tell MaPa are ‘right’ and those I cannot, are ‘wrong’. And I do not have the heart to tell them that I am drifting away, unconsciously, and do not know what to do!
Boomer, my son (so I believe) is just a dog, practically. Every time he’s under the rush of his hormones, he acts ‘differently’ and I feel let down. I tell D it hurts to see him get so mad for some wench (‘bitch’ I mean) when I have cleaned his pee and poop, fed him, rushed him to the hospital when he was sick (D was out of station), prayed to God to take away days from my life and give it to him, stayed awake entire nights to feel his heartbeat. And all this in just a year and a half! How would Maa Pa feel when after 27 years I tell them I cannot feel the way I used to feel about them? Not that I do not love or care for them anymore, but the relationship has changed.
It’s killing me.
D confessed to feeling a same sense of alienation from his parents. The question is whether to accept it as a natural phenomenon that happens to all men and women after they're united in matrimony or find true companionship, or to make an attempt to re-correct the equation? Or is it because both D and me have grown up in nuclear families and have not witnessed the attachment children have with parents post marriage that is making it seem so unusual?
Read more!
[D. sends me this when I sulked at not being able to fit into my old pair of jeans and for always giving in to sleep every morning when I should be going for my swimming classes]
Q: Is swimming good for our figure?
"Dangerous" was my first English album. I was 9-10ish. Papa had this knack for planting surprises at unlikely places and since my now pea-sized brain was rye-sized then, I could never guess. So it took me one whole day to sniff down that small packet of three cassettes - Baby Doll Alisha's Superman, Suneeta Rao's Dhuan and Michael Jackson's Dangerous.
I should have (only if I could have) been writing the review for this place now. Rattle & Hum is a premium lounge, newly opened in Hyd and this review is over-due since Sunday.
Or I could have been doing that compiling bit S. wanted me to complete by Thursday so that I have a good bulk ready before I am on-boarded.
I could even wrapped up my cooking so that when D. is home, we can all go driving. I badly need some fresh air and also get a hang of our car. Besides Boomer loves jutting out his head to smell and see all that he can't from his pigeon coop of an apartment and I so love watching him do that.
I could get back to Midnight's Children and find out what happens after our Sinai family move into that sabkuch ticktock hai Methwold's bungalow....
I could call up one of my (equally frustrated) friends and bitch about life, job, SIL or some other friend.
I could take a nap, like I usually do. More so on a day like today, when I had slept 3 hours less than my stipulated doze as I had to go for a swimming class (at 6) that never happened.
I could even play one of those stupid...nay...on second thoughts, 'timepass' games on Facebook, comment on comments or play scrabble and the end of it all curse FB for tempting people to waste so much valuable time on-line.
I could catch the missed episode of Splitsvilla at Youtube and find out whether Juana gives in to the competitive spirit or to her affection for Mohit....and later try to figure out what is it that attracts me to that far-from-sensible, faked and tweaked-to-raise-TRP, scripted reality show.
I could take Boomer out for a walk and take that time off to clear my head and see if I can do some productive thinking.
I could finish that collage I am planning for D. birthday. Planning a mix of photographs and mementos - all from our childhood, on an wooden panel. D.'s keeping too busy lately to drop by my blogs. So no worries.
I could shortlist few hiphop tracks and burn a CD for the car. I am so tired of all the Al di Meolas, Dave Mathews bands and MegadETHs.
I could cry and let that clog explode. But tears no more come easy, unless it is infused by some touching scene in a movie. I'm becoming a hard nut everyday.
I could try flirting with one of my buddies at PM and give my degenerating self confidence a boost and my same-story-every-day life a surprise just for today.
I could write a secret blog and set 'me' free.
I can write a secret blog.
Yes!
Read more!
While Publishing the post below, I found I cannot simply hit Publish and have the HTML codes in my post stay unchanged, like other alpha-numeric-symbolic elements in my post. The HTML codes in the post are treated as part of the post's HTML file, so that when you publish your blog those HTML tags are either altogether gone or are visible in bits. How in the whole wide world could that have occurred to me! But my stars aren't all muddled, at least not all the time. I remembered to save a copy in Word. How about slicing out all the code tags from the word doc using the Snipping tool (one of my fav. IE8 features) and publishing them as image files? But that would turn my post literally meaningless because how the hell would one copy the HTML script from files. It has to be a right click, copy, paste thing.
After all that big big proclaimation -- this will create history, this is my first tech blog, I'm lit up like a 100 watt bulb, trust me - mislead you I shalt not, trust me, this that -- it would be both embarrassing and unfair to write a blog on codes, with half codes gone. I know you guys would be kind enough not to come looking for me (inspite of my disclaimer) or you would?
Google can be such a life saver (Sorry Bing, I'm yet to bing in such situations). I found this magic link.....
http://centricle.com/tools/html-entities/
Now this site allows you to decode/encode your codes into different formats. For my post, I copy pasted each code tag into the sites' code-transform window and got it encoded into a format so that the tag scripts look like regular alphabets and not like special charatcters. This way I converted all my HTML code tags and got my post replaced with the encoded ones. And when I published it finally and saw all the codes in the present format, this time, I really did beam up like a bulb.
But the temporary alignment of my stars was over by then and once again the turmoils of life stood there looking at my face. All done, all tags added, the post will now not scrape off with the Read More leading to the expanded post. Would that not be a complete anti-thesis of the very soul of the post - my toil of an hour and a half or more. Jeeees......... But good Lord intervened and I thought of copy pasting the entire post in the notepad to set it free of all bugs. This done I copy pasted it back to my blog and all fell into place. Phew! Hallelujah!
Read more!
27th day of May, 2009: I CAN DRIVE....................................
After the first few days at the steering wheel, next few picking up the ABCs (Accelerator, Brake, Clutch), today I learnt 'the wonders of the gear'. How drivers co-ordinate all of these props - I could never understand till I did it myself. And it felt heroic.
And that's not all - I already banged into a scooter (not my fault TRUST ME) and I showed him the middle finger (D. never does that and warned me not to repeat it EVER. And I gave him my devilish smile. Heh heh.)
Muzeeb (the trainer from Escort Driving School and who recognizes his burqa-clad sisters from their sandals) must have trained at least a hundred blokes in his career of 10 years, and there is no reason, whatsoever to consider me special. Even though after 15 min of driving I take to humming some song and begin to look around checking out people, shops and.... M., very curtly reminds me "Rastey ko dekho madam, idhar udhar dekhne ko baadme bohut time milenga" and that I'm only 6+ class old. Even though I leave both my hands from the steering wheels to shift to 2nd gear (must be the car) and M. goes totally crazy "Madam sterring wheel chodoge to gadi kaun chalayega". Even though I bring the car to a screeching halt every time there's a dog even intending to cross the road. "Darne ka nehi. Kutta aye, jo bhi aaye. Apna life sabse important hai, baadme dusro ka. Full confidence se chalaneka." Even though I make him feel suicidal with my pen and paper and get him draw and explain the entire mechanism of the car. He would only be thanking his stars, visiting the mosque for his namaaz every Friday, when he passes this test - of patience in teaching me How to Drive. And D. will be thanking him (it could have been D.!). And I will forever remember
"Rastey ko dekho madam, idhar udhar dekhne ko baadme bohut time milenga"
"Madam steering wheel chodoge to gadi kaun chalayega"
"Darne ka nehi. Kutta aye, jo bhi aaye. Apna life sabse important hai, baadme dusro ka. Full confidence se chalaneka".
Read more!
I have a question ----
How does it feel to stand at the center of the stage...alone...the mike in your hand, your voice piercing through the sheer silence of the auditorium, every pair of eyes transfixed at you, if not to admire or admonish, to check out the source of that booming voice, and all the while weighed down by the pressure of the need to humour, to entertain?
I am all ears for a first timer's experience (and almost sure it'd match mine) so that I know I'm not the only phattu around. Here's what I went through:
I was barely awake, after the Friday night's hangover (from sleeping at 4am after a get together at P's), when R.G. called. After this and that, he came to the point at once:
"The lady who was supposed to anchor today's Bihu function has cancelled out at the last moment. Would you phuleez do it?"
"Jeeez, I'll pee in my pants. I've always been in-a-group, on the stage"
"Arrey, it's easy, you just have to read out the script and there's always a first time. Now come on"
"Umm, can I call you back?"
What a proposition to jolt you out of a perfect Saturday morning snooze. But instead of cursing him for the temptation, and screwing the first morn of my precious weekend, I was thrilled, surprizingly. Ran for dear D.
"You want to do it?"
"Yes, but I aint confident."
"Do you know Frankie?" (Rocky Balboa this time and could I have missed that pounding effect?)
"Frankie who?"
"Frankie Fear. He's your friend and you need not be ashamed of him. He keeps you sharp. You fear because you want to give in your best. Which is good. Just keep Frankie Fear in your control. Don't let it overcome you."
"Feels better already." (Grinning wide)
"There's another way of looking at it. Imagine your audience is dumbass and you're the best. But then you might get careless."
"Franky Fear is better"
"'ll do it", I sms'ed R.G. (Later, it took time to believe I said that)
Unlike the mukali Bihu (usually held in a field, a shade on top, a stage and remains unbounded from the three sides), this time it was a huge amphitheater-like auditorium.
"D., there's a high probability of my succumbing to do the runaway act just in case, please be around and keep the keys handy".
"Don't worry, you'll do it." (But Jiski ph***i hai, usi ko pata hota hai)
The first time I heard my own voice on the microphone, tell you man, I was startled. It was like waking up to a nightmare -- I was "there, doing that" and there was no turning back. Coming to terms with the consciousness of eyes roving all over me, getting used to the many flashlights that made my cheeks burn, feeling the sweat roll down my nape, all in the May heat, in that jazzy silk mekhela-sador - it was everything but easy. I took time to get used to that voice - my voice supposedly, bellowing in the auditorium. In front of me was Hyderabad's Assamese community. Every sixth face was familiar and I could see that let's-see-how-you-do-it look written on each.
The script was unbelievably crappish and in between the show I tried to make as much amends as I could. Okay, I did not do a great job. I did not get them applauding aloud with my wit and humour nor tittilate them enough to leave their seats and run for the stage to join the Bihu dancers. But no chappals came (recession time or politeness I could not tell), no jeering comments heard (at least not where I stood - on the stage).
And I did not run...away.
I did it! :)
Read more!
1. Boyfriends: It is benefiting for D. to assume that for a girl in my situation there could not have been a better fish in the pond (in un-minced mercenary terms) or that I'm the traditional wife with a conscience bigger than my appetite and eyeballs. But dear husband missed out the only reality: I love him and after a lot of permutations, combinations, comparisons, and after more than a year of peaceful coexistence, I am bereaved of any logic or reason to not continue wifehood with him, like I discontinued girlfriendhood with at least a bunch before him. That I am still Mrs. D. is not what I want to be acknowledged for, but at least count this as point No. 1 in my proof of stability, as I just have!
2. Jobs: Somebody who could not understand how in the world could her parents manage to remain entwined to the same Electricity Board all their lives, whose loyalty to companies varied from jobs that lasted 3 days to jobs that she quit, and again came back to, who once simply walked out of the office in the lunch break and never came back ---- to becoming somebody determined to hold on till she's kicked out, even though the job is nowhere close 'the dream job' ----- is humanely oceanic, don't you think? Point 2.
3. Emotional atyachaar: Slightest change in my emotional graph (to think of them now) and I would imagine a catapult of tornadoes on my little head, blame God for being step-motherly, wet pillows (they had to dried in the sun next day), burn things (tucked with care memory things), look for agony aunts, chop-off hair (at the parlour but), baba re what not.
4. Experimental recipes: When I first moved in with him, I thought kitchen is a lab (laboratory, and not Boomer) and just like my nitwit Chemistry experiments, my combinations rarely produced the intended effect.
5. Ringtones, Wallpapers: Not only have I not changed them for a long long time now, but wonder how do people manage all that time to do that.
6. House-hop: Five years in Delhi I hopped 11 houses and not a trifling joke that was for a single girl - pack and unpack every 6 months/1 year. Right now I am planning shifting not because it has got into my genes now (acquired characters) but because I have my investments in mind and feel we can get a better deal with that much dough. So this can be squeezed into my stability list with some explanation.
Point 7: Accepting that there always will a be few things inconstant. Like my blog templates, for now. I was quite a late entrant into the blogosphere and its wonders and again, being the technologically challenged that I am, would look at those with good looking blogs with great awe and think they must be real geniuses to do all that. Even wrote to one to give me some gyan. And finally I landed in this site. BTW, how do you like my new template? Nice na?
Two driving classes made of "your side", "my side", "left", "right", "u-turn", with me on the steering wheel trying to use-not-my-head and follow commands and I am already dreaming of Fast and Furious.................And when I finally do that (DRIVE ON MY OWN), I hope I do not set the street ablaze - literally. Like crash into cars and trucks, one after another. Augh, that might actually KILL ME you know.....................If not that, I will surely be jailed for "Amateur driving lead to 5 deaths"...................I will tata blogs (jails can't have internet, at least not in Hyderabad. Right?), may be take to the pen (assuming they would not allow my laptop/even if they would, I'd rather not take it/my in-mates are not MBAs and Medicos you know, but sheer thieves and killers) and write a novel.... ........How about "Counting stars from a cleft in the prison". Long names. e.g. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, are so in....................What the hell, if there is a cleft, I might as well drill it quietly every night and cloak it with a Shahrukh Poster (yes, I just plagiarised a Hollywood plot)...............Heck, after all my Bollywood-binging, with neck craned and lips parted, Shahrukh is the best I could think of? I suddenly realize I cannot readily think of any Favourite hero/heroines. Ok, I like a bunch of them, but none so much to stick up his/her headed-torso on my wall. That would be so gay....................And look who is saying this. Our pigeon-coop of a hostel room (during those 10+2 days) had all of Shahrukhs, Salmans and Caprio posters and with what not written on them. And they were just eye-candy, at least for me and Ashmita (my roomie), unlike Bandana (it went "Bandana Talukdar, Sorupeta" every time we passed the boys hostels, she was our batch's hottie) who was pretty possessive about her Sachin poster. One day when she was snoozing (so we thought), we got Geetali (another mate) walk up to the poster and give Sachin a full-on Lipishtic kiss. That was it - Bandana suddenly sprang out of bed, up went her leg right at Geetali's feeble frame and as she turned around for us we ran for our life. That night we pledged never to kiss any body's lover, boy friend, husband, poster, photograph, whatever. FYI, I still haven't...................The first time I ever kissed, I was imagining I am looking at myself from above, as if I was the director, sitting up on that crane thing and shooting myself with a camera that went round our heads.........This is something I do very often - imagine I walk out of me and look at myself. Like I did when I was getting married. Amongst the incessant chanting, the fire, the cameras, the relatives, I quietly went out of me and was looking at the entire spectacle from a vantage point. Draped in all that silk and jewellery and in the October heat, I was practically melting down. I did not have much to do then nod and mumble whatever Greek or Japanese the Pundit asked me to repeat. And then I stood up, walked out and ran, throwing away all that baggage on me piece after piece till I was in a bikini and dived for the sea..............That reminds me, I am to learn swimming soon (driving, swimming - I will soon be a super-woman). And since I will have Preethi for company, there's a hope that I will not feign losing interest and escape mid-way.........................Like I did for my Salsa and painting classes. But quitting painting had deeper reasons. I was in Class VIII and had newly learnt to bi-cycle. I cracked everything but the brakes. I would hit men (one on a cycle, other an egg-wala), animals (a pig amongst others), walls, lamp posts, impromtu - just fucking forget the brakes. On top of that there was this gang of trouble-makers who would follow me to my house and once I even fell down trying to speed up. Gosh, what a sissy I was. One slap and those rascals would have dissappeared. But those rides seeded a fear for the road. Hitting something, injuring somebody came so naturally to me then...........................Umm what was I talking about? Read more!
Subscribe via email
...the 'jottlings' so far
- of what i love (24)
- of what i hate (14)
- Of me and don (12)
- senti (11)
- Delhi (9)
- pat me you may (9)
- hyderabad (8)
- pooh pooh (8)
- fiction (5)
- kharkhua oxomiya (5)
- a woman first (4)
- love of jingles (4)
- Assam Tribune column (2)
- thank god im a foodie (2)
- travel talk (2)
- muah movies (1)
- where i crap (1)
some time, some leisure
Too many blogs, too little time :P
dear reader
Tweets
Hop by
-
-
Avatar!2 days ago
-
55 word reality6 days ago
-
We the Deserving….1 week ago
-
Where have you been ??1 week ago
-
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow4 weeks ago
-
Advice.....4 weeks ago
-
Alli Crane 1981 - 20092 months ago
-
Hell's closed...Rot in Heaven :P4 months ago
-
Bumba!5 months ago
-
Google Map with Markers in Blog.5 months ago
-
Blue is Banned6 months ago
-
Wake up call went unanswered6 months ago
-
Hackers8 months ago
-
Stereotypes in Music2 years ago