In Which We are a Tad Sappy in the Grand Old Tradition of the Thing

Sometimes,

I wish

there was something between us.

Something…anything…just so that I could look you in the eye

and smile;

just smile, damn it; but we aren’t even acquaintances.

And it hurts; at its corniest, it hurts,

that you don’t know me and I don’t know you

And yet that I wish -

sometimes,

I wish

that I knew you and you me;

just so that I could say hi

and have you say it, back to me.

Momentary Lapses of the Unintelligible

Sitting on one of those Nature Comittee Benches, legs stretched out conveniently, sipping the ‘not too bad’ slightly too sweet hostel tea, some vaguely familiar music playing in the background and watching a couple of second years dribble a football around for no particular reason, and I think quite cheesily…this here is a moment.

Then again, I am quite capable of coming up with them in retrospect…extra time of a slushy rain swept football match, played in borrowed red spiked shoes two sizes too big, then the goal…we’ve all hugging after that and toppling over into the mud… of course when it happened it was all a blur…which in itself is kinda perfect. Though they always need to slow it down in sport movies for the effect.

There are however the really ironic ones that I wish I would not notice – one really bad moot court later, walking back to hostel and from the most inconspicuous of places – the bloody gym, one hear Eminem taunting ‘you get one shot, one opportunity …that’s all you’ve got…” and, I am not making this up…honest!

There are also the ones, that are truly of one’s own making…for example the fact – that every time I am in a metro train, a part of me keeps waiting for the moment – when the ceiling of the train will be ripped open to reveal our protagonists who will then proceed to have a compulsive cool samurai fight across the length and breadth of the compartment. Sigh, I am still sadly waiting for that one.

Moments, when you notice them are nice. As in, the thing with moments…is that they kinda make the clock stop – there is always a ton of stuff floating around in the background of your head but when you see a moment, you go “WoW! Stop, rewind“…and then again “WoW”. I know I am explaining it in a really bad Bill & Ted impersonation, but the truth is I am glad I see moments…real or otherwise.

On & On…

Have you ever found, how, it is at the most importunate times that you are seized by the most wonderful of ideas? I always have the most awesome (albeit not the sanest) plot lines take hold of my head when I have exams. I start day dreaming scenarios and dialogues while my civil law module lies abandoned. Of course, by sheer force of will, I try and prevent furthering of these thought processes. funny thing is, the moment the exams over, the plots lose their sheer intensity in my head. weird.

but that wasn’t what I really wanted to blog about. (then again, the fact that it was the first thing that came out, kinda defeats the above argument) what I wanted to tell you about is how I feel like rambling on and on.

Yesterday, I made a new gmail account. I’ve had one before but it wasn’t the sort you give to possible short term employers (no it didn’t say flowerpower87 or bazooka900 but it still was not formal). The new one, has my college name attached to it. .NUJS it says and I will probably need another one, say three years down the line but it meant something to inextricably link my name to .NUJS, though it probably has been linked to it ever since I decided to come here almost two year back.

Of course, now I have to make the painful switch from my old hotmail account to the gmail account. My first and foremost plan, is to have my mail transferred automatically from hotmail to gmail via pop3 or the Mail Fetcher option. Only problem is hotmail for some reason best known to itself, allows pop3 only for users situated in the UK, Italy and other such places. No problem, a little google search for post office numbers in England, and a little tinkering with my personal info on hotmail and voila I am proud citizen of the Great Britain. This should have worked, as they seem to rely solely on the personnel info (and not the more tricky IP addresses) to allow pop3, but I still seem to be encountering an error, and probably will have to do more tinkering around. Any Ideas?

In other news I finally went to the Kolkata Book Fair, one terribly dusty event. The bigger names Random House, Oxford, Cambridge and Co were terribly disappointing, but the smaller shops had the sort of collection that fills you with the bittersweet thought that you can never have read enough. There was also Benfish apparently one of the best fish food people in cal but it only made me realize how much I miss my mama’s fish curry…sigh. Anyways, ended up buying way too many books and will therefore probably end this semester in near penury. More about the books later.

Also, I seem to have a writer’s block when it comes to writing for Writer’s Block. (Aha Aha truly contrived providential pun, but what the heck). I need all the points I can garner and yet the words refuse to come. I do believe blogging takes care of all my urge to write and thus have no ready prose available When I Really Need To Write. Gah!

Bunked class today because of itchy red spots on my body that itch. I seem to have the strangest luck with Docs. they usually are good at what they do albiet eccentric. this one has been inviting me to his daughter’s Bengali Wedding in November of 2009 ever since last year. He was terribly excited at seeing red itchy spots that itch and was convinced that it was a) Diabetes b) chickenpox. Later, I had him wittle it down to an infection/allergy and now am forced to take pills that cost a fortune. I googled it and was not very surprised to find, that there was a generic drug at half its cost. I think there is some provision in some law that lets me have the right to demand the alternative cheaper med, but I’ll probably  lose that wedding invitation.

I seem to have a small albiet regular readership (yes, yes, it’s all thanks to you, Sroyon). I keep thinking that people must end up on my blog by mistake, but how many times can people end up on my blog from the same set of urls, eh? at least, that’s what I’d like to think.

A Serious Discussion on Why Weird Awesome Things Will Never Happen To Us

Darshana and I had today (you guessed it!) A Serious Discussion on Why Weird Awesome Things Will Never Happen To Us. We realized in synchronized ‘enlightenment dawned on her’ moments that we were a little too perfectly wired toward appreciating the weird and fantastical to actually come in contact with anything that could really really fit the description.

What I mean is, imagine one day there is an actual real Zombie Attack…while everyone would run screaming through the city, we’d probably be giddy with delight at the fact that FINALLY it is actually happening. We’d kick vampire butt if ever called to do so, with our knowledge of n+1 ways of killing the bloodsuckers, or if an alien life form were to suddenly appear before me and ask my help to build a Galactotranspositer you can bet you’re arse, I’d be calling up my engineering cousin to enlist his help pronto.

And that is the problem isn’t it? Weird Awesome Things will never happen to us, because we’ve already imagined them happening a million times over. Not for us to see a compulsive cool samurai style fight between the two chaps on the metro, not for us a sudden mysterious blood soaked stranger pushing a dirty torn letter into our hands filled with war time codes. No, none of this is meant for us, because instead of fainting/screaming/going into hysterics/asking what, when, where and a million other questions, we’d be completely in our element and ready to go.

Telling us…me (Darshana doesn’t know I am writing this, though I have been using the collective for a while now) that the Weird Awesome Things …er…um…you see…oh! what the heck…DO NOT EXIST…does not in anyway reduce the gravity of our discussion.

On Recession, Recruitment and Reasons Why

We had a treat last night; one of the fifth years who’d got a job decided to let the whole lot in campus gorge on Rosogollas, and ice cream at his expense. Second senior to do this, in a week; damn sweet, I hope it becomes an instant custom.

Of course getting a job is always a big deal in college – campus recruitment remains one of the most gossiped events of the year – who got in where, who didn’t, how many recruited in percentages and so on, but this year getting a job took on a gravity quite unsurpassed with the oft quoted and much abused phenomena of recession hanging over everyone’s head.

It became quite common to walk into conversations where everyone was discussing statistics – so and so firm promised to take so and so number of people, but they didn’t – the bastards; or so and so college had a better track record with recruitment this year, even though it couldn’t hold up a candle to our college, you get the drift. Most felt sorry for the fifth years- some genuine, some patronizing…some in a way I don’t quite get.

Take one of my friends…she sees the poor track record this year as some sort of threat to her own personal recruitment which is two to three years in the future. She is frustrated by it, angry almost, asking why she should spent five years away from home, doing this back breaking course when in the end it may amount to nothing. She could, she says perhaps not in her strongest moment, have just chosen to study at the tacky place near her home, if in the end this is the only sort of result she is going to get. I snap at her to quit worrying and she quotes ILO’s expected figures of job loss at me. I think of my father and am suddenly, powerfully worried. I quickly perhaps even unkindly ridicule her and the figures and brush it away. I refuse to be worried, perhaps unwisely.

And these sort of odd disconnected snippets go on and on; one fifth year who, when she saw a group of pesky second years staring said with very little heat, quit staring, yes we are unemployed, and another one who I overhead on the phone talking airily about how her dad was worried about her and wouldn’t let her sit jobless at home.

My mum called me up a few weeks ago and because I sounded upset launched into speech on how it didn’t matter much – about recruitment or grades as long as you are safe and happy and it took me almost fifteen minutes to realize that she’d freaked out on my regular petty problems because she’d been reading about some chap who’d killed himself at IIT coz he didn’t get a job, due to you guessed it, recession. I told my mum in no uncertain terms that a) she was crazy and b) she was crazy. I think, strangely enough, she felt much better at being told how ridiculous the connection was.

And that’s what I hate about recession. The genuine effects of it are there for everyone to see and to be worried about- job loss, unemployment, loss of a lifetime of saving, the whole nine yards. But what I hate more is how much it is affecting people – the fears it’s creating sometimes to the point of utter ridiculousness.

I know that you can’t ignore recession, you shouldn’t but I wish it wasn’t turning into everyone’s personal bogey man.

Burn, Burn, Burn

I found this, a few days back, when I was blog hopping:

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,

mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,

the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,

but burn, burn, burn.

I don’t know the context of these particular words but now  I am filled with the urge to read more of Jack Kerouac.

A Stirring (albiet late) Ramble on December Love, New Year Cheer? Hah! What Hogwash, & Lame Squad Among Other Things

Come Jan 4th, the snow on my Blog disappears for good and I wanted to write this post before that. I don’t know why they – the wordpress people- can’t let the snow stay (fall?) till late Jan; then again, I see it as one more of those inexplicable reasons why December stands out for me.

I Love December. Passionately. Completely. With all my heart. That’s right, I love… a month. This shouldn’t really come as a surprise. I have, after all, expressed my innate fondness for the Microsoft Office assistant cat, tea, words (my favourites at the moment being ‘Exquisite’ & ‘Slaughter’!) etc which are all borderline obsessive. A love for a month seems saner in some respects, especially when it comes with good reasons.

As any self obsessed kid/human being, my initial reasons for loving December centered on the one and most important fact:  My ‘Happy Birthday’ is in December! I was and continue to be extremely pleased with ‘my being’ and loving December – which bought me gifts and a day when I was fussed over more than usual- came naturally.

One of the earliest memories of my childhood (which is also one of my few early memories not directly connected to food) is that of come December my dad fiddling around with the Diwali lights, usually stowed away under the kitchen cabinet, which we would then put up around our house in Lucknow. They were meant to be Christmas + New Year decorations, but they invariably went up before my birthday, which I always took as a subtle yet obvious indicator of my own self importance! Did I mention I was self obsessed?

Out of the dozen or more schools I’ve been to, a few have been of the Convent variety. This entailed that come December, if you were in the lower grades, you were lined up and taken to the music room and taught to sing carols. By rote. Not that I minded, really. Because once you’ve sung your carols, and done the Christ is Born Play (I was always chosen as one of the Three Wise Kings!) you got to stay at home, for over two weeks! That’s right – Christmas Break! I spent most of that time, glued to the idiot box watching every single glitzy glatzy Christmas special that could be called forth, by the judicious use of a remote control. I loved them all – I loved each and every commercialised moment of it.

At home we usually had our very own fake Christmas tree with fake gifts – little matchboxes and soap boxes covered in decorative wrapping paper.  I never really believed in Santa but I always opened each and every soapbox and matchbox after the decorations came down hoping against hope for some sort of magical transformation. Never did happen (surprise, surprise) but I did it anyway.

I remember last year, before the whole ‘cusp debacle’, having a time pass discussion with a friend of mine on famous people born in the same zodiac as our inconsequential selves. Now my friend was clearly winning – throwing out one name after the other. I was generally wracking my brain for someone so famous, that he/ she would trump all her bigwigs.  Enlightenment hit a few moments later and I blurted out with unparalleled fervour: JESUS CHRIST WAS CAPRICORN!!! He was a freakin’ Capricorn! I won that argument hands down. (Though now that I think of it there are apparently some inaccuracies about his actual birth date and worse, my actual zodiac. Sigh.)

The point of these disconnected vignettes is to merely point out the obvious. I love this month and so, I should be excused from participating in the terribly traumatic end of December that New Year entails. Why, I fail to understand, does everyone count down the last year (and my dear poor month) with such visceral enjoyment?

The truth is, I think, that I am so determined that I must and should love this month that good stuff happens. My results when they come out bang on in the middle of December, turn out to be pretty well decent; being the first year that I am spending December away from home, my dad pays me a surprise visit; as a founding member of the Lame Squad (The Squad can be described at best being well – Lame and is open to membership to all those who can answer this profound question: What is the Lame Question?) I get the best Double Chocolate Truffle Cake possible from them!

A friend of mine, tired of my rhetoric question of ‘How can one not love December?’ told me during Christmas Brunch that she was forced to love the month as I would scream bloody murder otherwise. All I can say to that is ‘see? I seem to rub off December cheer even on people around me!’

I end this long rambling with a little reminder for next…this year. Around the end of this year say December, if you see a girl grinning like a maniac, and humming Christmas carols under her breath and looking way too pleased with life in general. Forgive her for her weird good cheer. You see, she is in love.

Connecting Imaginary Dots

It was the 8^th afternoon of the month of December. Slowly but surely, an entire class attending a lecture on Science, Technology and Law was being put to Death by Power Point. One brave individual, who rallied, was rewarded with a seemingly inconsequential piece of mindless information:

“The International Seabed Authority, under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea 1982 , has a wing to spearhead exploration of the deep-sea bed. This wing is called the Enterprise.”

Perhaps one must congratulate her keen sense of observation. More likely, one must feel pity for the weird wiring in her head, which made this (un) necessary connection:

ENTERPRISE =

Ergo, Dude, some negotiator sitting at a top level UN Convention drafting meeting was a total Star Trek geek! OMG, V. Cool.

Even more appropriately, perhaps, one must pity the fact that in the sum total of the five lectures that day, this minuscule connection was the only thing that made her grin.

In Memorial

I have always prided myself over my ability to see the greys in the world – to look beyond the humdrum understanding of good and bad and play around the assumptions of ‘right minded’ people. The other perspective, the hidden agenda, the looking beyond the façade nonsense of sociology classes wasn’t completely lost on me- the cynic in me noticed and rejoiced at it all.

But right now, for however short a while, I understand, why a black and white perspective would be so appealing. The Mumbai attacks were purported by outsiders and that’s that. I can rage at the government, the security structure, the bureaucratic screw-ups and not have to despair at the thought that a part of it, however minuscule, may have been homegrown. I can watch the news and know for sure, that we are going to win, not just because there are just a few of them, damn it, but because we are in the right and so we must…should win. I can wear white to college today, light a candle in solidarity and observe a two minute silence and convince myself that it means something to do so; that it’s worth something, anything. I can believe then, that something will be done, that we’ll see the end of it because too many innocent people have died and that’s just not right.

Ramblings On Organised Mess

I’ve been back in college for four days now and over the weekend – I finally overcame my fears and inhibitions, and completed the very very difficult task. That’s Right. I cleaned up my room.

Scoff all you want. But this a months’ worth of accumulated grime and dust that I am talking about. The thing is, we had our semester break and my dear old room has had little airing or dusting in the meantime.

People, who have seen the condition of my room in its various avatars, will find this supposed preoccupation with cleanliness slightly out of character. (In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that one of my alcove mates’ almost philosophical musings on a messy room in a recent poetry competition was inspired by the state of affairs in my room) A misunderstanding, for sure. There is difference between messiness and cleanliness – subtle yes, but it’s there!

Over time, I have skipped from one lame escuse to another, depending on whom I am giving it to. People who accidentally pop into my room, are always treated to an airy dismissive wave of the hand, as if brushing all the stuff on the floor under the bed – “It’s been one of those weeks” I say with a brave brave smile and the uninitiated are easily fooled.

“Organised Mess” I tell the others stoically; the ones that know that the week, month or even the year has little to do with the condition of my room. They give me hard stares, shake their heads in grave reproach and mumble about ‘pigsties being neater’ under their breath. Some of them are so overcome by it that they look me in the eye and say the dreaded words “think of what your mother would go through if she saw your room”.

All right So I admit it. My room is hardly perfect. But like I said, “messy” and “clean” are different. I keep my room clean, more than some of my More-Books-On-The-Bookshelf-Than-On-The-Floor-Friends and the whole malfunction, as far as arrangement is concerned, is all the Universities fault. There are vile evil days like “submission day”, “due date”, “day of viva” “exam date” that get thrown around with alarming frequency and destroy whatever little “arrangement” my poor room has.

My mother’s sentimentality aside, I have this to say in defense of my room – that my room’s got character – it was allegedly haunted ( never seen nothing, except a an arrow on the wall and “Lick me” written on it now lost under a host of pictures.) It’s weirdly angled so that it looks bigger than the standard hostel room, and miraculously enough it seems to find some place or the other for the copious amount of junk, that I cannot seem to find any use for but apparently can’t live without, I wasn’t kidding about organised mess either, for there is a wacky order in there…somewhere.

Like I said my room’s got character – you just have to look beyond the clutter just a bit.