This is a Title

2010-09-21T21:14:00.004+01:00

A rupee gets you 20 paise that before the month is out, some fuckwit of an elected nincompoop will pompously and oh-so-righteously declare how the criticism from all the visiting teams at the CWG are just a "hangover of colonial prejudices" and "attempts by countries resentful of India's success story to put us down" and how "there is nothing wrong with the world-class facilities we have created"*.

Go on. Take the bet. I dare you.

This Just In: Indian officials devise amazing new event in weightlifting category.

* The worst part? There will be members of the public** who will actually support those statements.
** What's that word.....oh yes, fucktards.

2010-09-17T16:04:00.001+01:00

This slogan can mean whatever I want you to.

2010-09-17T15:52:00.004+01:00

"Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, "Why, why, why?"
Tiger got to sleep,
Bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand."

- Bokanon, The Books of Bokanon
(Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle)

***************************************************************

We believe we have a lot to say, but we're really just observing.

2010-08-04T16:14:00.003+01:00

Letters,
floating,
forming, reforming,
pleading for shape.

Dip in
to draw them out,
but they scatter,
they scatter,
and the reflections remain
hidden.

The words sink
in the light;
there is no spoon,
just a finger that points away to the moon...

Insert crappy pun here

2010-07-15T16:31:00.002+01:00

or, Steady on chaps! We're just getting started with this reverse-colonialism caper

***************************************************************

For Feanor, who might just be a little prophetic.

Manual of Life - Ways to Fail on the Interwebz #65

2010-07-15T16:24:00.002+01:00

Do something like this.

******************************************
It's possibly the first time that my reaction could be exactly described by the oh-how-I-hate- the-term "I LOL'ed".

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-06-29T09:23:00.004+01:00

Futility
n., 'Open letters' directed at famous personalities by not-as-famous and limited-readership bloggers, written with every indication that the blogger does in fact expect the letter to be read by the personality*.

See Also:
Hubris
Perspective

* This does not include tongue-in-cheek ones, or ones that are written in this format but only aimed at their readership.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-06-28T16:03:00.002+01:00

Irony
n., Watching your weight very closely in the hope that you might lose it.

See also:
Chocolate sundaes with whipped cream
Myth
See-food diet

2010-06-09T08:40:00.005+01:00

Oh...still here? Didn't notice you lurking there.

Good little blog.

/pat

Stay.

I'll come visit soon maybe.

No! Bad blog!

Stay.

/scoot

2010-05-20T21:29:00.007+01:00

First, it was humans making the machines get smarter.

Now, we've gone and created life*.

For crying out loud, somebody gift these people a whole bunch of doomsday SF books! Give it a decade, and it'll be time for Run Forrest runnnnnn, only this time Forrest is one of the last 17 humans left alive, and is being cheered on by bloodthirsty shapeshifters while machine-killers hunt him down.

Time to start work on those underground bunkers, methinks.

Update: Some basic details, and some in-depth ones.

* Ok, well, not 'life' per se, but still a significant development nevertheless. The implications - for good and disaster - are endless.

2010-05-18T15:14:00.005+01:00

Things change.

And you look back, and look around now, and you wonder.

And you doubt.

And you laugh. off.

And you cringe.

And you rationalise.

And you cannot believe it was you who was that, then.

And you cannot accept that it will still be you, soon, doing the same things in years to come.

And you deny.

And you fight.

And you reinvent.

And you never accept that this is you.

And that this will always be you.

And you're stuck.

And that if you just realised that, you would be free.

Horror

2010-05-08T01:25:00.007+01:00

It took a long, long time.

Years and years of hunting and questioning and guessing; constantly looking for almost-invisible clues, doubting each decision taken after having seemingly found another path; the never-ending mapping and re-evaluation of the exact position that each day-end found him in.

Till finally, without warning, without any idea that he was so close, he stumbled upon his target.

**********************************************

After the initial shock and disbelief had worn off, he knew that try as he might to consider all the options, there was only one thing he was going to end up doing. And so he ran upto his true self, eyes shut to avoid looking at the reality, intent only on annihilation. And as his self just lay there in quiet unresistance, he grew more frenzied in his destruction, till every last wisp was gone.

Only he remained.

**********************************************

And that was when the doubts began - was this who he was now, or would he always be who he had erased? And if it was the latter, then who was he (as he was now) meant to be?

**********************************************

He never quite felt like himself ever again.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2010-05-07T00:06:00.002+01:00

(While this could be true, it could also not be)
*************************************************

When I was seven (or maybe eight), I was going through all the colour-coded Blyton short stories books. One of those carried this story about a mean woman who kept thumping and banging all her furniture and belongings, and how they (the table, the teapot, the pots, etc) got fed up and began playing tricks on her till she realised what was happening and started treating them better.

The story simultaneously made me thankful that there was at least one other person in the world who believed that the objects around us were alive and secretly communicating with each other, and made me even more paranoid for the same reason.

So if you catch me apologising after slamming a door, you know why.

Questions

2010-05-05T08:31:00.009+01:00

"Oh. Well, let's see....Little babies float about on purple bricks, and then giant frisbees come in and announce that they are breaking the rules and will be put away in a room with some no-handled mugs, only they're interrupted by a bottle of ginger beer that jumps up and down and up down and up and down and sprays froth all over them so that the babies escape, and then the frisbees send some wild sunflowers after them that keep reflecting sunlight into the path of the babies so that it's too shiny to see where they're going, and then they come to a river of liquid emerald and the bricks refuse to go on because everybody knows that purple and green don't match, so the babies hop off and take out their lollipops and lick them till they're really sticky and then throw them at the sunflowers to tangle them up, and then -"

"No. I meant, tell us about your career dreams."

"........."

Split

2010-05-04T10:53:00.005+01:00

It's not you,
it's me.

The me you turned the me
who wanted to be with you
into.

The me that is more what you
imagined me to be,
than the me that could have been.

The me I stare at,
as you would at an old friend
in disbelief
at the embarassment they have become.

It's not you,
it's me,
me,
me.
And I want me back.

2010-05-02T15:10:00.004+01:00

The crumbs left behind in the butter after toast has been made.

The swirls of changing colour as cream is mixed into a tomato-based sauce.

The just-brown of perfectly grilled cheese.

The way dal bubbles out of the little hole in the middle of the rice mound.

The way an orange balances when you pierce it with your thumb.

The little film that forms on the top of a properly brewed cup of chai.

The inexhaustible soakability of a tiny crust of bread in mopping up gravy.

The way the flesh pops out when you squeeze a grape just right.

The way drowned biscuits end up as abstract art.

The way a dollop of butter transforms soup.

....the little magics of food.

2010-04-29T15:31:00.003+01:00

"Lame excuse. Real bloggers can blog on stone, wood, fire and even water".
- The ever-reliable KM.

***********************************************************
In some form or the other, most of us have remarked about how personal blogs are a form of navel-gazing.

Trying to figure out why you have one is just the extreme version of the sport (?).

Over these three years (fraaaaack!) I've come to understand why I'm doing so, and maybe understand why I'm doing it in the way I do. And some of them I'm even beginning to accept, even though I'm not sure of them.

Like why I don't blog spontaneously that often. Like why I don't spill frustrations and problems out here. Like how I'd rather people think I was lazy than correct them about why I'm not blogging.

Because that's my way of doing it.

Which only gives me more avenues to explore at leisure - why is that my way of doing it?

************************************************************

However, there's this little niggling guilt that's always there. As if I owe something to the blog. To all of you. To myself, to justify all the time spent on the blog so far. To all the drafts I make up and am just too lazy to type out (note to self: look up speech-to-text software).

And what I think I owe is to do it properly, rather than haphazardly, or because I think I should. So maybe I might just take an extended break till I sort this out. Till I figure out how I want to blog. And whether I'm a blogger, or just have a blog (yes, this old chestnut again).

Although, maybe that's just how I do like to do it, in which case I shouldn't fight it. And I might continue to remain erratic.

Who knows?

Have a waffle.
With melted chocolate and cream, of course.

2010-04-19T11:26:00.004+01:00

There are lines everywhere.

Some lines were laid down after a group of people decided that what they all agreed on made sense, and which have been slowly reinforced by each succeeding generation, making the lines a little bit deeper and a little bit wider, till they're no longer lines but a deep chasm that forces you most of the time to stay on the side you are on, the side where everybody else is and where everything's known and comfortable, till such a time as you finally draw together the crazed courage to give in to the need to prove that it is possible to cross unscathed; and you ready and you ready and you ready and then rush down the slope as fast as you can, hoping that your belief-fuelled momentum will put a giant hand on your ass and push you as you struggle up the other side, only to slowly realise that it's not going to happen, because what you thought was a chasm is really a pit, a giant trap to snare fools like you who try and fight for themselves, who believe that they can escape when so many others never could, who believe they should be allowed to do what they want and not what they're told, only to run (willingly, mind you) into this place and stand here like you do, right down in the deepest part of the shadows, realising you may never get to the place you wanted to...and never get back either; and all you are left with are the others who wander the underworld, unwanted deserters who wanted to explore new territories, your new family.

Some lines run away from where you stand, splitting up and rushing away from your singularity, so that you see no point in trying to find a way around, but instead walk across, and keep walking and walking till you realise the lines have managed to sneak around, and you remember that a circle is just a series of infinitely small lines, and that you've been lured into the centre of one, into something that you have no idea about and want less to do with, and that you can only always be either in or out, and that there is no other side.

Some lines are drawn by your mind, signposts in a special colour that only you can see and which only you understand the significance of, laid down so that you prevent yourself from becoming the person you nightmare that you can be, so that they become a permanent challenge, testing you all the time, daring, wheedling, tempting, a challenge that you sometimes fail, which you try and negate by crossing right back and telling yourself that it didn't matter because nobody saw you crossing the line anway and besides you're right where you started, but which the line never lets you forget, as it smiles and tempts to double-cross yourself again.

There are lines everywhere.
And they lie.

2010-04-15T11:18:00.002+01:00

Computer trouble. Much smacking of head. Lots of exasperated disbelief about state of customer services in this country. Some amount of trekking to resolve issue. Painstaking reconfiguration. Little break taken.

Ready for action again.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-03-31T07:52:00.004+01:00

Summer
n.,
When people in a northern country can walk around the house with no socks on, without having to keep the heating on.

See related:
Myth
False dawn
Longing

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2010-03-26T07:42:00.004Z

(This may or may not be true)

My body has a pretty standard response to the consumption of any drink stronger than half a small glass of wine, imbibed in less than ten minutes, especially on a light stomach.

It conks out.

Friends have learnt to keep pillows - and cameras - ready.

I suspect it's something to do with not being able to handle concentrated levels of sugar*. After all, I once got laalaalaahahahahahashhhshhhshhhWheeeee! on three litres of cola gulped down in half an hour.

* I'm guessing it doesn't quite work the same with desserts because liquids move quicker through the digestive system (?).

2010-03-25T11:50:00.003Z

No dream
cannot* be true,
just those you merely
dream of dreaming.

No fight
cannot be won,
just those you
struggle against fighting.

No life
cannot be,
just the one you
live because you must.

You choose,
or choose not to;
only you make you,
and only you don't.

* Foreign word feeling again (the one where the word suddenly feels so...wrong...and as if you've never seen it before). Stare at it hard enough, and you'll see. cannot. cannot. cannot. cannot.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-03-23T11:39:00.002Z

Made for each other

A couple that simultaneously bursts into tears at the end of this montage.
Every single time.

See related:
Sappiness
Muggins (sl.)

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Till You Did #74

2010-03-18T11:23:00.010Z

The first line still holds true.

So, another leisurely meal, another arbitrary thought. Try this one on for size -

There is no original Western European or American first-name that begins with 'Z'. All of them are predominantly Middle Eastern in origin, with some East Asian ones thrown in for flavour.

Go on, think about it.

Most of the first-names that you can think of come from the belt of land that stretches from Greece to Afghanistan (on a longitudinal basis), and from the languages that originated therein (Arabic, Hebrew or Cyrillic). There are a few Chinese names that I can think of off-hand too, and I can't quite speak about names in the South Asian countries, but the chunk seems to be Middle-Eastern/Central Asian in origin.

*******************************************************************

~~On the other hand, there are tons of first names in Western Europe and America that begin with the letter 'C', but none in that West Asia/Middle Asia belt (excluding the East).~~

******************************************************************

All those history lessons about the many invasions of India from the armies of Central Asia suddenly make so much sense. Even a quintessentially Gujurati name like Zaveri has its roots in those incursions.

Update: We have the odd-one-out (thanks be to the wise Fëanor) - Basque. In my defence, the language is denoted as an 'isolate', so it really doesn't bear much in common to its neighbours. Still, a valid exception.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-03-16T08:57:00.004Z

Writer's Block

When one has too many equally-important seeming ideas to spew out, which end up jamming each other in their hurry to go enthrall the world, leaving one with no output and considerable frustration.

See related:
Pick-up lines
Advertising

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Till You Did # 39

2010-03-15T14:57:00.004Z

Cricket is the only non-table-related professional sport* in which the players wear (full-length) pants/trousers.

It goes against the very grain of why all other sports wear shorts - mainly, that one's movement is less restricted, one's skin can breath properly, and in many cases, it is more aerodynamic.

So why is it so? It surely can't be about sunburn, because there are solutions for that. It can't possibly be about the worry that scrapes endured while fielding might get infected, because have you seen how they play rugby?

And even if you argue that a batsman is better off wearing trousers so that the pads don't chafe and get a better grip, why in heck must the fielding side endure hot days wearing these horribly restrictive leggings?

Unless, it's merely about the 'gentleman's game' aspect of cricket. But hey, even tennis was like that, and see how it's evolved.

So. What gives?

Update:
The exception to this rule seems to be American sports. Baseball. American football. Also, other 'gentleperson' sports. Golf. And equestrian events (as Feanor pointed out).

NightWatchmen from the comments gives perhaps the best defence - while shorts may help in summer and warm countries, you wouldn't want to be standing around in the outfield at Manchester during the English 'summer' wearing shorts.

* Which excludes billiards and snooker. And chess. And no, leotards do not count. And we're discounting sports where pant-type garments are worn purely for protection, such as motorsports or ice-hockey.

Pet Peeves #43

2010-03-12T10:48:00.006Z

"Ok, so write me".

Yah. Just like you want me to "sing you"? And "call out you"? And "post that letter you"? And "hand that mug you"?

Stupid American English.

PS. Even if you go with the "if you can 'call me', why not 'write me'" argument, there's no excuse for the sentence, "I wrote you". What am I, some frikkin' imaginary character in a book you're drafting? Oh yeah? Well, come see the pretty lines on my knuckles. No, no, a little closer...

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2010-03-12T10:40:00.004Z

(This may or may not be true)

I love seeing how people react to different situations.

To this end, once while in college, I painted my two littlest toe-nails a lovely pink colour, and walked about wearing floaters.

It took four minutes before the first person on the road spotted it, but it took three days before any of my friends did.

Draw your own conclusions.

2010-03-10T12:29:00.002Z

"This is how it works
You peer inside yourself,
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took;

And then you take that love you made
and stick it into some...
someone else's heart,
Pumping someone else's blood;

And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed,
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again"

- Regina Spektor, On the Radio

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-03-08T10:53:00.005Z

Guilty Pleasure

Walking into a store full of delicate and glinting things, wondering over their frailness for a while, before yelling 'I can't take it anymore!' and sweeping a whole shelf full of the oh-soooo-breakable things onto the floor with an exaggerated flourish, and then rampaging some more across the store, all the while savouring the horrified looks on the people around you

....and then disarming the outraged employees/store owner by producing the exact amount of money they cost, which you had been saving up for months just for such an occasion.

See also:
Candid camera pranks
Mood-uplifter

*************************************************************************
If you are going to do this, please don't pick a small, independent store which has taken great care to craft the things. That's just mean. Pick a nice public store-chain, at peak hour, and select their most ugly products.

Friday Fun: Food Fiesta

2010-03-05T11:35:00.007Z

We're back by popular demand!

And to start off with, a simple soup. Because it feels like winter will never end here. And because I've been lazy with experimenting. And you can't go wrong with soup.

This does take longer than most of the previous dishes, but a large part of that doesn't involve you doing much.

************************************************************************

Onion-and-Couscous Soup

Time required:
About 45 minutes.

Keep ready (to serve 2 people):
Butter & oil, both 1 tbsp
Garlic, 1 plump* clove, crushed
Onion, 1-2 large ones, finely sliced
Coriander, cumin & turmeric powder
Tomato paste, 1 tsbp
Birds-eye chili, just the one, deseeded and finely chopped
Cinnamon, one medium stick
Stock, vegetable or chicken, 1 litre
Couscous**, a fifth to a quarter of a cup
Spring onions, handful, chopped
Coriander leaves, handful
Salt & pepper, to taste

Then:
On a medium-low heat, brown (but do not burn) the onions and garlic in the butter and oil, stirring occasionally. Depending on the type of hob you use, this should take about 10-15 minutes. It has to go a nice deep brown.

Turn the heat down, then add the spices, the chilli, the cinnamon, and the tomato paste and stir for about five minutes, so that the spices really release their essence. Add the stock, boil, then nearly-fully cover it and let it simmer for about 20 minutes.

Then add the couscous and spring onions and let simmer for another five minutes. Season. Garnish with coriander.

Serve with toasted, buttered pitta bread.

Why you should try this:
It's a cold evening. Your friends and family are making snide remarks about the inbuilt shock absorbers you're adding to your body. You cannot stand the thought of another greasy meal from outside, or another sandwich (heathen!), or anything heavy that will make you feel like a ship's anchor. And you're unsociable enough not to care about what your breath smells like.

This is the dish for you.

It's just heavy enough to fill you up, without making you waddle around the house. It's just spicy enough to kick your nerves awake without roasting them where they lie. And it doesn't need you to shop for more than four things (you do have some spices at home, right?).

Personally, I just love the oily effect of onions and butter on the surface of this soup. And I love couscous.

Variations:
1. You could try this with red onions, but they tend not to go so brown.

2. You could make this a more filling dish by adding strips of cooked chicken to it. Not shellfish though, doesn't go as well.

3. If you want to make this really filling, add a couple of potatoes to it. Dice them, and add them along with the spices.

* plump. plumpityplumpityplump. plump plomp plooomp. plimp plomp. plump plump pi plump.
** I realise that couscous can be hard to source in some places. Why this should be so is one of life's unfairnesseseseses (or something). So, if you can't get hold of some, use pearl barley instead.

Manual of Life - Ways to Keep Yourself Entertained #21

2010-03-03T12:02:00.004Z

1. Take 10 steel pins. Or 20, if you are particularly bored.

2. Squeeze the top third of the index finger of one hand between the thumb and middle finger (of the same hand), so that the fleshy underside bulges out.

3. Carefully insert one pin through the outermost part of that bulge so that it just pierces the skin, but not the flesh.

4. Slide the pin through, so that equal parts of it are visible on either side of the flap of skin (which is holding the pin in place), so that it looks as if you've stuck the pin through your finger.

5. Repeat for all the other fingers, and thumbs.

6. Go waving it about and freak everybody out/become a demi-god in the eyes of children.

7. The toes come next, if you're very bored.

Fact

2010-03-01T07:31:00.003Z

If you house
a mouse
a louse
will bite it.

This be true,
just as papayas
be not blue.

Toodle-o.

******************************************************************
Hello poppets, crazy season is back.

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Till You Did #99

2010-02-26T15:07:00.002Z

I have yet to see a mainstream Hindi film where a character who's supposed to be talking in a non-Indian non-English language, is actually speaking in that language.

In no Bollywood flick has any character who's supposed to be African, or European, or Middle Eastern, or any other Asian talking in anything but nonsense lingo. Not even in those NRI flicks - where the film may feature a scene where some local in Switzerland will be talking in French, but the desi character will still be talking nonsense words. This would be just about acceptable if the character was simply pretending to be (as part of the script) a person of such a nationality, but even when the character is supposed to be a resident of said country, they still speak nonsense lingo.

Not. a. single. Bollywood. film.

And then we have the gall to get upset when Hollywood films show Indians talking in exaggerated Peter-Sellers-in-The-Party accents. At least they have us talking in Hindi, or Punjabi, or Tamil, or whatever.

***********************************************************************************
This only occurred to me while having to endure some ridiculous OTT flick that these long-distance buses insist on playing even if it's night-time and people want to sleep, where Sanjay Dutt plays some guy who's supposed to have been living in Africa for 20 years, and whose idea of the language of whatever country he was supposed to be from went something like 'Karaka baraka! Maraka baraka'.

No, I'm not kidding.

Also, this is possibly the last of the India posts for a bit.

2010-02-25T13:39:00.003Z

Another smooth jolt closer,
another end dawns.

One circle complete,
another begun.

No mercy holding back
from sweeping the well-worn path.

Another minute dead,
a million dreams gone.

2010-02-22T15:01:00.006Z

Space's lovely piece on Konark dove-tailed in rather nicely with this post that I'd been drafting, and finally pushed me into finishing it.

**********************************************************************************
Possibly the one thing I'll take back most strongly from my years in this country is the depth of appreciation for the - and I'm struggling to make this a proper term - history of social architechture (as it were).

Oh yes, they do go on about their cathedrals and palaces and monuments (which are fairly spectacular), but most countries will do that about major architechtural wonders. But what really gets me is this peculiarly British devotion to, and delight with, everyday architechture that dates back centuries. I guess it partly comes from the whole pride in the Empire part, and partly from being such a storied nation, but that itself doesn't quite explain the mentality of a people who maintain and quite regularly use a local church which was first thrown open to the masses in 1079 AD. Or a row of houses that are still lived in, overlooking a busy road, with the youngest of them being 280 years old.

Maybe it's the size of the island, which really is quite astonishingly small for someone who's used to 20-hour train journeys being normal (there's apparently only one train route in the whole of the UK which has sleeper coaches). But there's this distinct interest not just in things big and marvellous, but in things small and lovely.

You cannot but spend time travelling with a resident of this country without being pointed out fascinating little asides - oh Siegfried Sassoon lived here, and that place actually used to be a proper mill, and this Roman road goes on all the way to Bristol. And if you happen to know someone who's even mildly interested in history and architecture, then you can look forward to being generally hurtled about and made aware of all the endless crenellations and window types and roof variations that abound.

Which means that when I do get time in India, I see things with quite a different view. It's always been fascinating walking around the old parts of Bombay - again, perhaps because so much of the architechture was from the time of the British. Most of the structures may now be dilapidated and grimy, but if you look carefully, you suddenly see the quaintest, unique design structures. And I'm not talking of the standard places - just wander round Old Bombay, and really look at the buildings. The V-shaped structurs, the little balconies, the portholes, the beheaded gargoyles, stairs so steep you feel you're getting on a ladder...simply fascinating stuff.

Oh sure, they might not be the ideal house to actually live in. But they are - or rather, were - a damn sight more interesting than these monolithic slabs that have been erected all over their demolished foundations.

******************************************************************

On this last trip, I just kept wishing for a whole month where I could simply wander the streets of Old Bombay, taking lots and lots of snaps of the buildings. Much like what Szerelem was doing in Delhi. Maybe I should just get her to do Bombay too (which reminds me, where are you, Szer?)

Some day, maybe.

2010-02-22T14:58:00.004Z

And just to prove my point in the last couple of posts, here's a viewpoint from inside the picture (and if you haven't read AZ's blog before, ek maaro apne sir pe, hajaam).

Yeh, we're not doing chirpy this week either.

2010-02-19T15:11:00.006Z

Commenting on the last post, KM asked some pertinent questions - particularly whether there ever was something that could be defined as Indian-ness, and whether my not finding it anymore is because maybe I've changed.

******************************************************************

There are two equally horrible traps an emigrant can stumble into - an unjustified nostalgia for the country they have left, which keeps growing with every minute not spent in the place, out of all proportion to the reality left behind; or, an undepth-able hatred for the place, which keeps growing with every minute not spent in the place, out of all proportion to the reality left behind.

It's a bit like school/college - you either remember only the good times and two decades later convince yourself that you had an awesome time while you were there, or you can only remember all the frustrations and humiliations and keep obsessing about them till you cannot help but spew vitriol all the time.

Both possibilities are open to those who choose to leave. But there is a middle ground - for people who move not purely because of choice, but because of a series of circumstances.

I am one of these people.

For the larger part of my life, I made no attempt to leave India. The option was considered, weighed, and rejected in favour of staying put. But then I had to move (various reasons for both, but we won't go there).

And so, I find myself on that middle ground. Where I can appreciate the quality of life in a country such as this, compare it unfavourably to that back home, and yet appreciate the many myriad ways life is better in India. I criticise both places, and appreciate them both, and I can do so without getting either sentimental or vitriolic.

Out here, I love recycling facilities, and cycle lanes, and orderly queues (oh baby, queues), and parks all around, and the abundant quantities of couscous and dark chocolate. I love that even in crowd, people tend to respect your space. I love that drivers actually make way for emergency vehicles, and honk only if the other person is truly an idiot.

I crib about all this whenever I go back home...no, that's not right. That's stuff I used to crib about even when I was back home. Stuff lakhs of other people crib about too. And when I get home (it's still home), and plunge into a noisy crowd and walk down dirty roads and eat junk off street vendors, it all just...fits.

Yet. With every passing year, I find myself getting more and more irritated with the attitudes and practices of Indians.

Actually, make that Indians in cities.

I just cannot bothered with the sheer aggravation anymore. Whether it's multiplexes that think it's fine to charge me thrice the amount a single-screen cinema charges (can't anybody teach about economies of scale?), or news channels that have six (six!) lines of text on the screen, or neighbours who still think it's ok to have their marble floors cut and polished at 10pm, or idiots who will stand off the kerb on a blind corner when traffic is rushing at them, or....

I keep telling everybody that I doubt I could live in an Indian city again. Ok, I could, but in the same way I could poke knitting needles into my little toe every morning. I just wouldn't want to.

Because the simple truth is that, over the decades, cities in India have simply gone downhill. I'm not even blaming the corrupt bureaucrats or the uncaring politicos. It's just the sheer numbers that drown every effort. Our cities simply do not have the long-term planning or the time to implement them, or the infrastructure to cope with the millions who pour in all the time. Even if there was somebody honest enough to try and do something, at best it's like trying to stop a leaking dam with some towels.

I walked around Bombay this time. And yes, there are all the new roads and highways and sea bridges and new trains and smart buses. Improvements. But all it will do is convince more people not currently living in the city, that it is now worth living there, and draw in more moths to the burning flame of commerce.

Like Delhi. In the past decade, the city has improved amazingly, and even people from other metros might consider living there, despite all its pretensions. And where does that leave us? With more chaos. I tried thinking of what I'd do if I somehow managed to get enough ~~idiots~~ citizens to vote me into power. Scared me to heck.

Where would you even start? You need lots of cops for one. Who'd want to be one though? You can't even give them decent housing, and their salary is so shite, they are pretty much forced into accepting bribes. You need to get all the cabs and rickshaws sorted - it's illegal to drive in a private car without seatbelts, but try getting the cabbies and rickshaws to do so, and the unions would shut down the place. You need to start recycling garbage, but who's got the trucks and manpower for it? And then where would you dump it? Other countries send their stuff to us to recycle.

It just....

So yes, there was something that could be termed Indian-ness. Now it's just...me-ness. And no, I'm not jealous of the rise of the new middle-class. I just wish they'd appreciate what they have, and learn to preserve and enhance it for others around them, and all those yet to come. Which is why when I get back, I'll probably live in some gaon. Nahin toh 'Khooni darinde ne bichhaaya maut ka jaal' headlines will be soon flashing on a screen near you.

Sorry Brinda, we'll try chirpy next week.

2010-02-16T01:24:00.006Z

Sometimes I think the worst thing in recent decades to happen to India is the suddenness of the economic boom in the past decade or so (the assorted wars, riots, scams, natural disasters are nothing new, unfortunately).

The suddenness, mind you. Not the boom itself.

I can't help but feel that if we had instead grown along at a solid but unspectacular 4-5% GDP, things would have been far smoother than they are today. It's as if you've taken children who were used to owning a frisbee and a couple of Lego pieces and suddenly given them an anything-you-want voucher from Hamleys.

And then you realise that the little indiscretions you used to gloss over, the not blaming the children for being grabby and thrusty because 'after all, they have so little', cannot now be excused away.

********************************************************************************

Indians are warm, friendly, helpful, smiling, inventive, entrepreneurial, hard-working. Canon, yes?

But we are also petty, and bitchy, and inquisitorial, and discriminatory, and selfish in a way that only living in such crowded conditions can make a person.

Till a decade ago, people could just about excuse the latter, because such qualities were thrust into the spotlight only occasionally, and everybody could go back to singing the former platitudes. And it worked (or at least it seemed to) in a 'noble poor' kind of way - yes, we have our faults, but given our conditions, isn't it amazing we're not worse? - that managed to make everyone feel just a little bit better. What else could you do anyway? Everybody was in the same shit, and somebody must've learnt a lesson from crabs, so it made more sense to try and get along.

And then, the money poured in.

And suddenly, people remembered that they didn't care if the music their car was blaring was perhaps a little too loud for 2am; they didn't care about beggars because there must be something really stupid about you if you can't earn money in this economy and besides, everybody knows it's a racket and they're secret millionaires; they didn't care about being delayed from their important work because of arcane rules such as stopping a vehicle when the signal turned red; they didn't care about the impact their lives had on the world around them, because it's just a little litter anyway; they didn't care about pointless concepts such as sustainability, and air quality, and deforestation, because that wasn't happening here, was it; and they particularly didn't care about being told that maybe, just maybe, they did not have the right to violently thump their opinion into somebody who still laboured under the misunderstanding that there was anything to discuss.

And now you've got this weird mixture of old-school feudality and new-age liberalisation, where you can pick up avocados in supermarkets, but only if you let the insistent service attendant pack it for you in a plastic bag that you don't want, so that it can be inspected by a guard near the exit gates which anyway beep if the product has not been scanned.

You've got this mentality where families will bitch about how the inflationary pressures of world quota systems have helped sugar prices jump three-fold in the past two years, but will still see fit to raise the salary of their domestic help by 5% a year, because that's how it was always done.

You've got this belief that you're entitled to home theatre surround sound systems and hi-def earphones, without any attempt at making the one-brick-deep walls any more soundproof, or taking a bloody look around you and realising it's 5.30am in the morning and your fellow train passengers are asleep, because what's a little noise more in all this racket?

You've got convenience food with very little idea of how to implement it, and a lack of understanding which somehow makes people believe it's just fine to spend 80 bucks on a frikkin' burger, just because it's in some fancy mall, and nevermind that the filling is two-thirds flour and one-third six-day old murder-fried veggies.

You've got retail chains trying to create a standardized environment, so that you could walk into any of their shops in any part of the country and be able to pick up the same item there. Which is why you get fleece-lined snow-proof long coats being flogged in a city where the day time temperature is 36C. In January.

Because you now have money. And everybody is equal. And we're entitled to it, and if you don't like the sound of it, you can say hello to my fifteen bulky friends.
***********************************************************************

India, by definition, was a confusion of pluralities.

If you lived there out of choice, you loved it for all the eccentricities, all the chaos, all the misunderstandings and subtle elbowing between region and religion and language and community and gender. It was the kind of picture that made sense only if you looked at it from deep inside, and was completely lost to perspective from a long-angled view. The kind of symphony, though just this side of grating, that still had an underlying thread that linked it together.

Now, though, the confusion has crystallised into a blur. Disparate dots that do not connect. White noise in electronic disco beats.

We're rushing so eagerly towards the future that other countries exist in, we've forgotten to ask ourselves just what those people had to go through and how they adjusted, in order to get where they are now. We're running so fast to get to the top of the hill, we don't even realise our shoes have scraped away and the crudely-done road is beginning to cut into our feet.

We're trying so hard to forget what things were like, that we run the risk of erasing who we ever were.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2010-02-12T08:56:00.004Z

(This could be true, but is it?)

For a couple of years, when I was in my early-teens, I ended up being cajoled into a Ganesh visarjan procession. A combined group of the smaller, five-day household ones.

Somehow, despite my intense aversion to the 'dhak-a-chikka-dhak-a-chikka-DHAK' music being blared by those horrible 'orchestra' bands, and the idiotic amounts of firecrackers being burst even as everybody was walking over them, I ended up dancing the entire way till the water's edge.

Four hours (two of them barefoot) of mindless and most-likelily cringe-worthy gyrations on a busy night-time Indian road. Four hours of waving at all the cars and buses crawling past as we edged along our way, not even wondering (or caring) if anybody I knew would spot me. Four hours of holi-colour-drenched, 'boom-boom-bu-boom, bu-bu-boom!' chaos.

Some quiet evenings I still end up smiling at the utter freedom I felt.

Some nights I still wake up shuddering at the insanity of it all.

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Consider Till You Did #32

2010-02-08T16:53:00.003Z

When you pee during really cold weather (near-freezing or below), why does it steam on impact?

Sure, there's a difference of 35C difference or more between the fluid from within your body and the surface it falls on, but water (which makes up 96% of urine) evaporates at 100c. So why can you still see vapours?

Bonus question: Is water the only thing being evaporated?

***********************************
I had a couple more India posts, and I'd hoped to wrap them up in January, so we could return to regular programming this month. But I obviously don't draft them when I should, and then tinker too much with them when I should post, so here we are.

T-shirt slogans #79

2010-01-25T12:55:00.005Z

Must-have for when in India.
*****************************************

* Personal = Private. Go away now.

* I'm here for food, not advice.

* That's MY paper.

* I drink, I smoke, I gamble, I sleep around - you still want to fix me up?

* Honk if you're a jackass.

Friday Fun: Food Fiesta

2010-01-22T07:22:00.007Z

For Brinda (ok, and the rest of you as well). Because you had to know this one was coming.

**********************************************************

Guaranteed 100% no weight-gain India travel diet

Time Required:
The duration of your trip.

Do not keep ready:
Sitaphal ice-cream
Ghee medu vada
Cheese seeeeeeeeeeeendwich (Bombay ishtyle)
Ganne ka ras
Ragda payttis
Royal falooda
Dahi sev batata puri
Mango lassi
Jellababies
Aloo 65
And, of course, orange-flavoured hot chocolate.

Then:
Think about them, salivate, tell everybody how you're just waiting to get your hands on them - and then, for some reason quite unfathomable to yourself, make no attempt to partake of them*.

Why you should try this:
Everybody's allowed a temporary lapse of judgement.

* I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2010-01-20T22:17:00.004Z

Irony
n., Insisting that the water served to you in an Indian restaurant be bottled ("because you really can't trust this outside stuff - who knows where they filled it from"), but asking for loads and loads of ice in the fizzy drink of your choice.

See also:
Hepatitis A
Restaurant hygiene

2010-01-18T14:33:00.001Z

He walks slowly along the path, savouring the light breeze, rejecting a number of appropriate-looking spots for no apparent reason, till he finds one that fills all his requirements and settles down.

This is favourite place and time in this city.

The near-middle of this horseshoe,
the late late hour of a cloudy and moonless night,
no ships glinting in the harbour,
the tide slowly turning away again.

He tunes out the noise of the languid playful jabs the water bestows on the rocks below. Ignores the reflection of the shiny pearls on the near water, and looks away. Away away to where the horizon should be, but where tonight air and water play a game of perfect diffusion.

And after a minute or two of convincing his imagination, it happens.

Just like that, this island breaks free of its moorings and now hangs in a void - no it flies. It flies, and he flies with it, even though the millions around him would never realise it. It flies through this corner of the universe, where no meager starlight diminishes its beauty. There is nothing else here, just the City and all it carries. And him, its pilot.

He sits there, watching the endless blackness, watching it fly, till he can't take the ache anymore.

He'll be back, though. He always is.

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Till You Do #89

2010-01-16T11:36:00.007Z

Nine out of every 10 mannequins in Indian shops are 'flesh-coloured' - Band-aid pink/peach/cream - and are either size zero (for women) for size studbuff (for men). The remainder are those unnerving silver/ebony robot-type ones.

Allowing for the proportion of fair-skinned Indians who even closely resemble that colour to be about a tenth of the entire population, and allowing for the proportion who are either super-skinny (by choice) or muscled up to be another tenth .......

this means that 80% of all the clothes displayed in Indian shops completely fail in their sole function - giving the buyer an idea of how they would look wearing them.

************************************************
A weekend post? Shocking no? Just to make up for all the non-posts.

2010-01-15T12:29:00.001Z

The first thing that hits you when you land here is the smell.

It hangs heavy in the air, wrapping round you with every step you take further in. If it was a person, it would be a late-middle-aged man sitting by a beach, slumped in his unwashed and crumpled shorts, sweating out the cheap rum he's been investigating so intently. The little cooling machines that are planted around only help to make it swirl around even more, chasing you as you try to hurry your way through bored gazes and hustling chancers.

You might be tempted to think it's caused by a mixture of the carpets in this airport and the high humidity, or by the sprawling labyrinth that houses so many thousands nearby. But if you breathe in really deep and let it percolate through your little passageways, you will feel the undercurrent of brine, floating in from all the nearby edges of this little jut of land.

It all floats in - the everpresent threat of malaria from the marshy waters in the undeveloped open grounds, the decades of untreated toxicity from the creek that used to define where the suburbs began, the stupidity of drowning bodies in the shifting sandy beaches to the north-west, and even the smug satisfaction of the ever-powered promenades to the south.

This is not the smell of the city.

This is the smell of what it fought so hard with to become this city, and what it now woos so fervently in order to stay alive. This is the smell of patient and unavenged wrath, waiting to reverse the centuries of desecration and drown this impertinent invader under the weight of its own plastic and broken statues and shit. This smell is a reminder of all the years you were buoyed by all that it contains, and of how you can never escape it, run away though you might.

Welcome to Bombay.

2010-01-14T13:17:00.004Z

I'm just wading through 300 unread posts, and all their attendant comments, before I resume putting some of mine up.

Besides, I'm still trying to thaw out after suffering a nearly-40 degree change in temperature over the span of just over a third of a day.

And there shall be lots of posts.

Edit: I should have mentioned that the first few posts will be drafts from the trip.

'tis the spirit to be...

2009-12-20T21:00:00.004Z

...helpful*, it seems.

As a cyclist, 4x4s - especially those driven in-city by blondes and tanned lads** - are the bane of my travel-life. As are trucks. And vans. And buses. Sportscars. Food-delivery scooters. Pedestrians. The bloody local council that won't add enough grit to the edge of the frikkin' hello-there's-been-frikkin'-ice-here-for-three-days-now road. Sportsbikes. Pigeons***.

But 4x4s in particular. I'd scrape my handlebars across the side of each and every one of them if it weren't for the fact that I was so bloody noticeable in my reflective gear and I trust them whole-heartedly to hunt me down and shunt me onto the pavement.

And just because they're occasionally useful **** doesn't mean I think any better of them. PR job, I say.

* For a moment there, you thought I was going to relent and go 'jolly' didn't you? As if.
** And yes, it's always blondes and tanned men. I'd know - I make sure I have a clear view before I start throwing rocks at them*****.
*** Fat, stupid birds. It's a wonder people haven't dropped turkey in favour of roast pigeon for Christmas dinner.
**** It's been snowing here a bit. Four inches and this country shuts down. It's like Bombay's Harbour line trains during October showers.
***** Not really (see above about being hunted), but fantasies are meant for being fantasised about.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2009-12-16T16:45:00.004Z

Helplessness
n., Trying and utterly failing to soothe an old, blind, almost-deaf dog who spends the last few hours of his life yipping away because of you-dont-know-what (before he finally decides to chuck it all - softly, unnoticed - and head for that roomful of unguarded slippers* he dreams about).

See also:
Ruined weekend

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Till You Did #67

2009-12-15T07:54:00.005Z

You don't get to see billiards* on TV much anymore. If at all.

When some kid looks blankly at you while you're talking about how fast-paced life has become, point that out. And if they start talking about pool and snooker, smack them with the cue-stick.

* Three-ball or English billiards.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-12-12T09:33:00.006Z

There are days when I feel low about the state I find my life in. Whenever that happens, I tend to go read just one paragraph* to make me appreciate what I have.

"A lot of good things had happened that day. He hadn't been thrown in the hole. The gang hadn't been dragged off to Sotsgorodok. He'd swiped the extra gruel at dinnertime. The foreman had got a good rate for the job. He'd enjoyed working on the wall. He hadn't been caught with the blade at the search point. He'd earned a favour from Tsezar that evening. And he'd bought his tobacco.
The end of an unclouded day. Almost a happy one. Just one of the 3,653 days of his sentence, from bell to bell".
- One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

* sure, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of excerpts from other books that could be said to be more potent, more evocative, and more graphic about human suffering. But the sheer simplicity and clarity of this one, and the way in which it brought down everything to a few simple, basic requirements hit my 15-year old cocky self like no Gogol or Dickens or anybody else ever had. And that initial impact has been hard to shake off.

A "really-should-stick-to-promises" post

2009-12-08T15:38:00.005Z

So, backstory.

Firstly, Joyce. And that book.

This is an update of no update. And just to make it clear how much of a non-update it is, this post is a redraft of a draft that was first made six weeks ago.

I did not read an additional page since the last post on it. I blame the man, and I blame Suketu.

See, after two years of owning this book, and forgetting to pack it every time I went home (or choosing to, rather - because really, why would I be carrying more books back here?), I finally got round to getting hold of a copy from the local library. And I couldn't help but drop everything else to finish it off first. Not that it's perfect (nowhere close), but the book reinforced a lot of things I've grown to accept and be scared of. More on that later.

And when I returned to Joyce, after revisiting so much...reality, his book felt so....silly. Pretentious. All look-at-me-I'm-so-much-smarter-and-have-you-got-all-the-references smugly superior. And yes, I'm impressed by the dedication and imagination it took. And I'm sure I'd appreciate it more if it was taken apart bit by bit in a critical review class.

But that's the point. Books are meant to educate, enlighten, entertain, comfort, and challenge. By themselves. Not by having to be taught.

I'm quite willing to tackle difficult books, drive-you-crazy books (oh, Something Happened!, how you still haunt my dreams), books that take ages to get through because you have to re-read every page to absorb its meaning.

And while this was a challenge, with every page it felt more as if he did not really want you to win.

It was as if he was thinking - Well, first now that I've got this awesome underlying concept (which nobody would realise unless it was pointed out to them), let me throw in all these random religious and linguistic references just to make sure they sit with four other books to understand it. And then - oh boy - then let me write it so crazily that they'll call me a genius for fear of appearing stupid.

Which is all fine. But you know what? I don't have to put up with it. I'm not going to be implicitly sneered at just because they didn't teach Latin when I was at school and my arse wasn't walloped by fervent Catholic priests who hated the weather of the place they lived in.

So, if you were still interested, Chapter 3 was where it ended. I just got bored.

That said - 'likelily'. Such a lovely word. He's absolved for that.

***************************

I use too many .... (just had a 30-second blankout trying to remember the word)...brackets. Apropos of nothing.

Sigh.

2009-12-04T14:36:00.003Z

This is turning into a farce.

I post and comment in a frenzy, then I disappear. Then I come back, then whoooosh again. Pathetic.

It's not like I've been ill.
Or travelling.
Or super-busy.
Or in all sorts of difficulties.
Or been out saving baby seals.

It's not even as if I've been out of ideas.
Or broken my wrist so I couldn't type.
Or had my computer crash.

No.

The simple truth is that I've been lazy.
Also, distracted with something else, but that's no excuse.
Just lazy.

And the worst part is that I like blogging.

Maybe I'll blog about it next week.

Feel free to yell at me.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-11-20T11:43:00.002Z

(Things you may choose to believe about me. Or not.)

I lose about two kilos in weight if I miss breakfast for three or four days in a stretch.

Obviously, I don't put on any if I eat regularly, more damned luck mine.

*********************

Tsk. Hate mail is bad for you. Avoid.

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Were Weird Till You Did #43

2009-11-20T08:18:00.005Z

That the reason you've developed a very slight head tilt to the right, caused by all the endless hours browsing (English-language) books in a store, is simply because the spines are printed left-to-right (when placed horizontally) so that you can read it normally when it's placed front-cover upwards.

Obvious, yes?

Except.

If you are already seeing the front cover, with the title and the photo and all the other little details - why would you be reading the spine?

So. Why don't more publishers just print the spine in a vertical top-to-bottom, so that when they're stacked as per normal, my neck doesn't need to get such a horrible crick every single time?

**********************************
For those of you interested in such esoteric information - and that's pretty much all of you - here's some book-spine naming and printing conventions.

This is the way we ride our bike, ride our bike...

2009-11-18T07:52:00.003Z

Keys. Helmet. Lights. Vest. Gloves.
Checkcheckcheckachinchang.

Hmm, those treetops are getting it good from Mr. Breeze today.

No, my mistake. It's Mister Wind. Mister I'm-going-to-slam-into-you-from-the-left Wind, to be precise. The Doors would have been appropriate right now.

Oh well, thank goodness for tree cove...

Uh oh.

fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Why are you honking you moron - you think I like swerving randomly into the middle of the road?

HatecyclinghatethesestupidcarsHATEthismiserableislandanditsmiserablebloodyweather.

STOP honking, you little shit - it's a cycle not a bloody tank, you try and keep it stable!

Ok let's just make it to the turning - once we go right, the wind should be behind us, and hopefully that will...

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Is it a bird? Is it plane?

HolycrapIfrikkinLOVEcycling.

Hey doofass, race you in your schmancy beemer.

...what is he grinning he abou...

Uh oh.

Two rights doth maketh a wrong.

fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Whoooaaa shit. Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to bang into you like....Hey, it's not my fault you're not looking while you're walking - and what are you doing out for a stroll on a morning like this anway? Oh yeh, well at least somebody wants to screw me. Jerk.

Just another few hundred metres and we'll be fii...

Whooooaaa shit. Sorrysorry, didn't mean to bang into....yes, simply dreadful weather, isn't it? Hmm? Oh well, it's not so bad usually, and it's good exercise too. And the same to you. Goodbye.

50 metres....

Whooooaaa shit.

Screw this.

This is the way we walk our bike, walk our bike...

2009-11-17T11:31:00.002Z

"Mmmmm....cheese toast".

"Ugh!"

"....??!"

"Humans were not meant to eat cheese".

"Huh?"

"No seriously. Cheese is an alien organism which should be not ingested by us".

"Stop right there. If you're going to start on some vegan crap rant about how it's made from milk which is the fluid of another animal and would I then also drink blood - I swear I'll sock you one".

"No no. Not that - although when you think about it like that...."

"What did I just say? You love my knuckles so much?"

"Ah. Sorry. No, what I meant was - it really is an alien organism".

"Riiiiight".

"Really. See, you called that a cheese toast, but it's actually a toasted cheese sandwich, right?"

"I guess so".

"Yeh. The truth is hidden from you that way. No, if you really want to realise the truth about cheese, watch it melt under a grill*".

"And what will that show me?"

"Go see for yourself....go!"

"Okay, okay.
.......
uggh!"

"I told you so".

* No really, watch it. The Blob returns!

2009-10-19T22:31:00.000+01:00

The worst fights are the ones you didn't know you were having.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-10-16T19:32:00.002+01:00

(Warning: This may or may not be true)

Some days, when I'm feeling malicious, I go to the Google page to search for and then click on the Yahoomail link. I then go to the Yahoo homepage and search for (and click on) the Hotmail link. And just to complete the circle, I visit the MSN page and search for (and click on) the Gmail link.

I like to think it hurts their ego a bit, for someone to come to their turf and then declare an affinity for their rival. I also keep hoping it screws up all their 'Most popular searches' lists.

If I'm feeling particularly malicious, I visit the Rediff page and search for (and click on) all the other three. Because after all, it's Rediff.

2009-10-07T08:07:00.002+01:00

Signed up for Life. Didn't read the fine print.

2009-09-30T13:27:00.003+01:00

Sometimes I wonder how many people have wondered why they keep on going, since nothing matters in the end anyway.

I wonder if they then go on to wonder about this till the very end, even after believing it does not matter anyway.

I wonder if they wonder about the end, and about whether they will still be able to wonder then.

I wonder if at the end, they will be wondering about why they wondered if it does not matter.

I wonder why I wonder about this, when it does not matter in the end either.

Bloggysses, Bloggysez

2009-09-24T16:26:00.007+01:00

or, How not to read Joyce

1. Without notes.

Cuz you ain't seen nothing like it, yo.

The man brings all his Latin-filled, literary-enthused, religion-obsessed chaos and thumps it right across your face. And you'll feel pretty much as if you're facing ol' Curtly at Antigua while carrying a table tennis racket. In a swimsuit.

Get an annotated version.

2. At night, in bed.

After a long day spent working, reading up on all the shittiness that is the world, and trying to keep track of all the blogs you follow (and leave some sensible comments on them), and finally getting your bleary, addled brain to a soft (so soft) pillow - that is really not when you want to be reading this book.

Especially if you happen to be reading chapter three*.

3. On a lovely, sunny day with a slight breeze floating through it.

Otherwise you will just hate yourself, anybody who ever suggested you read Joyce, all the books and articles that keep going on about it's such an important piece of literature, and the man himself.

There is also the risk that polite police officers might land up at your door wondering why you thought it necessary to give so many people a minor heart attack with all the banging and clawing against the window.

4. Simultaneously with other books.

Especially if they're of a genre or by an author that you really like. Or if they're the type of light fluff that floats out of navels. Or if they have pretty covers. Or .... basically, don't have anything else in your house that you haven't read, because otherwise you will waste endless hours wondering just why you're reading this book instead of all those others.

* Three words - no fucking clue.

Manual of Life - Things You Didn't Realise Were Weird Till You Did #78

2009-09-23T14:55:00.002+01:00

How dogs and (house)cats are pretty much the only land-based animals whose genders display almost no discernible differences in habits.

Fish and reptiles are just too different to understand, so I'm excluding them, but all land animals have quite obvious differences between the two genders. Lionesses hunt, while the lion just ambles up and hogs everything. Male birds have to perform dances and build nests and indulge in warbling competitions (and look prettier), while the females act whimsy. Bull elephants act all crazy, while the matriarchs protect the herd and bring up the calves. Male mantises and spiders offer their souls and bodies to the female. Male bees and wasps are mindless drones, while the females keep the hive together.

Another sin to the list of humankind's tab - how we've managed to train two animal (sub)species to forget that their male and female ancestors ever had disparate behavioural patterns.

2009-09-23T11:43:00.007+01:00

So, at last count, it was three men and two women who'd prefer to be dogs, and six women and one man choosing to be cats. Two abstained, preferring to be fish and a horse, one anonymous wouldn't reveal their gender, and Feanor linked to a book instead of answering the question directly (typical math-lover behaviour).

Which confirms my hunch - that there's not much difference in the genders for those who would choose to be dogs, but cats would be overwhelmingly chosen just by females.

And while quite a bit of that would be due to the very nature of the creatures, it does raise the question whether it's also perhaps related to the subsconscious gender that we automatically associate with animals, which has been generated by language-associations.

I would be willing to bet that when most people think 'dogs', they think 'male'. Even though that's just the species, we still think of dogs and female dogs (we won't even go into why nobody but vets and dog-owners use the technically correct 'bitch'). Yes, we know that both genders exist (heck, you may even had several as pets), but most people will still instantly - for that brief moment before conscious thought kicks in - assume you're talking about a male dog when you do talk about one.

And the reverse applies to cats. You instinctively think cats and tom cats. If just the generic term is used, people will immediately associate with female overtones. Cats are so Egyptian goddesses. And Selina Kyle in all her sleek, snugly-leathered glory arching her....ahem. Right. But see?

And it's not just them - it's the animal kingdom in general. There is so much immediate association, and distinction, all because the names and the language was written up by men. All deer are female, except when they're does and stags. All sheep are female, unless they're ewes and rams. All tigers are male, all bears too - although lions and lionesses are unique, for some reason.

So, maybe it comes down to this (and yes, this is slightly far out) - that subsconsciously, equal numbers of men and women would choose to be born as males in another avatar, but men can't (won't) contemplate being born as women.

I could throw a lot of theories behind that too, but I suspect it's simply this - Men realise that they have it easier than women in this world, on so many counts (one word - periods), so they wouldn't want to change. The odd male who would consider it, would do so because they like a challenge. And most women hate men and their domineering entitled smug parochialism too much already to even contemplate being one of them. Ever.

********************************************************************

On a minor note, I would also suggest that men are more antipathetic towards cats than women are to dogs because cats are more obviously female than dogs are male. By which I mean that it's easy to visually distinguish between male and female dogs, but not so easy to distinguish between male and female cats. Which enhances the male-female association.

Maybe I should've added a coda - If you're a woman and you choose to be a dog, which gender would you rather be?

Filler, not thriller

2009-09-22T08:54:00.003+01:00

Yes, there will be posts soon. Many of them. I feel like blogging regularly again. And somebody gave me some lovely home-made jam. So the world is good. I've just been a little flu-ey, but now that Vicks has done its wonders, posts shall resume.

Specifically, that post about animals and gender-associations (following on from the last post), the first of the Ulysses rants, and this Friday (given how it's getting chilly here), a recipe for lovely, hot cinnamon-and-raisin scones. Malai maar ke.

2009-09-16T18:03:00.004+01:00

People often talk about the reasons why they are dog-lovers or cat-lovers (if they are either, that is). Lots of theories there. This isn't one such, but it's related.

The theory is that dogs have the kind of personality and life humans secretly wish they could have, while cats have ones which more realistically resemble ours.

Most people would love to have a life where all they did was run around, and scratch away, and be petted constantly, and be loved by (nearly) everyone, and be fed everytime they looked at somebody else with pity-inducing eyes, and be allowed to get themselves all dirty in the mud, and (of course) be able to hump who they pleased - in public too, natch.

However, what humans really do is create this big mystery about who they really are, and let others in only after they've met some arbitrary and secret standard of acceptance, and pretend to be entirely self-reliant only to come running the minute somebody offers them a warm blanket and some nice food, and still reserve the right to turn around and scratch somebody's nose off - just because they felt like it. And of course, they keep their humping to themselves.

******************************************************************************

It certainly would be interesting to see the results of a poll in which people were asked to choose which of the two they would rather be, assuming ideal living conditions. Apart from the overall results, it would be fascinating to see the way the gender vote goes. I have my hunches about that, but let's put it to the test, small test sample though it may be.

Go on, pick one.

2009-09-14T12:19:00.001+01:00

Assume nothing, believe everything.

2009-09-14T12:18:00.000+01:00

Assume everything, believe nothing.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-09-11T07:46:00.008+01:00

(Warning: May or may not be true)

Sometimes, when I'm feeling really, really blue, I take a few packets of jelly and bung them into a big pot.

After the mixture is ready, rather than chill it, I simply let it cool down till it's that right balance of not very firm but not very runny.

I then pour it into two small tubs and squish away with my fingers and toes simultaneously.

45 seconds later, Blue --> Buttercup yellow.

PS. When I get really, really, really, why-o-why-me-why blue, I find a bathtub and pour the jelly in it, and then just splash about.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2009-09-10T18:18:00.002+01:00

Balancing Act
v., To be able to perceive yourself as others do, and accept it, while always remembering who you truly are, and believing in the you they cannot see.

Fine, fine

2009-09-04T11:22:00.003+01:00

Use Blogyssey if you like it so much. It's allowed. And no banning too.

I could say that it's been growing on me too, and I was wondering how to get out of my own clause, but I'd rather just blame other people who moan about not being able to use it. Heh.

In other news, the journey begins.

So far, I've got hold of my (library) copy - a rather drab grey cover with the legend 'Corrected Text' on it. Yes, there are notes at the back explaining what seems to be every third line. I haven't started yet (I've been finding it hard to stop reading this book instead (Aishwarya, new hardback copy for 50p - envious much?)), but shall do so today.

I'm tempted to just read each chapter on its own first, then re-read it with the notes. Any suggestions from those who've read it?

Mad bloggers and Irishmen

2009-09-01T16:10:00.006+01:00

And, just in case you haven't been avidly perusing the commentspace, the Great Group Blogger Ulysses Reading Attempt* begins today. Current team members - The Bride and moi.

Feel free to join in if you're foolhardy enough, or just plain irritated at having had a copy of it on your bookshelf for what seems forever without you having gone through it. All you need is a copy of your own.

We plan to post regular updates on how we're progressing, what we've made of it so far, and whether we hate it or not. The aim is to finish it this month. Hopefully.

* Anybody who uses the terms 'Blogyssey' or 'Blogysses' is immediately banned from this blog. We shall hunt you down and heap much mockery and scorn on you. You have been warned.

News for you

2009-09-01T12:10:00.004+01:00

* For TR, JAP, Veena, Szer, Black Mamba, Dilip, and all you long-journeymakers out there:
If you haven't read this series yet, do so now. Quite, quite fascinating. Not to mention utterly poignant and depressing.

* For what I'm sure is likely to be a sizeable proportion of the readers here:
A simple, yet wondrously effective physical activity that helps with tennis elbow.

* And for KM:
Because others hate FB too.

First date

2009-09-01T08:46:00.006+01:00

It was perfect
he said,
one said,
and he only wanted to
remember it that way
forever.

They stared at him,
at her,
the glass shattered
between them.

One moved to keep
the flies away,
another wrested the crumpled rose
from her hand.

It was hard to tell
the chalk from the snow.

Friday Fun: Food Fiesta

2009-08-28T12:24:00.002+01:00

Bonus recipe!

To make up for all the times I haven't posted one. And because this is a wonderful dish to follow the one below.

********************************************************************
Sticky Cinnamon Pears

Time Required:
30 minutes.

Keep Ready (to serve 4):
4 medium (just-ripe) pears
Lemon juice
Cinnamon powder, 2tsp
Sugar, 50-60gm
Ice-cream

Then:
Core the pears, then peel and cut into halves. Prick them with a fork and rub some of the cinnamon powder onto them lightly. Also rub a little lemon juice onto them so that they don't discolour while you're getting the sauce ready. Keep aside.

In a saucepan, on a low-medium heat, melt the sugar and remaining cinnamon powder till it's completely liquid.

Place the pears in a baking tray, pour the syrup onto them and coat them evently, and bake for 25 minutes at 200C (or until they're golden). Occasionally check on them and spoon some of the syrup over the pears so they don't dry out too much. You'll know they're ready when you can slice through easily with a fork.

Serve with a large dollop of plain vanilla ice-cream.

Why you should try this:
It's bloody marvellous, that's why.

You serve this on a gloomy grey day, and one bite into the sour and sweet and cinnamonny warmth of this, all offset by the icy coldness of the ice-cream, and you might just be ready to forget the shitty day you've just had.

Variations:
If you can't eat ice-cream, or don't have any, some thick cream will do. You could even try it with custard, but that's just too sweet.

Friday Fun: Food Fiesta

2009-08-28T11:25:00.005+01:00

See, I do fulfill requests. Eventually. It's a time thing - I have too much of it, so I fritter it away. Cynic, if you like, you can take the whole recipe (and any others) for the food blog - I'm too lazy to actually submit any.

Now this one takes a little more time than the others I've put up, but it's fairly simple to make. Perfect for a rainy monsoon day or chilly winter evening (or, if you live on this island, pretty much 95% of the year).

***********************************************************************
Colourful Moroccan Tajine

Time Required:
About 45 minutes.

Keep Ready (in order) (to serve 4):
A large tajine
Oil (preferably olive)
Two cloves garlic, crushed
One red onion, roughly sliced
Turmeric, 1tsp
Cumin powder, 1tsp
Harissa paste*, 2 tsp
Cinnamon, small stick
Star anise, two pieces
Mustard paste, 1tsp
Tomato paste, 1tbsp
3-4 medium Potatoes, diced
2 carrots, diced
Chickpeas**, 250g
500ml stock
Mixed coloured peppers, sliced
Creme fraiche***, or curd, 5tbsp
Chopped fresh coriander

Then:
Heat the oil in the tajine over a medium-high heat, and add the garlic and onions. Cook till they just start to go golden, with the occasional stirring, then lower the heat to medium-low and add the harissa, cumin and mustard. Fry for about six to eight minutes (stirring continuously so that the spices don't stick to the tajine), till they are really aromatic.

Then add the tomato paste, potatoes and carrots and fry for a couple of minutes till they're well-coated with the spices. Add the chickpeas and the stock, bring to a boil, then cover the tajine and simmer for about 30 minutes till you've got a thickish gravy. Add the peppers, stir in the creme fraiche and fresh coriander and let cook for another 5 minutes.

Garnish with more coriander, and serve with hot pitta bread, hummus and olives. Or just serve on a bed of plain cous cous.

Why you should try this:
Cooking with/in a tajine is fun. It's like a mini-tandoor and very reminiscent of cooking biryani - it's slow, it needs attention so that the dish doesn't burn or become too dry, and the way the aroma slowly builds up and permeates the entire house is just divine.

This dish is not properly authentic (they wouldn't use mustard or anise in Morocco), but it is utterly filling and colourful, and makes for a great variation from only making channa masala with chickpeas. The creme fraiche or curd helps to soften the kick of the harissa, and when you dip in some hummus-lathered pitta and have a big mouthful of this - it's just wild.

Variations:
1) Traditionally, you would add some form of red meat or chicken to this. If you do, then add it before the veggies, and brown properly. If you don't want to use either, but would like the taste, you could use chicken stock instead.

2) You could also add the peppers in with the chickpeas. I tend to add them later so that they retain a little crunchiness.

3) You could also garnish with spring onions, instead of just coriander.

4) You could add additional veggies if you really want to make it can't-possibly-move-an-inch heavy - cauliflower, courgettes, leeks.

* This is the key ingredient in the dish. If you can't find any readymade harissa paste, bloody well make some.
** Tinned chickpeas are the easiest. If you can only get hold of dried ones, please soak them for a couple of hours beforehand at least.
*** Creme fraiche is always preferable to curd, simply because it's not as sour as curd can be, and it also lends to a more thick consistency.

2009-08-27T15:32:00.004+01:00

Ah, the fuzzy happiness of seeing your ideas (the last bit) actually being considered workable, and perhaps soon being implemented.

Now, I'm not saying they stole my ideas, but it is highly suspicious how these plans emerged only after my post above. Hmmm.....

Seriously though, interesting na?

Why phrases like 'headdesk' were invented

2009-08-27T08:50:00.003+01:00

You read about this story? It's just so.....wrong. On so many levels.

I can somewhat understand why celebrity-obsessed people go to crazy lengths to acquire some memento of the ones they drool over (nail clippings? Seriously?). They probably see that as a personal link to those celebs, and in some weird way, it makes them feel special.

But that's when they're alive.

This.....I mean, you're dead. So your bones crumbling away above another's is cool...how? If you believe in souls and stuff, the grave doesn't matter anyway. Unless you're into zombies. And please let it not be about the sex image - it's not even necrophilia, because you're both dead.

And for four-and-a-half million dollars? It's just.....wrong.

50 Reasons Why You Should Blog - #48

2009-08-27T08:11:00.004+01:00

You might just get somebody in charge to listen* - and get a free book out of it.

* Check the comments. And just for that, I'm going to go buy a copy of her book. Nice people should be encouraged.

Friday Fun: Fpoor Fpuns

2009-08-21T08:42:00.002+01:00

Q: Why are partying bachelors referred to as 'stags'?
A: Because they're very horny*.

***************************************
This has to be the reason right? I haven't found any better explanation through much hunting onWeb.

* If you're pedantic enough to be going "But noooo - that's antlers", I've got two words for you....shuddup now.

A pome

2009-08-20T08:15:00.009+01:00

People who go aww
are those who would go caw
at a hopping crow
found in the snow,
to see if it would
stay on for good

(to be turned into a pet
after first being taken to a vet
to clip its fat fat wings
to make it need that hanging ring
and be taught

to do tricks
with tiny tiny bricks
and to flutter
at the sight of creamy butter
and to blare a song
when they bring out the thongs
and to claw the remote
and use the phone to textvote
and to bring a beer
when the fridge is not near)

or if it would
fly back into the wood.

**********************

People who go aww
should make you wary
and chary
and use words like nary,
for they are
the truly scary.

Manual of Life - Alternative Defintions

2009-08-15T19:38:00.007+01:00

Sticking it to 'em
v., Indians holding 90-second-long flash mobs* on 15th August outside Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, and the council office of every major city across England. Complete with waving of the tricolour, shouts of Jai Hind (and heck, maybe even Inquilab Zindabad), banners that go 'Who's occupying whom now, eh?', and ending with an a-capella rendition of JGM.

See also:
Payback
Insult upon injury
Reverse colonialism

* Damn, but I wish I'd thought of this earlier. I'm sure a few thousand enthu-cutlet desis would have happily turned up. And it's hardly like the police would make any arrests - talk about PR disasters.

2009-08-12T16:39:00.003+01:00

If you haven't already, head over to Jai's blog for a really well-written post about the insidious hold that religion and religious rituals have on people (I'm taking it as a given that this will appeal to most of you).

He doesn't say a lot that's new to anybody who's had to deal with clergy of any kind, especially in holy India (oh, on that note, Szerelem has something to add to the discussion). But what I really like is how.....composed he is about it (even if it was for a magazine). I rather suspect that if I decided to write a piece, it'd be far more vitriolic and snarky.

Anyway, go read.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

2009-08-12T16:28:00.005+01:00

Laziness
n., Calculating the mean (day) of the birthdays of all your friends and family, and then announcing to them that you will wish them collectively each year on that day only, instead of wishing each one on their actual anniversary*.

See also:
Ingenuity
Miser**

* Hallmark, get your grubby hands off my idea. Birthday Day*** is patent-pending.
** It's arguable that such a person is unlikely to contemplate gifts and cards and the like, either.
*** What, it's less ridiculous than 'Birthday'? Because we also go 'Happy weddingday'? Tchaila!

Talking of preconceptions

2009-08-08T12:35:00.003+01:00

...you'd think by now I would stop being surprised by them, right? Nuh-uh.

Take this film, for example.

It got rented out a while back, because it looked interesting, and it had an interesting mixture of stars. Then, on reading the synopsis a little more, I assumed it was going to be too serious and melancholia-inducing, and decided I was only going to watch it when I was ready for it.

Which meant not when I was already depressed, not when I was very happy either, not in the night so I'd go to bed miserable, not on a Sunday evening because I really don't want to make those worse than they already are - just a very neutral day when things had been just medium-tedium.

Yes, picky. And don't you judge me for not wanting to watch hard-hitting films - sometimes you can have too many of them, and all you want is popcorn brain-numbers. Or a re-run of O Brother (Pop quiz: Is it possible to have watched that too many times? A: Irrelevant query).

Anyways, in the end I got fed up of having it around (plus those nice people from the rental firm were sending out polite reminder emails), so on it went.

And it was....lovely.

Quirky, and funny, and not too cloying or too preachy, and Rickman being typically snarky Rickman, and....just lovely.

So (Shyam, since you were asking), yes, I'm thinking of not seeing the description of an unknown film either and just watching it.

*******************************************************************

Of course, since we're on preconceptions and films, I have to bring this up.

Am I the only one who had no clue whatsoever that this film had been made?

And after watching the trailer, and taking into account the discussions of the past two posts, should I not be too quick to be yelling "Travesty!" at the top of my lungs and refusing to go watch the film or even stick around when it's being discussed? Despite the nice little boxing hat-tip, and despite RDJr (Jude Law....meh)?

Should I not give it the benefit of the doubt? And, even if I'm right, and the reviews find that it totally tarnishes the entire vision that Doyle created, should I still not put that aside and just go watch it as just an extremely drug-induced interpretation of his work?

Will you?

Book randomness

2009-08-06T16:01:00.008+01:00

Increasingly, I find myself reading books without first reading the back cover or the sleeve, which carries the intro/summary. Of course, it's not completely random - I pick them from a certain genre selection, so I am somewhat aware of what it's going to be like.

I've been thinking about it, but I'm still not really sure why. I first noticed it when I started reading the latest volume in a couple of series, and realised I was 80 pages into it and I hadn't bothered to see what exactly to expect in this one. I shrugged it off.

Then I found myself doing the same with any book which had written by an author I knew and liked, but which I hadn't read. I sort of rationalised it away, figuring maybe it was because I already had some idea about the quality and tone of the book, having read the author's previous works.

But the last few times I've gone to my local library, I've found myself randomly picking up books - even though there are dozens of books that I want to read by authors I really like. And now I'm quite confused.

I'm certainly not bored of reading, or bored of the stuff that's out there. And no, I'm not four, so it's not about pretty bookcovers, ok.

Whatever the reason, there is this - I find myself reading the books more closely. You know how it is when you pick up a book that looks interesting and you sort of know how things are going to go until a certain point, so you sort of just skim through? Not happening.

Because I no longer know what the book is about, or what's going to happen, I'm reading every page like it's going to be the one where things really start to happen. And when they do, it's like that bit in a horror flick where the monster jumps out and shocks you. It's like being told a story when you're a kid, and you're just hearing it unfold, with no preconceptions. It's so much more fun.

Sure, you're likely to pick up some bad books in the process, but the experience of reading the good ones this way is worth it. Try it.

**********************************************************
Talking of books and preconceptions, here's the reverse.

The Bride and I plan to try and read Joyce's Ulysses, as part of a we've-stopped-being-litty-readers-and-have-lost-our-culture (more details on her blog). In addition, I also plan to eat a lot of curd.

I've started the book at least five times, and have never gone beyond page 18 (hush, Falsie, no sneering now). For several reasons.

At first, I was put off because I felt I had to read the book, because it's such a wondrous masterpiece, dontchaknow, and how can you call yourself a bibliophile if you haven't read it, which immediately put me against it (I've posted about this attitude before - any sociologists/psychologists out there who know if there's an actual term for this?). So I picked it up, but resented every word, and eventually put it away.

Then, when I had cooled off enough (give or take two years), I picked it up again and got tired because I thought he was just trying to be clever and difficult for the sake of being so (which he was). And I was like, sod it if I'm going to be patronised. And the last time, well....it just didn't grip me (ok, enough with the gasps of horror already).

Still. There must be something in the book, right? So, once more into the breach, and all that. And in the interest of doing something interesting with blogs, we'll post our progress publicly, discuss how we interpreted/liked the latest bit, and so on.

Anybody want to join in? We could make this a group effort.

Fatten thee up

2009-07-31T12:51:00.003+01:00

I don't even want to think of how much I'd have to eat if I decided to sign up for the team.

I'm suddenly reminded of Russi Mody's 16-egg omelettes. That guy was one dude.

Friday Fun: Fpoor Fpuns

2009-07-31T09:00:00.004+01:00

Q: Why was the Bollywood music fan banned from his local pizza shop?
A: Because instead of ordering, he would start serenading the mozzarella with Tu cheez badi hain mast mast.

Come on, admit it - you groaned, didn't you? Yes? Yesssss....my day is made.

Compromise

2009-07-29T08:43:00.004+01:00

"Look, forget all the other differences that are going to cause problems. At the end of the day, it comes down to this - you like coffee, he likes tea. Trust us, it's just not going to work".

**************************** *********

They settled for hot chocolate.

38 years later, they would get their giggles by sending snarky remember-how-you-said emails from a joint account.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-07-24T11:41:00.004+01:00

(True? Not? You decide)

Every time I hear someone say that "Bombay* ends at Bandra/Dadar/Worli/", I instantly launch a subtle and emergency-related plan to lure their snotty asses all the way to Bhandup, and get them lost in the mangroves there. Just to prove to them that the city never ends.

So far it's worked on eight people.

* It'll always be Bombay.

Idiots 'R' Us, Inc.

2009-07-24T10:57:00.003+01:00

I'm tempted to start a blog with a title like that. Won't though. Two reasons - the toy company will probably sue me; and I'd have so much stuff to comment upon I wouldn't have any time left to do anything else in life.

Just a little sampler of what the blog could have held. Click on the pic on the page to see more photos. Almost all of which show total nincompoops standing by teensy-tiny barricades while these thumping big liquid forces buffet them. They know people get drowned every year just by standing on the promenades, forget swimming in strong currents at the beaches around the city. But do they care? Noooooo...look, we're dare-devils, isn't this fun, doesn't this spectacle of nature's fury make you feel alive?

Morons. Will kill you more like it. Go stand. Who the fuck cares? Natural selection of the species. Less CO2 being emitted. Might keep the global warming down a bit. And therefore, the waves. Go go, stand on the rocks. Doofasses.

Death Post

2009-07-21T14:36:00.006+01:00

This post has been in my drafts folder for a year now. I'd decided it would be the last post I'd ever put up on this blog. Then I decided it would be the post I'd give to somebody to put up as the last post on this blog, in case something happened to me that would prevent me from blogging again. My Post From The Beyond, as it were.

Now I've decided to just post it. I guess I'm just tired of seeing it in my drafts folder.

And no, I'm not dying. And no, this isn't the last post on this blog.

*************************************************************************

This is going to be disjointed, rambling, yet (in my mind) connected. And long. It's because I'm sleepy (and you know the theory about talking/writing while sleepy, right? Alrighty then).

I'm probably going to ~~hate~~ dislike it in the morning, but that's why I'm writing this. Because I've been putting aside the things I think of to write, realising I won't be happy about having published them.

Which is not how it should be. Writing. Blogging. Whatever.

It should be easy. Fun. Cathartic. Enlightening. And it is...occasionally. When I'm blogging spontaneously, or thinking about the little things and making sure they're not about the (seemingly) big issues. Like Life.

Because there's no point to that. Talking about Life, that is, or giving your own views on it.

That's hubris.

Because the moment you say things like "the moment you" is the moment you've decided you understand how things work.

But we don't....we don't.

We're all just living this little dream, hoping to whatever powers we may choose to hope in, that we'll get through all the traps without hurting ourselves too much. We're all just hoping that we won't be the ones that will be hit by natural disasters, we won't be the ones to suffer random accidents, we won't be the ones to be diagnosed with some rare terminal disease. We're hoping to make sense of it all, when all we're really doing is trying to find some justification for this perpetual guilt we feel that we have because we have homes, and food when we want it, and money to spend on things we desire, and the knowledge and freedom and the opportunity to be able to reach out and improve ourselves.

And saying all that too, is hubris.

It's me thinking I know more than you. It's me believing that the little minor insights I have gained, which make it easier for me to deal with others and see their problems, makes me better than you. It's me hoping that if I think hard and long enough, something somewhere will make somehow make sense. And that I will be able to explain it to you, and everything will be happyhappyjoyjoy.

It's me keeping this blog alive because I thought I had something to say once. It's me hoping that by thinking and writing, I will some day do.

Do the things I could do, and perhaps should do, given that I can do them well (and better than many others if I choose to), and given that if I did do them, it might make a difference to somebody somewhere.

This is me hoping this isn't my epitaph.

And it's all hubris.

But tomorrow, I'll probably laugh cynically. And turn again to thoughts of how little this all matters anyway. These hopes and thoughts and dreams and actions. These intense investigations of ourselves and our desires and our lives. This handwringing about the true nature of things, and the underlying facets, and oh yes, let's not forget that big grandpappy of them all...the Meaning Of It All.

I believed in it once. I believed that everything could be explained if you could just realise that one moment of complete understanding. That everything would make sense. And that even if it didn't make things, it would make them bearable at the very least.

And I've lived by that credo. Lived by laughing at life, yet living it. Lived by saying that nothing really matters, but willing to accept that perhaps it does. Lived by being alive, but keeping a part of me dead, ready for the possibility that all this is some incomprehensibly complex and insignificantly irrelevant joke. Hedging my bets that this life is all there is, but with the possibility that there's something more.

....
This is all so ridiculous. And petty. Look at the comfyliving pseudogourmet booklover whining about his existential angst. Oh yes, so much woe is me.

What fuck.

I'm doing exactly what I for so long have tried not to - try and explain myself. Describe myself. Telling someone who you are or what you feel, uninvited, is one of the most pretentious and ego-seeking things I can think of. It's like people who go 'Oh I have such a sensitive nature'. Prats. Show, don't say.

And yet here I am, going - oh look at me, look at the 'deep' thoughts I think. Aren't they so insightful? Isn't your life now so much better than it was ten minutes ago? Aren't you just blessed to have found this blog, or even that I deigned to write all this out for you? Worship me, fool!

Again...what fuck.

Like you don't think of them too. Like they haven't been thought of by countless others before, and will be thought of by countless others again. Like they aren't just another piece of surreality that makes this whole life feel like an endless repetition of a terrible waste of laboratory resources. Like any of it matters.

So what's the point of it all; why am I typing all this?

I don't know.

I really don't.

And I'm just too tired, too confused, too thought-out to care.

Maybe I do need to just witter away about something so specific that only eight other people in the world are interested in it. Maybe I need to just witter away about anything and everything in general, that may or may not catch my fancy. Maybe I need a project. Maybe I need to stop being all meta about blogs and blogging and friendships and (you guessed it) Life, and just go with the first thought that occurs to me.

Maybe.

I just can't help feeling that even doing any of that will still be hubris, though.

RRNL - on the prowl again

2009-07-16T11:06:00.006+01:00

* How to get schoolkids to read more (not).

* What Brits can do to get back at the Aussies for all the Ashes victories - Tip #35.

* How to waste more taxpayer money instead of improving infrastructure - No. 653,211.

* Like, somebody, study my genes quick. And then figure a way to get them around. No fee also I'll charge. The things I'm prepared to do for the greater good, I tell you.

* And finally, balls of utter un-embarassment.

Decisions

2009-07-16T11:02:00.002+01:00

"....you look pretty in angles".

Euphemising jerk. She was glad she'd left him right then.

Although, having paid up for three operations since, she wasn't quite so sure about her judgement anymore.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

2009-07-11T10:09:00.004+01:00

(Warning: This may or may not be true)

I collect mugs. Individual, oddball pieces. From tiny espresso shot ones to one pint (half-litre) steins.

No sets, though. I totally fail at the 'Ideal Party-Hosting Etiquette' test.

2009-07-09T10:48:00.003+01:00

When you don't hear some Hindi swear-words for a long time, they sound so....cuddly. Tongue-rollable.

Lafangaa.
Luh-fung-aaaah.
Luchcha lafangaa.
Luchha* paratha.

Hmm. Strange jump. Ok, how about...

Kameena.
Kameeeeeena.
Kutta kameena.
Kottu paratha.

...hmm. Brain record is stucking, it seems.

Oh well, might as well give in. Time for a paratha then. With ghee, of course.

* Before you pounce, is accepted alternative spelling for lachha, ok?

The Mango Wars - 1

2009-07-09T07:54:00.005+01:00

They eyed the last chilled slice greedily, and each other warily.

She snatched it away first.

Delicious and victorious....utter bliss.

Me, me, me, me, me

2009-07-08T10:50:00.004+01:00

I'm not going to rant against the personality-driven world we live. No, really.

What's the point? You know we are. We all moan about it - the way a singer's death is apparently worth live coverage on the BBC when earthquakes and wars and riots aren't, the way newsstands seem to be increasingly full of magazines that delight in showing off how film stars can also have sweaty armpits (apparently, with all the money they make, they're supposed to get under-skin absorption pads implanted), the way at least 40% of all TV programming is about a 'reality' show, and they way every new media iDea encourages you to strip off and blurt it all out to a bunch of people who are doing the same (just so somebody can click on a little icon that says they 'likes this').

I'm not even going to rant about the way how even a decent concept like a singing contest that gives people who have no chance/never got a break an opportunity to make it good is more about the journey and the struggle than it's about whether they can get their pitch right. Not to mention them being an unapologetic serving of laughatthedeludedfoolsandfeelbetteraboutyourpiddlylittlelife, solely intent in getting people to behave as idiotically as possible, and a prime reason why I can't even contemplate watching such shows anymore*.

No. No rant here.

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At the other end of the spectrum, a story about two people who just want to fit in (people in the UK can catch it on the iPlayer). It's an hour-long docu, and it's nice and slow (the YT link splits it into six parts), so you might want to watch it at leisure.

Shows about individuals with disorders and diseases have become exceedingly commonplace in the UK, with some of them being so intimately graphic it's just....uncomfortable to watch. Some of them are fascinating, and this one is by far one of the best I've seen.

Watching it, I was struck by so many things. Such as, it's one thing to accept and understand that the person next to you cannot help their behaviour, but how amazing is it that kids that age can actually deal with that level of noisy distraction - and ignore it? Such as, just how does a parent get through a period as described in the segment from 12:30-15:00 minutes, and still get through without their heart being completely and utterly shattered? More importantly, how does a mere child deal with something as utterly incomprehensible like this and not go crazy?

Watch it. The level of courage needed to face the world another day, the dignity of dealing with such an inevitably humiliating condition, the sheer determination to make a life of your own - all of this is so simply conveyed.

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I can't even begin to contemplate the plight of somebody who had the misfortune to suffer from this, while being born in countries where pyschological disorders aren't really understood or addressed (particularly the rural parts of countries in Asia and Africa).

And every time I come across another disorder (the autististic spectrum, dyslexia, ADD, etc) I wonder just how many kids I went to school or college probably suffered from things like this, but who were just classified as problem kids. I wonder now if that kid who could never focus on studies in class and always got sent out may have suffered from ADHD, or that one who got so upset when we disturbed the way he laid out his books was actually OCD. I wonder.

Forget sex education. Kids need classes on psychiatric disorders.

* It was eye-opening and funny the first time round. Everybody got the joke/message. We know there are morons out there. Now stop with the freak show, and move on.

2009-07-07T17:03:00.003+01:00

A face-off between Destiny and Romance.

A man going hungrily for a triple prize, one that would bring all the acclaim in the world, against a man just trying to prove he was more than everybody thought he could ever be.

In the end, Destiny won out. Just.

But the Romance just got a whole lot stronger.

*****************************************************

Such a strange turn of events. Two successive second Sundays, two successive epic five-setters. Except this time I was wishing against the guy I was willing on last year. Even though he played just as prettily, and just as gutsily.

And I know that if it was anybody but who he was playing against, I would have marvelled at the way he held it together, and maintained those awesome percentages all the way till the end, ruthlessly crushing the least sign of hope. As it was, I was just crushed for a good man who deserved more.

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If the Swiss talks once more about how it's a remarkable achievement, and how it's such a great thing, and how he's staked his cleam to greatness .....

Seriously. Stop preening.