Ouch

"I also need to improve my vocabulary and spelliungs." 

Cue for me to go and die a painful death somewhere. 

I've been told,

"Friends and family will stay with me forever but teachers will not so I need to make stronger relationships with them rather than teachers." 

"I will try to gain more information, so that I have almost all the knowledge needed to travel to different places. By acheiving these goals, I will reach my main goal, which is to become an actress or a secret agent." 

smoke and mirrors. lost and found.

what price, insight?

if a slowly ripening cynicism, recognizing that life has jagged edges and glossed over cracks in unexpected places is a sign of growing up, then i am yet to attain it. if the test of good writing is in its capacity to jolt one out of mental and moral complacence, then lisa moore's collection of ten short stories 'open' more than sufficiently does so.

i uncover each sentence like a secret bar of chocolate, to be savored till it melts away. i don't want the book to end. the sharpness and uncomfortable honesty of her prose threatens to distort the benign image of the adult world that i still defend. yet, all the cruelty and sadness and flashes of love and tenderness that she writes about with unsentimental detachment, is what makes this unforgettable. reminds me of a nell freudenberger story 'the tutor' that i had read in Granta-82 once and could not get out of my mind hence. an interview here.




from 'Craving':


i realise now, totally zonked that i have always believed the flaws of men are born of a stupidity for which they, men, can't be held accountable. i recognize in a flash that all my relations with men have been guided by this generous and condescending premise. i see now that the theory comes from the lack of courage required to face the truth, which is that men are pricks.
they're aware women like me exist, women who believe they have been shafted in terms of a moral spine, and these men welcome these women's low opinions of themselves, and capitalize on it.


and later;


i have forsaken the promises of our adolescence; hiding near the warm tires of parked cars while playing spotlight at dusk, holding still while curling irons burn our scalps, splashes of silver raining from the disco balls in the parish hall, mashed banana emollients, face scrubs with twigs and bits of apricot, ears pierced with an ice cube and sewing needle, and the disquieting loss of a belief in God. the saturated aura, a kinetic field of blue light, that surrounded a silent phone while we willed it to ring. our periods. dusk, all by itself, dusk, walking home from school after a volleyball game and the light withdrawing from the pavement. 
i look at my husband, i try to feel dissatisfied but i can't, he is a beautiful man.

what price, philosoppy?

turned over a new leaf. getting crinkly around the edges.

what price, TV?

what is wrong with national television?
if after a hard day's hard labour, an honest tax-paying citizen can't come home and watch some TV, what is the point of life? so very pointless.

i switch on the TV in the hopes of getting some suitably mind-numbing entertainment. something that would soothe my frayed nerves and make everything else seem less terrible by comparison, and what do i get? crime against humanity perpetrated without any shame or remorse. has PETA nothing to say about this? is no one willing to pose nude to highlight the plight of the imprisoned modern woman?

the first sight that greets mine tired eyes is a constipated looking tusshar kapoor serenading an even more constipated amrita arora (?or rao?) with a totally constipated song by some constipated lyricist about badals and pani and their respective colours.

my defense mechanism kicks in and delivers a shot of pure adrenalin to my fingers which in turn helps me switch channels before i die of disgust.

and what do i see?

that normally wholesome asin in a dangerously short skirt executing moves that threaten a wardrobe malfunction with the dabanng khan in a very prabhu deva song with very prabhu deva choreography.

the next panicked channel change does not bode well either. promo for some movie proclaiming itself ‘india’s first 3D film’. must serve chills of spine tingling proportions if the hero’s face is anything to go by. what could be more horrific than a man who looks like a badly shaved potato?only himmesh reshammiya. but that is another horror story.

the only saving grace was the promo for the kiddie movie ‘stanley ka dabba’ which shows some very real looking kids eating some very real looking food and a suitably pervy looking schoolmaster. I am buying a ticket.

what price, beauty?

god,

in case what these new-age religion guys are saying is true, and in case there is some chance of reincarnation at all, note this request - i want to be reincarnated as sade.

thank you.

clash of the titans

epic fight for the remote begins. the gorilla is home.