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.

lawless

there are some upsides to being out of action.

what could be more comforting than to have many cups of strong coffee, nice things to eat and some quality low-brow entertainment? nothing. its been ages since i descended into debauchery of such magnitude, but how i loved it. a long string of cameron diaz movies courtesy the pest, and i was set for the day. of which were the disgusting 'there's something about mary' and the rather insightful 'in her shoes' and the unexpectedly fun 'the holiday'. the unexpected fun bit about it being a certain delightful mr.law.
 
in a sea of misguided metrosexuals, thank god for jude law's unshaven chest. any number of nanny-indiscretions are forgivable if one is so horribly hot.

romeo must die

prrft!!
phtoo!!
phooey!!

what i really can do with is the invisibility cloak. it would have been so much more convenient if we could choose who paid attention to us, when and how much.
if i were truly honest, and if i were truly brave, and if i had half the deadpanning ability of sue townsend, my diaries would be a much better chronicle of a career loser's miserable days. but, like most of the species, i have near-perfected the survival tactic of self-evasion. i'm now so adept at the art of whitewashing unseemly blemishes of character and glossing over stains of self-loathing that i would make a very competent self-help guru. i should probably write the tome 'stay delusional, stay happy'. 

how to win friends and influence people

responses to an essay prompt '__ has just started out at a new school where he knows noone. the children here are not as friendly as at his old school and he had to have lunch all by himself in the first week. during his second week, however, another child who seemed nice sat with him. later, in PT class, __ noticed a lot of the other kids making fun of his new friend for being overweight and calling him unkind names. __ wants to fit in and make friends, but he also does not want to hurt his new friend. what should __ do? what would you do? have you ever been in a situation where somebody was laughing at a person you care about? what would you do?'

 .....................................................................

• for getting new friends, you needs to earn respect by getting 1st in class in studies and sports. 
• you should throw little parties, give people presents and help them out in studies, homework and classwork. maintain your physique and become smart.
• have proper manners and become sophisticated. 
• do not break into fights, tease people or call them names.
• for getting respect from teachers, you need to be polite, good-looking (hair combed, nails cut and in discipline) 
• remember that 'first impression is the last impression'.

please don't take it personally. after all, it is only my opinion based.

....................................................................

if i were him, i would not try to make friends so fast. i would do it slowly, so that it happens properly. if i were a new boy, i would feel very happy if old students would have sat next to me, as that would mean that people are starting to get comfortable with me around them.
if the children of my school make fun of my friend, i would not mind them at this time, as they are not making fun of me. 
later on, i would spend more time in making friends one at a time, as this would easier, and i would automatically be friends with the person i had previously befriended. this process will take some time.

....................................................................

if anyone is teasing my new friend, i would go to him and tell him don't lose courage, everything will be o.k. i would try to make him happy by telling a joke or something and say something to distract him from the teasing. when he has gathered enough courage to resist the teasing, i would tell him to just ignore them.


well, from my real life experience, i am sure that they would stop teasing him, but still some people might not stop. so, the next step is to try and make friends with them and then to tell them that what they are doing is not right. the difficult part is to make friends with them but still not make my friend feel that i am teaming up with the others and that he will be left out.

....................................................................

when they were making fun of his new friend, he felt stuck in the middle of the 'making friends scale'. he wants to make new friends, but he also wants to stay friends with the persons who first came to shake hands.
if you want to know what i would do, here it is-
1) i would try to talk to a few people who seem nice and explain to them that you cannot make friends seeing how fat or skinny people are.


after they understand, it is time for number 2.
2) i would tell the people who understood to tell their friends. and soon, everyone will be friends with each other.
3) if they still don't understand, i would take charge, and tell people that it is not nice to be mean to people.


if people still don't understand, then i don't have any other plans. if people don't agree, they are heartless and very bitter. people who understand are sensitive to things.

....................................................................

i experienced this when my father was learning to drive. he had to park his car, taking a reverse. his car touched the bumper of a rickshaw. the rickshaw driver started shouting at my father and he said that you and your father are fools. if you don't know how to drive a car why are you driving? other people started laughing and the rickshaw man shouted at my father to pay me, pay me.


when they were shouting and laughing at my father i felt that i should tell them how bad it feels when people laugh at you when you make a mistake. but i could not, because they are adults who are stronger than me, and it could be injurious to me.

....................................................................

the complex, cruel labyrinth that childhoods are lived in. 

only adults can think with fond, selective amnesia about the innocence of childhood. the intrigues, rivalries, griefs and betrayals of childhood are that much fiercer because it is in many ways the hurts of a community that is voiceless in the midst of all the love.

god let me never lose sight of this.

not(e) perfect

where do the memories of music dwell?
when are wherefore they choose to come calling again are so unbidden and so welcome.

this entire evening spent listening to Sade's smoky, grainy yet smooth voice singing Smooth Operator, over and over again.

the possibilities of such a voice and endless. one could smoulder one's way out of practically anything, with such a voice.

profound platitude to placate peeved people

how wonderful is the world. god sure is very clever.
there is always a saturday after a friday and a sunday after a saturday. perfect world.

perfect, that is, till sunday, which is hatefully followed by a monday.

ministry of lost causes

requests for memberships invited to:

1. committee for the encouragement of long hair on women
2. committee for the discouragement of long hair on men
3. committee for the banning of pink shirts on men
4. committee for mobilizing funds for supplying decent trousers to poor young men who can only afford low-waist jeans
5. committee for the spread of awareness regarding the decorative value of freckles
6. committee for the welfare of people who do not like to lend books. to anyone. at all. never have, never will. ever. never ever.
7. committee for the conservation of energy expended on pointless activities like bathing in winter and chewing
8. committee for the protection of endangered species like women who cannot fill-in bank slips on their own and women who are scared of snakes
9. committee for the alleviation of suffering caused by the sight of emran hashmi's face and himesh reshammiya's voice
10. committee for the exaltation and honoring of selective non-violence

issued in self-interest by;
the president-for-life cum commander-in-chief cum treasurer cum chief secretary cum public relations officer
department of daring activism
ministry of lost causes

need for steel

sir knight's armor is rusty, my lord.

iGot! iGloat!

The loot so far.

THE CHRISTMAS MYSTERY - Jostein Gardner 

I'll forgive him 'Sophie's World' if this turns out well. One and only chance, before I get seriously prejudiced, Gardner. Historical/Theological Mystery. New Genre.

MY SUMMER OF LOVE - Helen Cross 

starring 15 year old Mona, a drinker, thief and fruit-machine addict, who meets well-endowed, posh Tamsin who has an acress mother and a sister who's died of starvation. black comedy expected.

BLOODY WOMEN, IRELAND'S FEMALE KILLERS - David M. Kiely 

women murderers, my favourite yet being Kate Webster, the one who boiled the dismembered bits of her victim and tried to sell off the fat as 'the best dripping'.

PRINCE OF THE CLOUDS - Gianni Riotta

Supposedly "even more enchanting than 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin'". Promises post-WW2 Sicily, a battle scene and a beautiful Russian woman.

THE FALL - Joyce Carol Oates 

My first Oates novel. Portrait of an American family in crisis, set in the mid-20th century. The plot is quite original, to say the least. Post a disastrous honeymoon night, a young woman's newly-minted husband throws himself into the Niagara. :-)

SMALL GODS - Terry Pratchett

The sight of this one among all those lurid lurve stories taught me what 'paralyzed with pleasure' means.

AH, SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE - Roald Dahl

Neither juvenile fiction, nor macabre short stories, this one is a side of the master i've yet to encounter. Here he writes of the eccentricities of rural life.

1066 AND ALL THAT - W.C.Sellar and R. J. Yeatman

The much-longed-for, never-expected-to-be-owned satire on textbook history.

UNDER THE EYE OF THE CLOCK - Christopher Nolan

The brilliant, handicapped young writer's autobiography, almost.

LONGITUDE - Dava Sobel

Beautiful, beautiful, hardback. Coincidentally, right when the kids and i are working on the 'imaginary lines' too.

GOODFELLAS - Nicholas Pileggi

A look into the career and machinations of Henry Hill, a New York mobster, turned Federal Witness, turned one of the most hunted men of our times.

TOMORROW - Graham Swift

An intimate story. A look at long-standing marriage, parenthood and the fabric of families.

THE TEENAGE WORRIER'S GUIDE TO LURVE - Ros Asquith

If this is anything like Adrian Mole, then i'm blessed to have found this, being surrounded as i am, by tiny people with hormones doing funny things to them.

MISS PURDY'S CLASS - Annie Murray

Young schoolmarm in the early 1900s in the poorest area of Birmingham, and all the troubled children she comes to know and love. Inspirational almost-chick-lit. Got a nagging feeling the Hollywood factory has already moviefied this.

OPEN - Lisa Moore

Getting compared to Annie Proulx is no mean achievement. A collection of 10 stories.

THE BOOK OF GENERAL IGNORANCE - Stephen Fry/Alan Davies

If a book says 'George Washington's teeth previously belonged to a hippopotamus', i've discovered i'll buy it.
 

101 THINGS TO DO BEFORE YOU'RE OLD AND BORING - Richard Horne and Helen Szirtes

I guess a frog-in-the well provincial could be bettered by some armchair inspiration.

ROAD RAGE - Ruth Rendell

She, and she alone knows how to make a whodunnit moving, literate, insightful and thrilling. The best there is.
 

E IS FOR EVIDENCE - Sue Grafton

Kinsey Millhone, my favorite kick-ass sleuth, in another of her adventures. 

 

if i needed any more evidence of approaching senility, this is it. more non-fiction here than fiction.



Notice:

Amoeba, Stuts, B, Gunji;

I will NOT share. Unless, of course, you buy a few and share with me first.

Hyper-critical, Reader-on-a-Mission Sailor Man;

keep your comments to yourself.

voiceless.
silenced.

the zoo in my room

when the pest moved away for his post graduation, i rejoiced for days on end, thinking that my room would finally be my own, and that i would be freed from loud, off-key renderings of a tasteful selection of the choicest of himmesh reshammiya hits.

but in keeping with 'the best laid plans o' mice and men, gang aft a gley...' and all that jazz, my hopes were dashed against the merciless rocks of fate. little did i know that this was but the lull before the storm.

there is this thriving bee hive right under the eve of my window. the members of the colony think that my room is the most happening hot-spot in this part of town, with the hottest chick, to boot.
come evening, all of them make a bee-line (aha!) to my window and hang around buzzing to be let in. the ones who do manage to sneak in somehow, spend the rest of the night making giddy circles around the light, serenading the unresponsive beauty with buzzy ballads sung with much enthusiasm and never-ceasing effort.

the most ardent of suitors are well-versed in the casanova-style of seduction. they shun the direct 'i'll fly at you, and you fall for me' approach and try more sophisticated variations. some of the smoothest moves i've seen so far include moving in a diagonal path towards the object of adoration from the farthest corners of the room, making sure to do all sorts of impressive stunts on the way. they dip, they soar, they manfully thump their rumps against the wall, they walk backwards, they walk forwards, they fly in circles, they fly in straight lines, they lay in wait in seeming indifference and then make quick feints...all of course, with total disregard to the rightful owner of the room, trying to read her book in peace. the braves terrorize any visitors i might have, who offer interesting reactions of their own and shrieks of varying decibels and tonal qualities.   

if all this was not excitement enough, the gecko family has decided to make my room their home as well. the pater-familias (i think, though i can't be certain) keeps peeking out at me from behind the bulb and casts malevolent glances in my direction.
my traitorous mother refuses to have them swept out of the house, and has been ignoring my pleas on the grounds that they make huge dents in the insect population. i would gladly eat all the mosquitoes she can catch, if only i can be free of the specter of a yellow eye beaming malice at me.

the mother-of-mother is a kindred spirit. i suppose a supari offer is in the offing. an offer she cannot refuse.a weeks-worth of smuggled in sweets in exchange of the dirty deed.


why must such tragedies be visited upon me? my only refuge from the madding crowds invaded. tragedy of 9.99 magnitude.

horror story

my mattress is out to murder me.

one day i shall be found impaled upon a spring from my own mattress. what a way to go.

rime of the ancient merryner

woozy woozy wally hoo,
coughy coughy through and through.

all around the house i go,
wheezing sneezing as i blow.