iBuy and then iThink

one should not covet a book by its cover, but one does.
i am such a sucker for catchy design and colour.

the Hachette editions of Alexander Mc.call Smith's Mma. Ramotswe books have such excellent woodcut-style cover art by Hannah Firmin, that i cannot help going into a trance imagining them on my bookshelf and wake up to find that i have bought them.
not that i'm complaining.

the gentle rhythm of the narrative and the contemplative pace of the stories bring to mind vacations spent lying stomach-down, reading and eating, to the accompaniment of the rain pattering down outside. Dusty Botswana of the sleepy, sweet-smelling cattle is a far cry from the robust lushness of my Malabar Coast, but the abundance of good food - the produce fresh from the garden - the chickens picking away in yards, the possibility of pausing whatever one is doing to just 'sit and talk'...all of that is the same.

  

 




sadly, leisure is such a lost art nowadays.
noone seems to know what to do without a computer or a cell-phone or a television to amuse oneself. why are all the realms that one could cross, in the snugness of one's thoughts so out of bounds for so many now?

i had once asked my students to think of a few things they could do to amuse themselves on a dark rainy evening, with the electricity cut off. they just could not! except for scaring people in the dark, and for telling scary stories to each other by torchlight, that is.

i wonder if we have taken away something vital from our children. the connection to the soil they stand upon, and that which has made all of us.

on pe(e)a brains

important scientific discovery of the day -

i'v just discovered the missing link.
he owns a paunch, wears glasses and has a brain the size of a smallish pea.

someone pay me a lot of money, fast.
i will gladly and expertly stuff him and even throw in the glass display case for nothing.

figuratively speaking

from the Personification exercise today-

"the softboard shivered in fright on seeing the pin." and "the tooth struggled to hang on to the gum."

such gems.
after i had spent the requisite amount of time moaning, i realised i ought to be heartily glad none of them mentioned poop, pee or any other staple of that most enduring of all school-favourites - The Toilet Jokes.

the bane inane

WHY do people ask certain questions?

what is it that drives people to inquire solicitously of you when you drip your way inside from the pelting rain oh, you got wet? is it raining? when you are too damp all over to clarify not at all. just felt like practicing the butterfly stroke.

or are you having lunch? when you have your mouth too stuffed to reply not really. just licking it before i spit it out.

or are you reading? when you have your eyeballs stuck to a page, and are dying to say, no,no,no. gasp! no. never. just trying to think of ways to use this to scare away stalkers.



i am going to cultivate a ruthless expression. one that shouts i-hate-questions-especially-the-inane-variety. i have already mastered the half grimace. only the nose-hair is left.

the fourth fairy

B's day to be glowing bride. a more matter-of-fact and cheerfully optimistic bride i've yet to see.


i tried out the new tooth. not half bad.

blood and gore

the receipt for B's wedding gift lists 'one neckless' bought and paid for, and our DTH service proclaims 'the service may be temporarily unavailable due to a mechanical or weather condition at your end'.
my end? which one? the one that is struggling with helpless incomprehension or the one that is painted black at the tips? someone educate me.

no quick-fix

cracks never fully mend, i find. grime has a way of finding itself into the most carefully held-together spaces and lodges there. being whole again is just an illusion; shattered easily at sudden moments.

dental agony

there are times when i really wish i were a damsel in some exotic tribe that required women to cover the lower halves of their faces -or else!- even when they ate tricky things like spaghetti. i live in fear of mirrors, spoons and other shiny surfaces. my life has changed. i shall smile with innocent abandon no more. i take recourse in modest smiles and quivers-of-lip-ends. i am the next mona lisa.

my broken front tooth was to me what his moustache was to poirot, buffaloes to laloo, mummies to ancient egyptians and rats to cats. too dear to part with, serious claim to fame, glamor quotient and source of pride and glory.

it had served me well. on childhood playgrounds, one carefully administered bite with the nicely pointed edge had rendered helpless many a worthy -if villainous- opponent prostrate with fear and pain. on growing up to be a flower of young indian womanhood, it added charm (if friends and admirers are to be believed - and i choose to believe. i am a believer) to my already charming smile, paralyzing many an admirer (or so i am told. reasons for the paralysis to be discussed later) with admiration (or so i am told. again.)

now it is gone.

the small man with the wicked looking tools with support from my traitorous mother took advantage of my helpless fascination with the gleaming thing descending towards my agape mouth and stuck on the rest. half-toothed no more.

now i am like the rest of the mortals that walk this earth.