She took another drag of her cigarette and looked at the view. From her vantage point on the boulder, she saw the dismal valleys bellow and the stark plains beyond. The drought had played a game with the vineyards and won. Now, there was dry, barren land stretching for miles around. Wasteland.
This spot used to be her favourite refuge as a teenager. She had always had this bad habit of running away from her problems. Literally. Every time something went wrong that she could not handle, she'd take a long ride on her bike or catch the next train out of town and stay with some relatives until she could clear her head and pretend like nothing had happened. Not dealing with her problems was one way to deal with them, she thought sardonically. But this time, a long bike ride or a train journey wasn't going to fix things. This was something she could not run away from, even if she tried. She patted her swollen belly and took another drag. No, this was something she just could not run away from.
She flicked her cigarette over the precipice, watching it tumble down the hill. She used to come up here with her friends when she was younger. Those were the carefree days when they would all just pile into a car at a moments' notice, buy a couple of beers and head on out of the city up to the hills. It wasn't too far away. Just about 52 kilometers from her house. She had always associated these hills with laughter. That's why they were comforting when she was depressed.
She sighed and lit another Navy Cut. Smoking really soothed her.... calmed her. And in that hazy calmness, she could think rationally. Or at least, try.
It was weird how perceptions changed with moods. When you're happy, everything looks green and lush. When you're depressed, the same surroundings look barren and black. As black as your mood.
Another drag. Think rationally. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. Maybe she wouldn't have to face her parents' wrath. Maybe they'd understand. She patted her swollen belly again. Yeah right. Maybe they'd understand....in a million years or so.
She crushed the cigarette on the rock and flicked it down the hill, watching its descent until it finally came to rest a few feet below. A heavier object would fall much faster and farther. She stood up and brushed off her jeans. She patted her tummy again. I'm sorry, she thought.
Then she jumped.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Opera-Singing Banshees
One of my pet peeves (and yes, I have many) are my neighbours. Okay, maybe I shouldn't use the plural for that. The neighbours on one side of my house are dead quiet and are no trouble at all. Well, they wouldn't be, would they? They all reside peacefully in their respective graves. It’s the neighbours on the other side of my house that irk me.
I know I have blogged about them before, but seriously, you just have to meet them to understand.
Meet half-deaf papa neighbour. He's in his mid thirties and can't hear in one ear; hence, screams to hear himself. Meet gun-throat mama neighbour. She's also in her mid thirties and loves to laugh and talk at the same time, hence having to repeat herself several times over in her efforts to be understood. And all this is done at loud-speaker volume for papa neighbour dearest to hear. Now we come to the baby neighbours whom we shall name Banshee and Opera-singer. Both of them, having learnt at a young age that papa dearest cannot hear them unless they talk loudly; have acquired the skillful art of talking at ear-splitting volume. This comes naturally to them now. Banshee is about ten years old and loves to wake up her younger brother (Opera-singer) at 5.30 am, just to hear him sing. His singing, to us, mere mortals, sounds like wailing and bawling but, to the higher beings, must be pure music.
The wailing, er…I meant singing, once started, does not stop until 6 am. This is when gun-throat mama neighbour decides that Banshee should be reprimanded and commences to do so with the utmost volume. Banshee, not one to be outdone, begins a screeching competition with her mother. This in turn, wakes up half-deaf papa neighbour who begins to yell at his tribe for waking him up in the first place.
All this happens just outside my window.
They seem to have invented a game called Screaming Mindlessly. Plot of the game. Pretend that you’re being stabbed over and over again. Rules of the game. Scream as loud as you can.
My mother once complained to them that they were making too much noise. Gun-throat mama neighbour retorted saying, “This is my house and my children and my life. Butt out.”
Okay. So. This is my house and my 2000W audio music system. Deal with it. 6 in the morning did you say? Okay. Metallica should be just fine then. If confrontation doesn’t work, passive aggressive behaviour will. Besides, it’s more fun. Every time they make too much noise, up goes my music volume. See? Fun.
Besides, I have the a feeling that by the time its time for their tenth standard public exams, I will be married and have children of my own. And I will make sure that I play Screaming Mindlessly with my children every damn day during that time.
Revenge is mine!
Long Live Passive Agressiveness.
I know I have blogged about them before, but seriously, you just have to meet them to understand.
Meet half-deaf papa neighbour. He's in his mid thirties and can't hear in one ear; hence, screams to hear himself. Meet gun-throat mama neighbour. She's also in her mid thirties and loves to laugh and talk at the same time, hence having to repeat herself several times over in her efforts to be understood. And all this is done at loud-speaker volume for papa neighbour dearest to hear. Now we come to the baby neighbours whom we shall name Banshee and Opera-singer. Both of them, having learnt at a young age that papa dearest cannot hear them unless they talk loudly; have acquired the skillful art of talking at ear-splitting volume. This comes naturally to them now. Banshee is about ten years old and loves to wake up her younger brother (Opera-singer) at 5.30 am, just to hear him sing. His singing, to us, mere mortals, sounds like wailing and bawling but, to the higher beings, must be pure music.
The wailing, er…I meant singing, once started, does not stop until 6 am. This is when gun-throat mama neighbour decides that Banshee should be reprimanded and commences to do so with the utmost volume. Banshee, not one to be outdone, begins a screeching competition with her mother. This in turn, wakes up half-deaf papa neighbour who begins to yell at his tribe for waking him up in the first place.
All this happens just outside my window.
They seem to have invented a game called Screaming Mindlessly. Plot of the game. Pretend that you’re being stabbed over and over again. Rules of the game. Scream as loud as you can.
My mother once complained to them that they were making too much noise. Gun-throat mama neighbour retorted saying, “This is my house and my children and my life. Butt out.”
Okay. So. This is my house and my 2000W audio music system. Deal with it. 6 in the morning did you say? Okay. Metallica should be just fine then. If confrontation doesn’t work, passive aggressive behaviour will. Besides, it’s more fun. Every time they make too much noise, up goes my music volume. See? Fun.
Besides, I have the a feeling that by the time its time for their tenth standard public exams, I will be married and have children of my own. And I will make sure that I play Screaming Mindlessly with my children every damn day during that time.
Revenge is mine!
Long Live Passive Agressiveness.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Ghosts in the Dark
Imagination is probably your worst enemy when you're terrified.
This is me, sixteen years ago. We'd just moved into our new house and all was well.....until I realized that there was a graveyard just behind my room. Luckily, at that time, there were no windows in my room that overlooked the graveyard so I could just pretend it wasn't there.
My parents took part in a lot of social events and were hardly ever at home....which left me to my own devices. At these times, my neighbours used to baby-sit me. The woman who lived in the first floor of my neighbour's house prided herself on her ability to see ghosts. "I was born with a thin white film over my eyes," she would say, "which enables me to see all kinds of supernatural beings. Why, once, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a man sitting at the edge of my bed and looking down at me! His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He then caught hold of my feet and I screamed and put the lights on and there was nobody there!"
Now, sixteen years later (and in broad daylight) I think that it was probably her spinster fantasies talking, but at that time, this story really creeped me out. The kicker came when we built our first floor a few years later. She called me aside and in a conspiratorial whisper thanked me. I wanted to know what she was thanking me for. She had a vague smile on her face as she confided, "You know, after you built your first floor, you've blocked my view of the graveyard and I haven't had a "visitation" since. Maybe now the ghosts get caught in your house on the way to mine!"
That spooked the living daylights out of me. That’s when my imagination started running riot and the nightmares began. I started imagining ghosts at every dark corner and crevice of my room. I began to avoid coming upstairs alone for now, my new room afforded a splendid view of the graveyard in all its majesty. My parents quickly got tired of escorting me upstairs and my mother bought me a small ornate silver cross. "Keep this in your pocket always and nothing will be able to harm you," she said. It was some small consolation. I began clinging to the cross every time I even thought of coming upstairs and for a time, it worked....until my imagination got the better of me again.
My first funeral. I was in my room when I heard it. The drums beating outside. I looked out and there, just below my window was the funeral procession. About six people were carrying a small coffin while others were beating drums and bawling their lungs out, heading towards the graveyard. I watched, entranced, as the service unfolded and the coffin was buried. That night, after an especially horrifying nightmare, I woke up in a cold sweat. My room was pitch dark. The only thing I could see was the slightly luminescent screen of my computer monitor. But that’s not what spooked me. What spooked me was the feeling that I was no longer alone in my room. As I looked towards the computer, I saw a young girl with shoulder-length silverish hair sitting at my chair and gazing into the computer screen. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, but she wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the computer.
I rushed into my parents room and dived under the covers with them, refusing to step foot into my room until she was gone. My mother dutifully checked my room and reported nothing strange. Or no one strange. But even so, I refused to sleep alone that entire week and had the computer shifted to my parents’ room. My grandfather made it worse by telling me to always check under my bed before going to sleep every night. You never know….
That’s when the silver ornate cross that my mother had given me really came in handy. We were inseparable, even in the daytime. Just having it in my pocket gave me the courage to face dark rooms. I remember imagining hungry monsters waiting in my room, ready to pounce on me. That’s when I’d squeeze the cross in my pocket and lunge at the light switch. The evil would always dissipate when the lights came on.
Then, one day, when I was upstairs alone, I realized that I didn’t have the cross with me. I panicked but at the same time I realized that I had been upstairs for over an hour and nothing bad had happened. No hands had sidled out from under the bed and caught hold of my ankles. No monsters had jumped out at me and said the proverbial “boo.” I was quite safe and okay. I didn’t need the cross for protection. It was all in my head.
From that day on, my fears of the dark slowly began to abate. I would even make fun of my “ghostly” experiences and use them to scare my friends when they came home for sleepovers. After all, the dark terrace with its awesome view of the graveyard was an ideal place for midnight ghost stories.
But even after all these years, I still have the cross. I’ve hung it up on the wall that faces the graveyard. You know, just in case…..
As for my wayward imagination, it still runs riot at the very thought of ghosts and monsters. But I’ve learned to ignore it….just as I’m ignoring the thing staring over my shoulder right now and reading this blog.
This is me, sixteen years ago. We'd just moved into our new house and all was well.....until I realized that there was a graveyard just behind my room. Luckily, at that time, there were no windows in my room that overlooked the graveyard so I could just pretend it wasn't there.
My parents took part in a lot of social events and were hardly ever at home....which left me to my own devices. At these times, my neighbours used to baby-sit me. The woman who lived in the first floor of my neighbour's house prided herself on her ability to see ghosts. "I was born with a thin white film over my eyes," she would say, "which enables me to see all kinds of supernatural beings. Why, once, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a man sitting at the edge of my bed and looking down at me! His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He then caught hold of my feet and I screamed and put the lights on and there was nobody there!"
Now, sixteen years later (and in broad daylight) I think that it was probably her spinster fantasies talking, but at that time, this story really creeped me out. The kicker came when we built our first floor a few years later. She called me aside and in a conspiratorial whisper thanked me. I wanted to know what she was thanking me for. She had a vague smile on her face as she confided, "You know, after you built your first floor, you've blocked my view of the graveyard and I haven't had a "visitation" since. Maybe now the ghosts get caught in your house on the way to mine!"
That spooked the living daylights out of me. That’s when my imagination started running riot and the nightmares began. I started imagining ghosts at every dark corner and crevice of my room. I began to avoid coming upstairs alone for now, my new room afforded a splendid view of the graveyard in all its majesty. My parents quickly got tired of escorting me upstairs and my mother bought me a small ornate silver cross. "Keep this in your pocket always and nothing will be able to harm you," she said. It was some small consolation. I began clinging to the cross every time I even thought of coming upstairs and for a time, it worked....until my imagination got the better of me again.
My first funeral. I was in my room when I heard it. The drums beating outside. I looked out and there, just below my window was the funeral procession. About six people were carrying a small coffin while others were beating drums and bawling their lungs out, heading towards the graveyard. I watched, entranced, as the service unfolded and the coffin was buried. That night, after an especially horrifying nightmare, I woke up in a cold sweat. My room was pitch dark. The only thing I could see was the slightly luminescent screen of my computer monitor. But that’s not what spooked me. What spooked me was the feeling that I was no longer alone in my room. As I looked towards the computer, I saw a young girl with shoulder-length silverish hair sitting at my chair and gazing into the computer screen. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, but she wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the computer.
I rushed into my parents room and dived under the covers with them, refusing to step foot into my room until she was gone. My mother dutifully checked my room and reported nothing strange. Or no one strange. But even so, I refused to sleep alone that entire week and had the computer shifted to my parents’ room. My grandfather made it worse by telling me to always check under my bed before going to sleep every night. You never know….
That’s when the silver ornate cross that my mother had given me really came in handy. We were inseparable, even in the daytime. Just having it in my pocket gave me the courage to face dark rooms. I remember imagining hungry monsters waiting in my room, ready to pounce on me. That’s when I’d squeeze the cross in my pocket and lunge at the light switch. The evil would always dissipate when the lights came on.
Then, one day, when I was upstairs alone, I realized that I didn’t have the cross with me. I panicked but at the same time I realized that I had been upstairs for over an hour and nothing bad had happened. No hands had sidled out from under the bed and caught hold of my ankles. No monsters had jumped out at me and said the proverbial “boo.” I was quite safe and okay. I didn’t need the cross for protection. It was all in my head.
From that day on, my fears of the dark slowly began to abate. I would even make fun of my “ghostly” experiences and use them to scare my friends when they came home for sleepovers. After all, the dark terrace with its awesome view of the graveyard was an ideal place for midnight ghost stories.
But even after all these years, I still have the cross. I’ve hung it up on the wall that faces the graveyard. You know, just in case…..
As for my wayward imagination, it still runs riot at the very thought of ghosts and monsters. But I’ve learned to ignore it….just as I’m ignoring the thing staring over my shoulder right now and reading this blog.
Friday, October 21, 2005
War Torn
Silent ghosts of the past...whispered memories....echoes...it all comes back.
"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."
"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.
I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.
Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.
The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.
A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.
She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.
Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.
And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.
A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.
Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.
"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."
"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.
I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.
Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.
The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.
A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.
She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.
Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.
And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.
A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.
Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Apprentices
This was written sometime in 2001 after my first day of work in an Advertising Agency. Oh, and we (Saps and me) actually had the gall to submit this along with our first assignment, which was to write a synopsis of a book on Account Management. Luckily our boss had a good sense of humour or we would have been fired the very next day!
With hearts beating rapidly, they crept into the office - only to find their boss glaring at them.
"Your assignment," he thundered, dropping a book that could have been a combination of a large sized dictionary and a telephone directory (complete with yellow pages) in front of them.
The book, weighed down with knowledge overflowing from it, sapped their energy as they hobbled over to the desk with it. On opening it, they gasped, for in it, lay a whole array of words strung together to form undecipherable sentences. The more they gazed at it, the more it swam before their eyes, distorting all images of what is and what is not.
Focusing their combined energy on J. W. Thompson's Account Management, they unsuccessfully tried to decode the mysteries of how to become an Account Manager, but no matter how much they tried, the truth always managed to elude them.
Under the watchful gaze of the frowning boss, they pretended to be engrossed in the adventures of the account manager, while all the time contemplating, "Why meeeeeeee?"
As the telephones noisily came to life all around them, they could feel their own life seeping away until, by noon, they were nothing but wilted wall flowers, just sitting there.... withering away...
Finally, their grumbling stomachs brought them out of their stupor and they decided to appease their hunger. The unappetizing food revitalized them and filled them with the desire to catch the bull by its horns, or, rather, the book by its covers and just go for it. So, with light hearts and heavy stomachs, they headed back to the office only to encounter - The Book.
They threw themselves wholeheartedly into their first assignment and, in their (un)deranged state of mind, somehow, to a certain extent, managed to unravel the great mystery of - The Account Manager.
With hearts beating rapidly, they crept into the office - only to find their boss glaring at them.
"Your assignment," he thundered, dropping a book that could have been a combination of a large sized dictionary and a telephone directory (complete with yellow pages) in front of them.
The book, weighed down with knowledge overflowing from it, sapped their energy as they hobbled over to the desk with it. On opening it, they gasped, for in it, lay a whole array of words strung together to form undecipherable sentences. The more they gazed at it, the more it swam before their eyes, distorting all images of what is and what is not.
Focusing their combined energy on J. W. Thompson's Account Management, they unsuccessfully tried to decode the mysteries of how to become an Account Manager, but no matter how much they tried, the truth always managed to elude them.
Under the watchful gaze of the frowning boss, they pretended to be engrossed in the adventures of the account manager, while all the time contemplating, "Why meeeeeeee?"
As the telephones noisily came to life all around them, they could feel their own life seeping away until, by noon, they were nothing but wilted wall flowers, just sitting there.... withering away...
Finally, their grumbling stomachs brought them out of their stupor and they decided to appease their hunger. The unappetizing food revitalized them and filled them with the desire to catch the bull by its horns, or, rather, the book by its covers and just go for it. So, with light hearts and heavy stomachs, they headed back to the office only to encounter - The Book.
They threw themselves wholeheartedly into their first assignment and, in their (un)deranged state of mind, somehow, to a certain extent, managed to unravel the great mystery of - The Account Manager.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
The Darkness and the Light
Once upon a time, two men were imprisoned in two separate, identical rooms for an indefinite period of time. The rooms were pitch dark. There were no light bulbs, no tube lights, no switches, no furniture. They were given one candle each with a book of matches.
The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.
The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.
Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.
The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.
The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.
Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
News Update
I came back to Bangalore about an hour ago. Came home just now. No dogs to welcome me, which is quite strange as they generally wait near the end of the road for us. Mom is in tears and has landed up getting a migraine. She was apparently too upset to go to work yesterday. Apparently Brownie bit someone yesterday and that person lodged a complaint with the Dog Pound. The Pound got a written order to take the dogs away. No amount of begging and pleading worked, although all the neighbours tried. An order was an order. Both Brownie and Bouncer were carted away in the Doggie van.
I don't think they're ever coming back. :(
I don't think they're ever coming back. :(
In A Nutshell
Snail mail. Good news. Acceptance letter. PG Course. Different college. Different city. Different state.
Packing. Tearful goodbyes.
Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!
First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.
Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.
Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!
Second Semester.
Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.
Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.
Christmas at home. Speeding time.
New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.
Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!
Awesome holidays.
Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.
Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.
Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.
Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.
Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.
Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.
Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!
Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.
Blissful independance.
Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.
December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.
Utterly depressing birthday.
Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.
Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.
Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.
Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.
Back to Bangalore.
Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.
Packing. Tearful goodbyes.
Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!
First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.
Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.
Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!
Second Semester.
Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.
Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.
Christmas at home. Speeding time.
New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.
Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!
Awesome holidays.
Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.
Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.
Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.
Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.
Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.
Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.
Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!
Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.
Blissful independance.
Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.
December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.
Utterly depressing birthday.
Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.
Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.
Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.
Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.
Back to Bangalore.
Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Pay-per View
Good morning, sir. I am your guide for today. I will be guiding you through the various intricacies and wonders of ...yes! You guessed it! The passport office! Would you care to join me at the back of this long-ish line? I assure you, sir. It just looks long. Trust me, sir. The wait is much longer.
Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.
No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.
Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?
OH.
Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.
Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!
Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!
Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?
Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???
OH
Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.
No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.
Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?
OH.
Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.
Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!
Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!
Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?
Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???
OH
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