Not autobiographical,no :D Not fiction either,probably.Just a random snippet I wrote on my way to some place,and decided to post,goodness knows Why.The drafts I actually like keep rotting away,meanwhile :/
Putting my face right out of the window isn't such a good idea after all.Because the wind does not make me want to close my eyes with a pretty smile on my face like in the Alto ads.,it rather feels like the after-effect of a hard slap.Too warm for comfort.But then we reach that point where Ballygunge station is right below-and the local train rushes away with people hanging out at precarious angles.And the maal-gadi creeps in,heaped with something which looks like what I've pictured caviar as after reading about it in Asterix.Rail-lines make even dung look ethereal.And I scrunch my nose up and ignore the horrible smell at the highest point of Bijan Setu which always makes me want to throw up,because I'm craning my neck out to see the sad-looking red flag of some independent candidate flopping away by itself on the rooftop of some apartment.The sight of it reassures me,somehow.And,uh,there.We're on the other side,already.There's the market by the road,and there are the silver streamers hanging forlornly from the one branch of the one tree,but there is this vendor who has parked his cycle right below,so it's alright really.Because the cycle,with its assortment of beach balls and buckets and cosmetics and bundles of synthetic sharee-s is a happy blaze of colours,and the silvers streamers look at home.
This is why I never roll up my windows.Because in the course of those 5 minutes,I feel happy enough to wash you clear of all your little sins.In the privacy of my mind,true,but that is the only place where they rankled,as well.Yes,you never do get me,but that's alright.I'll be the stand-by,just the stand-by,never a force-or a mind-to reckon with,to just be there,to be dealt with indulgently by you.You forgive me for being bland.So will I,I Will forgive you -for never having given me credit for any thought.For never allowing for the possibility that I could think,in the first place.
And someday,maybe,when you realise this-I'll demand my respect.And we'll have an argument,or if you prefer it,a discussion-and clear this all up-and maybe shake off the garb of this placid little agreement we have called a relationship.I love you too much to be happy with just this,you see.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The kids of my building are positively evil.
They imitate the cuckoo every time it opens its mouth to coo(?) or cuckoo(??),whatever the verb-form is.They do it pretty well too.Convincingly enough for the cuckoo to fly into a rage Every Single Time.It answers at a higher volume,and the kid answers back,and this strange exchange goes on,with bird and mini-man locked in argument with mounting volume,till,I kid you not,the poor bird loses steam and fairly starts sputtering with rage.Ask Ma,if you don't believe me.This really happens.
I want to report the kids to animal rights activists.Frankly,waking up torn between hilarity and outrage and fairly choking with badly-timed laughter is getting to be a bore.
They imitate the cuckoo every time it opens its mouth to coo(?) or cuckoo(??),whatever the verb-form is.They do it pretty well too.Convincingly enough for the cuckoo to fly into a rage Every Single Time.It answers at a higher volume,and the kid answers back,and this strange exchange goes on,with bird and mini-man locked in argument with mounting volume,till,I kid you not,the poor bird loses steam and fairly starts sputtering with rage.Ask Ma,if you don't believe me.This really happens.
I want to report the kids to animal rights activists.Frankly,waking up torn between hilarity and outrage and fairly choking with badly-timed laughter is getting to be a bore.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I wish I could kick the habit of talking to myself.
No,this is not an attempt at attaining there-are-voices-and-people-peopling-my-brain cooldom.See,these are real people I'm talking about.But imaginary conversations.In which I absolutely sparkle with wit and humour and manage to come up with the most amazing comebacks ever.Most often,these are extended,glow-rious versions of real conversations.Sometimes the sheer brilliance of my too-late repartee amazes me to such an extent that I break off in the middle and start grinning,and keep grinning.Ei je- :D
So back to yesterday.Here I was returning from college,and I got out of the building elevator.While closing the doors,I hadn't realised due to the level of my involvement,that I'd become audible.And there was a building kakima who had lumbered up behind me.
When I turned around,my mouth hung open mid-syllable.She looked elaborately around and over my shoulders and,with a rather angelic smile,said-'Hoe hoe,ei shob boyesh-e'.
But perhaps someday I'll write a book where I'll put in all my ideas andandand become famous for them.Like how,at the highest point of the Gariahat flyover,if you look carefully,you can see it tapering down and meeting the Golpark ground up ahead.And for all the world,the red-and-white striped railing looks like the long neck of a freak-of-the-nature candycane brontosaurus.And then these lumbersome people would talk about how brilliant I always was,instead of passing me off as some kind of a potential teenage delinquent.
But you'd probably be more interested in the red-and-white cotton confections sold at Archies for Valentine's Day.So too bad.I'll never get to gloat over the kakimas.
No,this is not an attempt at attaining there-are-voices-and-people-peopling-my-brain cooldom.See,these are real people I'm talking about.But imaginary conversations.In which I absolutely sparkle with wit and humour and manage to come up with the most amazing comebacks ever.Most often,these are extended,glow-rious versions of real conversations.Sometimes the sheer brilliance of my too-late repartee amazes me to such an extent that I break off in the middle and start grinning,and keep grinning.Ei je- :D
So back to yesterday.Here I was returning from college,and I got out of the building elevator.While closing the doors,I hadn't realised due to the level of my involvement,that I'd become audible.And there was a building kakima who had lumbered up behind me.
When I turned around,my mouth hung open mid-syllable.She looked elaborately around and over my shoulders and,with a rather angelic smile,said-'Hoe hoe,ei shob boyesh-e'.
But perhaps someday I'll write a book where I'll put in all my ideas andandand become famous for them.Like how,at the highest point of the Gariahat flyover,if you look carefully,you can see it tapering down and meeting the Golpark ground up ahead.And for all the world,the red-and-white striped railing looks like the long neck of a freak-of-the-nature candycane brontosaurus.And then these lumbersome people would talk about how brilliant I always was,instead of passing me off as some kind of a potential teenage delinquent.
But you'd probably be more interested in the red-and-white cotton confections sold at Archies for Valentine's Day.So too bad.I'll never get to gloat over the kakimas.
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