Tuesday, March 30


I'm in an universal hate mode. I hate everything and everyone.  

I obsess over the Investigative report so much that I dreamt about getting this big scoop and everything, only to wake up and realise that I have nothing. I have cruel dreams like this all the time. My worst however is when I'm asleep on the train to Chennai and I dream that I'm coming back to Hyd for good and then, I wake up to see the squiggly wiggly letters that can only be tamil. It's so excruciatingly painful, I can't tell you. 

King Kong says I might be in the middle of a quarter life crisis. I think I'm in the midst of an existentialist angst. The same one I've been in since I was 14. 

I hate that I met the gang once, ladies and gentlemen, once in two and half years! And, might not again for twice that long. I wonder why I even bother. 

I say, all guys should wear across their hearts those trial-room thingies that say whether they are vacant/occupied.  At least then they'll know whichever f***ing side they are on so that idiots like me can stop falling for all the wrong ones. 

I don't want to be placed. I HATE news writing. The idea of working for a newspaper makes me want to search for a well that's not too smelly or depleted and jump in. I don't think I  want to work. Or study. Or get married. Or any of those things. 

I wanna go to a cooking school. Read pointlessly. Write stupid things. And watch movies. And learn kick boxing. And become pretty. And travel to a Himalayan retreat where I will have to meditate, and go seven days without speaking! Wow. See those are the kind of things I wanna do. Now, why is that so hard to understand ? And, so bloody unpardonable?

I hate this the most. Not having the guts to do the things I want.  

Right. So, I'm just going to be go back to worrying about that lame 1500 word paper on post-modernism and fascism that I gotta give in. When all I can think about is why I get the feeling that I'm going to die on the train to chennai tomorrow without doing any of these things. 

That, I guess, is my cue to stop writing.  A good night to you all.  Yes, those will be my last words.

Monday, March 29

Observations I'm making when I'm not sleeping

1.  All men are gay until proven otherwise.

2.  There's nothing like the look on your mom's face when she's just seen you watch dirty dancing and then you tell her that you're going dancing. 

3.  When I find out that the guy I like has a girl,  I don't hate the guy, I start liking the girl.  Talk about hopeless.   

4.  Assignments are unnatural. Surely, man was created with a higher purpose than to argue why one -ism cannot replace another?  

5. A strange foreboding that I'm going to ape the Chicago cousin and marry a Tambrahm. Venda god, venda!  Don't let it come true. Not that. 

6.  Switchboards are evil. They make you feel like an intruder in your own house. 

7.  How do I find out the one thing I want?  And, not the hundred things I don't? 

8. Wolf is a mega cute techie from Delhi going to the States to become a corporate cockroach. What a waste.

9.  I'm going back to Chennai to sit at placements for a job I don't want and a degree I have no use for. Yuck. 

10.  Not being able to sleep before 6 A.M every morning is turning me into an incomprehensible but certifiable nut-case. 

Friday, March 19

Martians and Nightmares

Do you believe in Karma? No? Well, you should. Because I do. Strongly.

I laughed at people who had boring topics to do for their dissertations. Now, they are all going to be doing fine.  No one cares about those topics, no one even wants to read 'em.  Even if the evaluators do, by the time they get to the end, they're going to be so out of it, they'll remember just the A of the alphabet and give them that. 

But, I couldn't choose something like that. Like the art of face reading, advantages of fish spas. sexual patterns of earthworms. Or why humans can eat dogs, is earth really round or could it be flat, should garlands be made of 1000 rupee notes or 10 rupee coins?  


I had to go and choose Michael Jackson -- the one celebrity in the world you'll love or hate but are incapable of being neutral about.  And, the dissertation went to the one person in the entire world I prayed for weeks it wouldn't go to -- The Martian. He's from outer space. There's almost nothing he doesn't know about. In the off chance that there is, he'll look it up. Not how like you and I earthlings would look it up, a glance in the Wikipedia or something; no, sir, not these Martians. 

They volley satellite signals with their counterparts across all planets in the galaxy, (they recognise Pluto as a democratic republic even if Earth doesn't) urging their comrades to look up all recorded files about the subject since the beginning of time from hieroglyphics to the yet to be written records (including the back up files of the crystals stolen by Lex Luthor) and cross check them with their records at home base. Then they transmit these gazillion Terabyte packets back to Earth through the Martian's own laptop with endnotes citing related articles on how-to-deal-with-suicidal/homicidal-students-after-Martians-grade-their-dissertation-papers.

I have nightmares about the Martian.  Like in the Minority Report, I can see him on a I-wall in my head - hawk-eyeing every misplaced comma, every undotted i and every uncrossed t, every word, sentence and line. Every flaw, every loophole, every error. 

Be that as it may, considering that it's out of my hands, now I have new ones about the viva voce. 

The Martian: Why this fellow Michael Jackson?

Me:  I like his hat. Nice, no?

The Martian: Why should I read your dissertation? 

Me: 'Coz you can't do anything else with it? 

The Martian: Why is it so vague?

Me: It's strictly on a need-to-know basis. 

The Martian: Why is so badly written?

Me: Ask the guy who wrote it.  

The Martian: So, do you think Michael Jackson likes young boys? 

Me: I like young boys. Don't you? 

The Martian: Was there something you were trying to convey? 
Me: Yes. I don't like dissertations. 

The Martian : I'm giving you an F

Me: A+ ? 

The Martian: C+

Me: A-

The Martian: C

Me: A

The Martian: B+

Me: B+

*** Notice Board... Grouchy: F ***

Me: I thought we had a deal?

The Martin: In your dreams. 

Wednesday, March 10

The Blue Mug: life and other things

Why I am subjecting myself to this when I just finished writing a 1000 word chapter for my dissertation and have a presentation in the class on climate change tomorrow, is just one of those random things I do in life but can't explain why.  It must be sheer boredom, I reckon.

The most interesting thing that happened this week was going to the play The Blug Mug, standing next to the stars and trying to be cool. It is a must-watch, the play. It's been a while since I saw a play that was genuinely funny, simplistic, and well.. real. This one was all of that. Ranvir Shorey is, by the way, everything that we girls think he is. What is it about guys who smoke that appeals to me so much, anyway? I must be deeply disturbed if that's what turns me on. 

Wait, I'm still so much better than Ha, who seems so starved that she says she's seeing her crush in this little boy she teaches in her class. That totally cracked me up. Now, there's disturbed if you've ever known one. Of course, I'm kidding. She's a total sweetheart.  

 Let's see, the most interesting thing before that was I think, going to Bella Ciao with RR. Doing the alfresco thing, talking as we always do of love and life, when he said, "above all, she has to be loyal; everything else I'll be okay with."  She, being the woman of his life. For just that, I confer upon him honorary leohood. For a Arian, he surprises me over and over. 

Surprises, well yes, that reminds me of a rather unpleasant one. Now, I have this habit of falling for guys I've never met. They are so much more interesting that way. So anyway, whether they are are not, I just build them up in my head to the point where they hardly resemble the real one. And then I see the non-virtual version and poof! It's all gone. Everything.  They will more often than not, resemble and act like a cross between a groundhog and an aye aye.  Another thing that goes onto the list

And more in sad news, I think I have managed to turn escapism into an art form. Flummox derives great amusement from my plight. It's tragic, really -- being at the receiving end of someones feelings you don't return in the least, the accompanied feeling of guilt, the discomfort, the helplessness, it's just too sad. My suggestion, don't tell anyone, ever. 

With that, I think it's enough said. Back to dissertation and climate change. 

Next week I will be reporting live from home! So long, soldiers.

Pic courtesy: