Hmmm...
That, by the way, is the sound of a thought buzzing in my head.
Like the proverbial bee in the bonnet
It buzzes.
Softly but surely,
It buzzes.
And when it does,
you may be busy
But oh oh oh,
You just heard the buzz.
Showing posts with label Just like that. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just like that. Show all posts
Friday, July 06, 2012
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A just like that poem for a forever friend
just sitting here quietly
working on something
not required urgently
when by me there swung
a few minutes free and footloose
longing to be used and to the full
for something oh anything I choose
things gay and happy, bright and joyful
on the wind flying came a simple thought
of a poem for a sometime lover forever friend
took but an instant it may be good or maybe not
and it would have gone on but here found the end
working on something
not required urgently
when by me there swung
a few minutes free and footloose
longing to be used and to the full
for something oh anything I choose
things gay and happy, bright and joyful
on the wind flying came a simple thought
of a poem for a sometime lover forever friend
took but an instant it may be good or maybe not
and it would have gone on but here found the end
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Variations on a theme
The phone rings
Me: Hello?
Disembodied Voice : Ma’am, I am calling from ABCD Bank, is your name Orange?
Me: (Warily) Yes.
DV: You have an account with us and you are now eligible for a PLATINUM CREDIT CARD (Capitals used for the extra emphasis in her voice)
Me : But I already have one.
DV : You do? (Silence for a few seconds) Are you sure? I am talking about a PLATINUM CREDIT CARD.
Me: Yes, I am sure. Thank you so much for calling. Have a nice day. (Well, I didn’t say that, but I was quite nice about it).
The conversation detailed above became a variation on a theme.
The phone rings
Me: Hello?
Disembodied Voice : Ma’am, I am calling from ABCD Bank, is your name Orange?
Me: (Warily) Yes.
DV: You have an account with us and you are now eligible for a PLATINUM CREDIT CARD (Capitals used for the extra emphasis in her voice)
Me : But I already have one. AND PLEASE DON’T CALL ME AGAIN FOR THIS.
Another variation on the theme.
The phone rings
Me: Hello?
Disembodied Voice : Ma’am, I am calling from ABCD Bank, is your name Orange?
Me: (Warily) I HAVE A CREDIT CARD! AND I DON’T NEED ANOTHER – PLATINUM, TITANIUM OR SELENIUM!
AND PLEASE DON’T CALL ME AGAIN FOR THIS.
Finally, after speaking to an officer ( a seemingly sensible man) at the branch, I get my point across. They don’t call me regarding credit cards anymore.
BUT..
Today, the phone rang.
Me: Hello?
Disembodied Voice : Ma’am, I am calling from ABCD Bank, is your name Orange?
Me: (Still a little wary)Yes.
DV : You have an account with us and you are now eligible for a GOLD DEBIT CARD!
Me: AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
On my bookshelf
I used to collect books. I still do, but not as indiscriminately as before. It's my addiction. Buying books. Reading books. Carrying books. Sleeping with books. Stacking books. Smelling books. I do it all. Sometimes I stand in front of my bookshelf and just look at my books.
The other weekend I was at home and spent some time going through some of the shelves. You can make out my favourite books from figuring out how many copies I have of them.
Let's take Wuthering Heights, for example. At last count, I have five. There's the hardcover edition that I found at home when I was about twelve. It must have belonged to my mother, I guess. Or my father. Or maybe, one of my aunts, the eldest one, in all probability. However hard I try, I can't really see either of my other aunts reading Emily Bronte. And as for the family's favourite aunt, well, I never knew her since she died long before I was thought of, but from all I've heard of her, one thing is certain. She would have thought it an odd story and would have wondered why somebody did not discipline Cathy and Heathcliff. She was a disciplinarian. My father obviously adored her. My mother definitely feels that she missed out on a sister-in-law with whom she could have shared a common understanding of life. I wonder. My mother understood my passion for Wuthering Heights. I'm not sure my aunt would have. But I digress. This post is about books, not aunts. And specifically about the five copies of Wuthering Heights that I own.
The second copy I own is the book I bought during my college days. Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights was part of the syllabus and required reading. You can imagine my delight at discovering that fact. I read and re-read that book over ten times that semester. And every time I read it, I made notes by the side of the text. This is not something I do as a practice. I do not underline words (unless it is Chaucer/ Shakespeare/ Eliot and I feel the need to go back to the word later), write short explanatory notes in the margin, mark annotations for detailed study or inscribe the meanings of word next to the text. However, this copy of Wuthering Heights is completely covered with scribblings of the above kind. To add to it, all my teenage angst was expressed in then deep, now highly amusing, observations, jotted in the margin.
The third copy belonged to my best friend in college. It's wrapped neatly with the picture of a mountain. We were sitting in her room one day (I used to spend a lot of my time at her place. Still do, when I do go to Chennai.) and she picked it up and handed it over. Why do I still have it? Well, simply because she gave it to me. Some people and books are like that. They just are a part of your life. They don't need a reason.
The fourth copy was the one I bought to replace the scribbled-over one. Well, not exactly replace. I needed a less thumbed through copy for reading. Did I mention that I read this book over and over? I read it once in about 2 or 3 years now.
The fifth copy was the one I bought at Delhi airport when my flight was delayed by many hours. I was bored and angry and restless and when I had paced the length of the hall for the nth time, I decided that I needed to read Wuthering Heights. Most fortunately, the airport shop had a copy. The cover was slightly too glossy and romantic for my liking, but still, nothing can really lessen the charms of this story. And so picked up my fifth copy. This is the one I carry with me.
I see myself buying another one in the near future. On a visit home, I left my copy behind. And with me, when the urge to read Emily Bronte descends, it's overwhelming. If I can't get my hands on a copy immediately, I will end up buying one. So the chances of my owning a sixth copy are very high.
This is precisely why I have become more careful about buying books. In addition to buying new books, I find myself buying additional copies of books I already have. Sometimes I buy a new book only to realise that I had bought it the previous year and still not got around to reading it. I owned two copies of the Time Traveller's Wife before I actually read it. Maybe I should just read more often.
The other weekend I was at home and spent some time going through some of the shelves. You can make out my favourite books from figuring out how many copies I have of them.
Let's take Wuthering Heights, for example. At last count, I have five. There's the hardcover edition that I found at home when I was about twelve. It must have belonged to my mother, I guess. Or my father. Or maybe, one of my aunts, the eldest one, in all probability. However hard I try, I can't really see either of my other aunts reading Emily Bronte. And as for the family's favourite aunt, well, I never knew her since she died long before I was thought of, but from all I've heard of her, one thing is certain. She would have thought it an odd story and would have wondered why somebody did not discipline Cathy and Heathcliff. She was a disciplinarian. My father obviously adored her. My mother definitely feels that she missed out on a sister-in-law with whom she could have shared a common understanding of life. I wonder. My mother understood my passion for Wuthering Heights. I'm not sure my aunt would have. But I digress. This post is about books, not aunts. And specifically about the five copies of Wuthering Heights that I own.
The second copy I own is the book I bought during my college days. Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights was part of the syllabus and required reading. You can imagine my delight at discovering that fact. I read and re-read that book over ten times that semester. And every time I read it, I made notes by the side of the text. This is not something I do as a practice. I do not underline words (unless it is Chaucer/ Shakespeare/ Eliot and I feel the need to go back to the word later), write short explanatory notes in the margin, mark annotations for detailed study or inscribe the meanings of word next to the text. However, this copy of Wuthering Heights is completely covered with scribblings of the above kind. To add to it, all my teenage angst was expressed in then deep, now highly amusing, observations, jotted in the margin.
The third copy belonged to my best friend in college. It's wrapped neatly with the picture of a mountain. We were sitting in her room one day (I used to spend a lot of my time at her place. Still do, when I do go to Chennai.) and she picked it up and handed it over. Why do I still have it? Well, simply because she gave it to me. Some people and books are like that. They just are a part of your life. They don't need a reason.
The fourth copy was the one I bought to replace the scribbled-over one. Well, not exactly replace. I needed a less thumbed through copy for reading. Did I mention that I read this book over and over? I read it once in about 2 or 3 years now.
The fifth copy was the one I bought at Delhi airport when my flight was delayed by many hours. I was bored and angry and restless and when I had paced the length of the hall for the nth time, I decided that I needed to read Wuthering Heights. Most fortunately, the airport shop had a copy. The cover was slightly too glossy and romantic for my liking, but still, nothing can really lessen the charms of this story. And so picked up my fifth copy. This is the one I carry with me.
I see myself buying another one in the near future. On a visit home, I left my copy behind. And with me, when the urge to read Emily Bronte descends, it's overwhelming. If I can't get my hands on a copy immediately, I will end up buying one. So the chances of my owning a sixth copy are very high.
This is precisely why I have become more careful about buying books. In addition to buying new books, I find myself buying additional copies of books I already have. Sometimes I buy a new book only to realise that I had bought it the previous year and still not got around to reading it. I owned two copies of the Time Traveller's Wife before I actually read it. Maybe I should just read more often.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bees saal baad, I say, is a long long time
This weekend, I met old friends, walked in the rain, sat by a mountain stream, splashed my feet in rock cold water, squelched mud between my toes, enjoyed the awesome fish curry and the whiskey, stayed up the whole night chatting of the most inconsequential things, counted the stars, watched a deer in the river at dawn and without any doubt, had an amazing day enjoying old friendships.
From the moment I saw the group lolling on the lawns and heard the familiar cackle, I knew it was going to be an awesome day. Caught ip with a whole lot of old friends.
There was the round tubby one, with his trademark cackle which has come to symbolise the absolute and near decadent delight of our get-togethers.
There was the solid, good-looking, successful one, still singing through the night, still smoking an unending line of cigarettes. He has definitely changed, grown as a person and become one of the nicest people I know.
Then we have the enthusiastic one, who showed all of us how to really enjoy a reunion. It's not about what you can't do, but all about what you can do. Drop all inhibitions, down just enough beers to be happy, and belt out songs at the top of one's voice. He's an inspiration to the rest of us.
The real thanks for this, and any reunion we ever have are due to the persevering, steady one. She's the one who takes the effort to wake us up every time we drop into silence. Every time the reunion mails disappeared from our mailboxes, she kicked us hard enough to wake us up and get moving again. Luckily for the rest of us, she cared enough and didn't give up on us.
It was great to see the smiling, gentle one, still full of her never-say-die spirit. I would never have planned to stay up the whole night if it hadn't been for her and chatting and the memory of catching up while watching the pre-dawn skies is something I'll always treasure.
The pretty elegant one is still the same. She even made swinging on a tree look like a graceful dance. And she doesn't look a day older than when we studied together.
The married ones, obviously still in love. The guy, as mad as ever and the girl has retained her tremendous powers of observation and her talent for quick repartee.Her rapier sharp tongue kept us laughing almost throughout.
The responsible class rep as always, responsible.
The well loved gentleman, had pulled out a 'reunion special version' the last time around. This time the gentleman was back in residence, and very enjoyable it was to have him back.
The talkative one, has become quiet. But still remains a lot of fun.
The government guy who came in a state car. Well, he achieved his ambition and managed to stay his gentle self.
The moody one, who has developed a talent for taking the most speaking photographs. Each shot was framed with precision while the subject was totally unaware and with such amazing results.
The martial one, seems to have discarded the fire but kept the fit body. Still very quiet, but no longer uncomfortable around people.
The organising one, who organised the best ever reunion. Self effacing and quiet but supremely organised.
The ones who didn't make it and were missed.
We met for the first time twenty years ago, and it was great to catch up on each other's lives and to see how much we have changed and how much we have not. We've all grown a little older and lot madder. Which, of course, made the reunion a great deal of fun.
Monday, November 24, 2008
The aftermath
Wait upon the sun
Free- fall the shadow
Feed the fish for fun
And walk the dog, do.
The phone rings in the jungle, see
While the major-domo’s a monkey
Oh it is, it is, it’s him
The mojo jojo jomo jim.
No, don’t ask me what it means. I have no idea. It's just the aftermath of reading mac's poem. It wrote itself. I make no claims and certainly offer no excuses for its nonsense. Apologies, Jim, I don’t know how you came to be part of it.
Free- fall the shadow
Feed the fish for fun
And walk the dog, do.
The phone rings in the jungle, see
While the major-domo’s a monkey
Oh it is, it is, it’s him
The mojo jojo jomo jim.
No, don’t ask me what it means. I have no idea. It's just the aftermath of reading mac's poem. It wrote itself. I make no claims and certainly offer no excuses for its nonsense. Apologies, Jim, I don’t know how you came to be part of it.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
So did I
Get locked out, I mean. This is what mac and little cat did to me with their posts about being locked in and out respectively. They sent out all those lock vibes into the universe and of course, any such vibe would head my way.
So here's what happened on Monday night, or maybe I should say Tuesday morning, since it was well past 3 am when I finally finished up at the office and headed home. It was 4 am by the time I got home and sleepily fumbled in my bag for my keys. And the realisation that I didn't have my keys dawned on me at about the same moment that I also realised I was in a situation precariously similar to mac's.
To cut a long story short, after calling up the office and confirming that the key was on my desk, and after getting myself a cab and heading back to office in double quick time, I managed to get into my apartment before disaster struck.
Yes I did!
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
SecuRed
All this security and checking that one has to go through these days, even if one is just shopping, or waiting to see a movie, had me thinking back to the days when I first came across the manifestation of advanced levels of insecurity.
It was a couple of months after the infamous 9/11 incident. I was at the airport, waiting to catch a flight to catch a meeting at a neighbouring city. Standing in the check-in line, I realised that the gentleman ahead of me was my client, who was also headed for the same meeting as I was. Naturally, we struck up a conversation, checked in together (woe! woe! woe!) and headed for security clearance together. He sailed through but I didn't. And why not? Because something suspicious showed up in the baggage x-ray. The officer pointed to an odd-shaped object on the screen and asked me what it was. I couldn't figure it out. I looked at it from every point of view, tilted my head to the side, scrutinised it carefully, and thought very very hard about the stuff that I had packed.
In my head, I replayed the ten minutes it had taken me to pack the overnight bag. Yes, I had thrown in a change for the next day, my pajamas, a towel, shoes, a toothbrush and so on. I had not packed a shampoo or a perfume or nail clippers or scissors or any sharp object or anything of an inflammable/ explosive nature. I was pretty sure of this. You see, as a responsible citizen, I knew where my duty lay, and I would rather put up with the inconvenience of not carrying a deo rather than endangering national security. And I explained this politely to the very handsome security officer. Again and again. To no avail.
By this time, my client came back to find me. And bless his soul, stood by my side in silent support while I continued with my explanations. Finally, the officer told me in uncompromising and forbidding tones that “We will have to search your baggage". Well, I was frantic by this point and just wanted the whole thing to be solved. So, I opened up the bag and with a dramatic flourish said “Go ahead, search!". And they did. Oh, how they did.
Do you know how they do a baggage search? They take everything out of your bag and spread it out on a table for everyone to see. Everyone. Especially your client - whom you have only met once before - and who cannot contain his amusement (or whatever) at your bright red lacy lingerie which has made its appearance on the table. The security officer too took a break from his search to give me the once over and I promise you, I could see the thoughts that were running through his head. By this point, the colour of my face matched my lingerie and I was wishing and looking around for somewhere to hide. When it turned out that the odd-shaped object which had begun the whole torture was a hook on said lingerie, I actually heard my client snort while attempting to subdue a guffaw.
I re-packed my bag, assisted by a very helpful, very amused security officer and made my way to the aircraft in stony silence, where I then proceeded to endure a one hour flight sitting next to a client who kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I think he saw red lacy lingerie whenever he met me.
The next time I travelled, I checked in my overnighter and carried nothing as carry-on baggage.
It was a couple of months after the infamous 9/11 incident. I was at the airport, waiting to catch a flight to catch a meeting at a neighbouring city. Standing in the check-in line, I realised that the gentleman ahead of me was my client, who was also headed for the same meeting as I was. Naturally, we struck up a conversation, checked in together (woe! woe! woe!) and headed for security clearance together. He sailed through but I didn't. And why not? Because something suspicious showed up in the baggage x-ray. The officer pointed to an odd-shaped object on the screen and asked me what it was. I couldn't figure it out. I looked at it from every point of view, tilted my head to the side, scrutinised it carefully, and thought very very hard about the stuff that I had packed.
In my head, I replayed the ten minutes it had taken me to pack the overnight bag. Yes, I had thrown in a change for the next day, my pajamas, a towel, shoes, a toothbrush and so on. I had not packed a shampoo or a perfume or nail clippers or scissors or any sharp object or anything of an inflammable/ explosive nature. I was pretty sure of this. You see, as a responsible citizen, I knew where my duty lay, and I would rather put up with the inconvenience of not carrying a deo rather than endangering national security. And I explained this politely to the very handsome security officer. Again and again. To no avail.
By this time, my client came back to find me. And bless his soul, stood by my side in silent support while I continued with my explanations. Finally, the officer told me in uncompromising and forbidding tones that “We will have to search your baggage". Well, I was frantic by this point and just wanted the whole thing to be solved. So, I opened up the bag and with a dramatic flourish said “Go ahead, search!". And they did. Oh, how they did.
Do you know how they do a baggage search? They take everything out of your bag and spread it out on a table for everyone to see. Everyone. Especially your client - whom you have only met once before - and who cannot contain his amusement (or whatever) at your bright red lacy lingerie which has made its appearance on the table. The security officer too took a break from his search to give me the once over and I promise you, I could see the thoughts that were running through his head. By this point, the colour of my face matched my lingerie and I was wishing and looking around for somewhere to hide. When it turned out that the odd-shaped object which had begun the whole torture was a hook on said lingerie, I actually heard my client snort while attempting to subdue a guffaw.
I re-packed my bag, assisted by a very helpful, very amused security officer and made my way to the aircraft in stony silence, where I then proceeded to endure a one hour flight sitting next to a client who kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I think he saw red lacy lingerie whenever he met me.
The next time I travelled, I checked in my overnighter and carried nothing as carry-on baggage.
Friday, July 04, 2008
In camera
I need a camera. You know, one of those things that you point at people and shoot their pictures with. Before any of you decided to point it out, yes, I know it's not difficult to get one of them. But, and I tell you this in deepest confidence, I have convinced myself that I'm not tech savvy and therefore will definitely push the one button or twirl the one knob which will cause the camera to self-destruct, blowing me up along with it.
This is what led to this:
Me, sauntering down Brigade Road talking to myself (I do this a lot, talking to myself, I mean. Not sauntering down Brigade Road alone.) Oh there's a shop which sells cameras. Maybe I should buy one. Hmmm. Maybe I should go in there and look at them. (And so, in I go)
The salesman takes in my posture (one foot out of the shop) and correctly deduces that he's got half a second to grab me and my attention. He goes about this by lining up a whole line of cameras on the counter, talking nineteen to the dozen about features and apertures and exposures, scaring me into bolting right out of the shop and pelting down the pavement.
So here I am, without a camera. And I do need one.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Blog rolled and flattened
Someone blogrolled me.
I'm horrified. Truly. Horrified, aghast, dismayed, stunned and distressed.
Why, I hear you ask.
Because the someone blogrolled me with a comment that my blog has "campy, cheesy humour".
campy adj. Having deliberately artificial, vulgar, banal, or affectedly humorous qualities or style.
cheesy adj. of very poor quality; flimsy.
So there's my dear blog (I'm quite fond of it) being described as being funny but of very poor quality and humorous in an artificial, vulgar, banal or affected way.
Sigh. Deep sigh.
I'm devastated.
I may never write again.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Nom d'un nom d'un nom
While chatting with a friend today, for some reason, we got onto the topic of names, specifically Mallu names. And we had a good time laughing at the strange logic or lack of it that seizes parents in our part of the world when naming kids.
And it reminded me of the time I was introduced to a bright, and personable young man by a friend. Now, the friend, in general had a stentorian voice, so I was quite puzzled when he mumbled the guy's name under his breath. He went, "Sh..mumblemumblehumhawcough...y Xxxx." How was I supposed to call the guy this totally incomprehensible name? Anyway, I stuck my hand out for a handshake and said, "Fling, Orange Fling, pleased to meet you... ?" (You know, like James Bond introduces himself, "Craig, Daniel Craig." Just like that.) The idea being that he would also say "Xxxx, whatever Xxxx '. Else, I could just see myself on the phone the next day, going "May I please speak to Sh..mumblemumblehumhawcough...y Xxxx?" No luck, though. He just shook my hand and smiled. It was a nice smile, believe me. I would have so liked to figure out what was going on behind that smile. But by then, I was resigned to calling him Mr. Xxxx, the next time we met. And I know as well as the next person that calling someone Mr. Anything, is just not conducive to anything but seriousness. I was so disappointed.
Maybe it was the expression on my face that made him decide to cheer me up. I'll never know. What I do know, is that just as he was leaving, he reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, drew out a visiting card and handed it to me. At that point in time, there was this fad of accepting visiting cards like the Japanese do, with both hands and a deep bow. My bows were never very deep and this time was not an exception. But as I bowed over the card, I took a quick peek at the name, and almost fell over. There in big bold capital letters was his name:
SHITTY XXXX
What, oh what, were his parents thinking when they named him?
Thursday, June 07, 2007
From top to bottom
Shain the time traveller, transported me to a different time and a different place. I am now lost in the late 80's ( the decade, not the latitude) wandering through MCC memories. When I escape those, WCC comes floating by. Either way, I end up here.
Okay. This is an MCC story (Oh Lord, thank you for having given me the opportunity to study in a college where I had so many laughs.)
MA III Sem. Subject : The Essay. Activity : Reading aloud. Professor : Long haired professor who impreses all girls (pretty or otherwise) by recounting story of barefoot walk in the Himalayas. As evidence to convince pretty girls, when Guys 1 to 17 laugh and shrug off story as exaggeration, carries in wallet a photograph of self sans sandals standing in (or is it on?) snow on Himalayan slope. Girls always deeply impressed as this gets them better marks. LHP also into intonation, inflexion, and attempts at embarassing prettily blushing girls.
Flashback to previous class: Girl1 (it was always Girl1, I wonder why?) reads. As the bell rings, she has reached sentence two of a paragraph, which is at the top of a page. Class marks spot, and disperses.
Back to incident at hand. Class begins. Girl 1 resumes reading where she had left off. ( Third sentence of Paragraph ).
LHP : Girl1, begin at the beginning of the paragraph.(which is the last line of the previous page.)
Girl 1: But sir, we had reached the top.
LHP (with feeling, yes, with lots of feeling and one very strategic glance at certain portion of Girl1's anatomy) : Yes ma, but I find that I infintely prefer the bottoms.
Girl1: blushes prettily.
P.S. I reiterate. I was not Girl 1.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
One summer day, many years ago
Circa 1984. Summer vacations. Joyous siblings and cousins filled the house with noise and laughter. Angel mother suggested a day out sight-seeing. for all children, saying , "it's a historic city. go see the historic monuments." And thus, we set out and decided to take a boat ride across the harbour to see the oldest European church in India. And the 400 year old synagogue.
It was a lovely ride. We had lovely companions. Two lovely, really lovely, Aussie men. Large and friendly and carrying umbrellas. We looked a question at the umbrellas and they answered by rolling their eyes at a distant cloud. The third group on the upper deck was a family of four from the neighbouring state. Everyone smiled at everyone else and once off the boat, stuck together in a loosely defined large group.
Of course, it started to rain. And the Aussies, being the usual friendly Aussie types, offered to share their umbrellas with the family. The little girl was fine, she just smiled a big smile and looked up adoringly at her Aussie everytime he spoke to her. The mother - oh dear, was a totally different story. Everytime her Aussie addressed her in his very pronounced drawl, she got a hunted look and about three questions into the rain-walk, started to remind me forcibly of a doe about to flee. The conversation went somewhat like this:
Aussie Q : Dreadful rain, eh?
Scared Doe: Huh? (Looks around fearfully)
Aussie Q: Where are you from?
Scared Doe : HUH? (hitches up saree in readiness to flee)
Aussie Q :(Realising that he had to ask her something that would interest her) So, of all the places you've been to, which is your favourite?
Scared Doe: ( latching on to "favourite" and heaving a sigh of relief that he had finally asked her something she understood) Masala Dosa!
All children : (collapse by road-side laughing)
Aussie Q proceeds to petrify the doe by asking her detailed questions about the location, climate and so on about what he feels must be a truly interesting place.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Love and communication
Shain seems to have set off something with his MCC tag. Here I am now, MCC stories pouring out of me. It's even set the WCC stories flowing.
This one's an MCC story.
MA English First Sem class. A professor on the brink of retirement (one of the best profs ever) was keeping us occupied with a session on intonation. inflexion, expression and so on. Basically, trying to figure out whether we could communicate. He, could. And how!
POTBOR to the class in general : So, let's see, I think each of you should try and start with one sentence. Like so. (And proceeds to look deeply into the eyes of Girl1 while intoning with feeling) You have such pretty eyes.
Girl1 proceeds to blush prettily and cast her eyes down innocently.
Girls2,3&4 giggle.
Girls 5,6 & 7 smile wickedly, planning their sentences in their head. Girls 5,6 & 7 were really good girls. They just liked to be seen to be wicked.
Guys 1 through 17 snigger.
POTBOR to Girl1 : Now you try.
Girl 1: (Looking up at him shyly and innocently, intones with feeling) I love you.
Girls 2through 4 giggle. Uncontrollably.
Girls 5 through 7 gasp like idiots. This, even they would not have thought of.
Guys 1 through 17 sit up and look at Girl1 closely, as if seeing her for the first time.
POTBOR : (managing to control the blush at collar-level moves even closer, drops his voice a notch, and intones. With feeling. Oh yes, that was feeling, all right) Once more, please.
Class bursts out laughing. Girl1 blushes prettily - again - and enjoys all the attention. POTBOR smiles indulgently. And changes topic of lesson. Immediately.
Girl1 is asked out on dates by Guys 1, 5, 8, 14 and 17.
P.S. I was not Girl1.
This one's an MCC story.
MA English First Sem class. A professor on the brink of retirement (one of the best profs ever) was keeping us occupied with a session on intonation. inflexion, expression and so on. Basically, trying to figure out whether we could communicate. He, could. And how!
POTBOR to the class in general : So, let's see, I think each of you should try and start with one sentence. Like so. (And proceeds to look deeply into the eyes of Girl1 while intoning with feeling) You have such pretty eyes.
Girl1 proceeds to blush prettily and cast her eyes down innocently.
Girls2,3&4 giggle.
Girls 5,6 & 7 smile wickedly, planning their sentences in their head. Girls 5,6 & 7 were really good girls. They just liked to be seen to be wicked.
Guys 1 through 17 snigger.
POTBOR to Girl1 : Now you try.
Girl 1: (Looking up at him shyly and innocently, intones with feeling) I love you.
Girls 2through 4 giggle. Uncontrollably.
Girls 5 through 7 gasp like idiots. This, even they would not have thought of.
Guys 1 through 17 sit up and look at Girl1 closely, as if seeing her for the first time.
POTBOR : (managing to control the blush at collar-level moves even closer, drops his voice a notch, and intones. With feeling. Oh yes, that was feeling, all right) Once more, please.
Class bursts out laughing. Girl1 blushes prettily - again - and enjoys all the attention. POTBOR smiles indulgently. And changes topic of lesson. Immediately.
Girl1 is asked out on dates by Guys 1, 5, 8, 14 and 17.
P.S. I was not Girl1.
The rain, the jasmine and the romance of the flute
Last night, as I stepped out of the house, the scent of jasmine came drifting in from my brother’s garden. Fragrance, they say, is one of the most powerful aids to recalling long forgotten memories. I was transported back in time, to one of the most beautiful nights I've ever known.
It happened while I was a student at MCC. We had an active Spic Macay chapter at college and so we used to have all the big names in classical music & dance visiting us for lec-dems. On the night in question, we had Hari Prasad Chaurasia and such an evening it turned out to be. For one thing, it was in one of the open halls at night. For another, the guy organising it had a brainwave and moved out all the furniture so all of us were sitting on the floor on dhurries. It was raining, the jasmine was flowering and - providence! the lights went out. I say providence now, but at that point, all I felt was impatience. No lights, no performance and awww, I didn't want to lose out on a chance to listen to 'a great'. But providence it was, and so there we were, about 25 of us in the darkness - Pandit Chaurasia, someone accompanying him softly on a ghatam and the most heavenly music from his flute. He was to have given us a lec-dem for half an hour, but he just smiled and started to play.
If people like me with no musical sense could sense the romance of that night, I can imagine how he must have felt. He continued to play for about 2 hours, stopping now and again to talk to us. There was one lantern somewhere in a corner, so we just about had enough light to see each other. None of us spoke, but many smiles were exchanged in that soft lantern light. That night, listening to the music and watching the rain, I learnt that the best memories you take away with you when you leave a college, have nothing to do with academics.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
When profs turn biblical
Scene I: First Sem MA English Literature. The first session of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.
The class was very quiet and a little apprehensive having been warned many times by the seniors about the brilliant prof who handles the subject. He seemed innocuous enough, as he introduced himself, and we drew a collective deep breath, signifying relief. And then he began:
Chaucer, you will find, he said, is like God's peace. And he picked up the book and started to read. As only three students in that class latched on to the allusion, and since Chaucer, did, for the most part, pass all understanding, there were many hours that semester when we found ourselves wishing for a run-of-the-mill average professor teaching us some run-of-the-mill average text. It was not to be.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
There's a reason I loved some of my classes
Scene: BA English Semester III Classroom
English lecturer limps into class after an absence of 4 days.
English lecturer has sprained her ankle.
English lecturer's usual mode of travel is the suburban electric train from Tambaram to Chetpet.
English lecturer is recovering from a fall on the railway platform at Tambaram.
English lecturer explains her absence to the girls with this sentence:
And you know what, Giiiiirlsss, I sprained a tendril!!!!!
This is the same English lecturer who explained to us that Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disfiguring disease which caused him to have lumps all over his face. The lecture ended when she said:
Oh, I just can't get the name of that disease,what was it called? Oh yes, I remember now, Giiiirlssss, Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disease called the scrotum.
And while I'm on this subject, let me not forget the time she got really agitated at what she called our unruly behaviour and threatened us:
Girlssss, now you are making me upset and while I do not like scolding my students, if you go on like this, I will be forced to castrate you.
Believe me, we adored the lady.
English lecturer limps into class after an absence of 4 days.
English lecturer has sprained her ankle.
English lecturer's usual mode of travel is the suburban electric train from Tambaram to Chetpet.
English lecturer is recovering from a fall on the railway platform at Tambaram.
English lecturer explains her absence to the girls with this sentence:
And you know what, Giiiiirlsss, I sprained a tendril!!!!!
This is the same English lecturer who explained to us that Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disfiguring disease which caused him to have lumps all over his face. The lecture ended when she said:
Oh, I just can't get the name of that disease,what was it called? Oh yes, I remember now, Giiiirlssss, Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disease called the scrotum.
And while I'm on this subject, let me not forget the time she got really agitated at what she called our unruly behaviour and threatened us:
Girlssss, now you are making me upset and while I do not like scolding my students, if you go on like this, I will be forced to castrate you.
Believe me, we adored the lady.
P.S. It should have been tendon, scrofula and castigate.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
I love weekends
I'm not even going to tell you why I did this blogthing. But believe me, whatever it was, it was lovely. I had fun. A lot of it!!!!
You bet I flirt!!! Life of the party?? Hmmmm... not really . And I wouldn't drink Diet Coke. I'd probably drink rum. But I'm not sure I want to BE rum. I'd much rather be a single malt. So much more class than rum, don't you think?
You bet I flirt!!! Life of the party?? Hmmmm... not really . And I wouldn't drink Diet Coke. I'd probably drink rum. But I'm not sure I want to BE rum. I'd much rather be a single malt. So much more class than rum, don't you think?
| You Are Rum |
 You're the life of the party, and a total flirt You are also pretty picky about what you drink Only the finest labels and best mixed cocktails will do Except if you're dieting - then it's Diet Coke and Bacardi all the way |
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Blogworld destinations
Sometime last Sunday my father and I were discussing stuff. General stuff and on and off particular stuff - me. This is a favourite topic with both of us. My father, because he is interested in all of us and what we do with our lives. (I take up a fourth of his time). Me, because, well, I like talking about myself. I like writing about myself too. You should have figured this out by now, since you're reading this on a blog written by me, devoted to me. On Sunday, however, the topic meandered from me, to my blog, to the people who read my blog, to the people whose blogs I read (the last two are not necessarily the same) and he was quite fascinated by the fact that here I was, out in the big bad world or the worldwideweb or whatever and out of the many who drop by from all across the world, at least some, are from my own country, my own state, my own city, and even my own community. It fascinates me too. (As you can see, my father and I share common interests other than just me.)
Call it coincidence, fate, destiny, what-you-will, but as we finished this conversation, I found myself on Bishwanath's blog reading a post titled 'My Five Favourite Bloggers' and linking from there, I found Gauravonomics and that is when I discovered that there is a specific community of bloggers out there and that I am a Desi Blogger. At least, I think I am. I like that. Gives me a sense of belonging, it does. But then, I read and am read by non Desi Bloggers too. And I love that. So I decided to do a post of my five favourite blogs. No categories, just some blogs I like reading. (I like a lot of other blogs too,but I decided to stick to five). If you have Google Analytics, you will find that I am almost obsessive about visiting some of your blogs. As Shain once remarked, I must also be a big red dot on a lot of maps.
So here they are : My Five Favourite Blogs.
1. The MCC Bloggers (Mac, Jimmy, Shain)
Yeah, I cheated, that's a 3inone entry, but you see, the three of them run together in my mind.
The World of Mac
Mac is not afraid to feel. This dawned on me when I read the first poem he posted. This is a guy whose blog description says that he does not have writing skills, but he blogs anyway. Don't you believe him. His writing is evocative and it touches you deeply. Mac is a relationship counselor (I'm right, aren't I, Mac?) and once in a way he lets us into this special world with his insights on how couples interact. My daily fix. Even when he has not posted anything new. I read his older posts and re-read the ones I've already read. He cooks too. Delectable, delicious stuff. Check it out. He's a good cook.
Stone Cold Crazy
Jimmy. Well, to start off with, let me tell you, he's a jujube. A delightful jujube. I haven't met him. I've just read his blog. And that's a delightful blog. He can send the shivers up your spine, and down it too, with his descriptions of ghosts stalking city streets, and packs of dogs hunting sub editors on bikes. He can make you laugh till you're rolling around, filling the house with hysterical laughter, initiating 'should-we-send-for-the-men-with-the-strait-jackets' looks amongst your family on Sundays. And when you finish your shivers and your laughter, you realise that somewhere in the recesses of your mind, a few sleeping cells have awakened and are now thinking - about stray dogs, about child labour, about things which matter. Yes, it's a delightful blog.
Everyman's Diary
Shain. A traveller. A thinker. A photographer. Sometimes, a jogger. Likes coffee shops. Would like them even more if he could sit in a coffee shop with some women or even just a woman. With someone other than a man. He writes detailed posts. And when he can, he posts photographs. His descriptions are detailed, and he draws pictures in your mind when he writes. He takes you with him where he goes. You identify with him. He is truly 'everyman' in that sense. I'm waiting for him to sample camel meat so I get to enjoy it vicariously.
2. Rama - Khamosh Sa Afsana
First of all, let me confess that I have no idea what khamosh sa afsana means. But I do love this blog. It so clearly calls to you - well, it calls to me. It's a blog written from the heart. Rama is a journalist who writes for others in her job and writes for herself on her blog. As she said, " i love writing. one of the few things i do like, i think". You can make that out. And oh yes, her writing is so well crafted that sometimes I weep with envy.
3. Me,the Malayalee Syrian Christian - My Thoughts Out Loud
Me works and lives in a small town in America, counting the days until she marries her non Mallu, non Syrian Christian boy. The trials and tribulations she and the boy face, the happiness they share, her plans for the wedding, counting the days until the wedding, her job, her parents, her room mate and so on - her readers are given glimpses into her life. She laughs, cries, giggles and vents, and we do all these along with her. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a portrait on her staircase wall (a la the Hogwarts portraits), watching her life.
4. Pam - Green Eggs and Pam
Pam can take the most difficult day and turn it into something that has me crying and laughing at the same time. She has such a gift. It's incredible. She's funny and she's brave. An unbeatable combination.
5. Rohan - Doodles and Musings
Rohan muses. And he doodles his musings. He doodles baby monsters and easter eggs and primitive motifs. He is good at doodling. He makes me laugh. When I am overloaded with work and I need a quick break to feel refreshed, I visit his blog.
And these are a few of my favourite blogs.....
Call it coincidence, fate, destiny, what-you-will, but as we finished this conversation, I found myself on Bishwanath's blog reading a post titled 'My Five Favourite Bloggers' and linking from there, I found Gauravonomics and that is when I discovered that there is a specific community of bloggers out there and that I am a Desi Blogger. At least, I think I am. I like that. Gives me a sense of belonging, it does. But then, I read and am read by non Desi Bloggers too. And I love that. So I decided to do a post of my five favourite blogs. No categories, just some blogs I like reading. (I like a lot of other blogs too,but I decided to stick to five). If you have Google Analytics, you will find that I am almost obsessive about visiting some of your blogs. As Shain once remarked, I must also be a big red dot on a lot of maps.
So here they are : My Five Favourite Blogs.
1. The MCC Bloggers (Mac, Jimmy, Shain)
Yeah, I cheated, that's a 3inone entry, but you see, the three of them run together in my mind.
The World of Mac
Mac is not afraid to feel. This dawned on me when I read the first poem he posted. This is a guy whose blog description says that he does not have writing skills, but he blogs anyway. Don't you believe him. His writing is evocative and it touches you deeply. Mac is a relationship counselor (I'm right, aren't I, Mac?) and once in a way he lets us into this special world with his insights on how couples interact. My daily fix. Even when he has not posted anything new. I read his older posts and re-read the ones I've already read. He cooks too. Delectable, delicious stuff. Check it out. He's a good cook.
Stone Cold Crazy
Jimmy. Well, to start off with, let me tell you, he's a jujube. A delightful jujube. I haven't met him. I've just read his blog. And that's a delightful blog. He can send the shivers up your spine, and down it too, with his descriptions of ghosts stalking city streets, and packs of dogs hunting sub editors on bikes. He can make you laugh till you're rolling around, filling the house with hysterical laughter, initiating 'should-we-send-for-the-men-with-the-strait-jackets' looks amongst your family on Sundays. And when you finish your shivers and your laughter, you realise that somewhere in the recesses of your mind, a few sleeping cells have awakened and are now thinking - about stray dogs, about child labour, about things which matter. Yes, it's a delightful blog.
Everyman's Diary
Shain. A traveller. A thinker. A photographer. Sometimes, a jogger. Likes coffee shops. Would like them even more if he could sit in a coffee shop with some women or even just a woman. With someone other than a man. He writes detailed posts. And when he can, he posts photographs. His descriptions are detailed, and he draws pictures in your mind when he writes. He takes you with him where he goes. You identify with him. He is truly 'everyman' in that sense. I'm waiting for him to sample camel meat so I get to enjoy it vicariously.
2. Rama - Khamosh Sa Afsana
First of all, let me confess that I have no idea what khamosh sa afsana means. But I do love this blog. It so clearly calls to you - well, it calls to me. It's a blog written from the heart. Rama is a journalist who writes for others in her job and writes for herself on her blog. As she said, " i love writing. one of the few things i do like, i think". You can make that out. And oh yes, her writing is so well crafted that sometimes I weep with envy.
3. Me,the Malayalee Syrian Christian - My Thoughts Out Loud
Me works and lives in a small town in America, counting the days until she marries her non Mallu, non Syrian Christian boy. The trials and tribulations she and the boy face, the happiness they share, her plans for the wedding, counting the days until the wedding, her job, her parents, her room mate and so on - her readers are given glimpses into her life. She laughs, cries, giggles and vents, and we do all these along with her. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a portrait on her staircase wall (a la the Hogwarts portraits), watching her life.
4. Pam - Green Eggs and Pam
Pam can take the most difficult day and turn it into something that has me crying and laughing at the same time. She has such a gift. It's incredible. She's funny and she's brave. An unbeatable combination.
5. Rohan - Doodles and Musings
Rohan muses. And he doodles his musings. He doodles baby monsters and easter eggs and primitive motifs. He is good at doodling. He makes me laugh. When I am overloaded with work and I need a quick break to feel refreshed, I visit his blog.
And these are a few of my favourite blogs.....
Monday, March 26, 2007
Well loving, and living
My fish died. She was a pretty karimeen - this is a pretty, tasty fish, known as the Pearl-spot, so named because of a spot shaped like a luminescent pearl just behind the pectoral fin. I used to love watching her swimming lazily a few feet below the surface of the water, coming up to the surface when my shadow fell across the water, obviously equating said shadow with underwater legend of god-like figure who dispenses mashed tasty rice like manna from heaven, doing a few pirouettes in the water and generally exuding a joie de vivre you wouldn't expect to see in a fish in a well.
She was one of ten fingerlings which we dropped into the well one September Sunday more than ten years ago. Eight died within the week. It's not nice, having to haul out dead fish after dead fish from a well, but after the third one, I became an expert at it. I like to think that the last two survived because I took them out and kept them in a small tank for a few days before dropping them back in. I believe the official explanation was that it was a small well, and it was nature's way of limiting the population to what the well could handle. Well, so much for me wanting to populate my well with different kinds of fish.
Including the two Pearl-spots, there were seven fish in the well. Two suckers, bought by my extremely practical dad to keep the well clean, and three small slim silver coloured fish which trailed frilled, multi-coloured phosphorescent fins and tails. The two suckers were bottom feeders and stayed down most of the time, clearly visible on sunny afternoons when the bright sun lit the well right through. The small silver-coloured fish were surface denizens, never going more than a foot or two below the surface. The Pearl-spots stayed at a point midway down the well, coming up to the surface on and off. Three well defined communities in the well. Or so I thought.
About a year after the Pearl-spots joined this small community, I realised that there was a lot of interspecific fraternising going on in my back yard.
One morning after an unexpected rain, I found two baby fish swimming around the well, staying close to the surface. They were nondescript really, less than an inch long when I first saw them, but as the days went by, they grew into extraordinary fish. One of them was breathtakingly beautiful, shaped like a Pearl spot, but with the trailing, multi-coloured fins so characteristic of the silver fish. The other, was a slim silver fish with a multi-coloured pearl shaped spot behind the pectoral fin and a trailing black tail. I was entranced, to say the least. And very proud of them, as if they were my own creations.
They lived for a few months and then one summer I found myself putting my expertise at hauling dead fish out of the well to good use. The two new fish, and all three of the silver coloured fish were dead in a matter of days. We were down to four fish then. I kept thinking about putting in some new fish, but never got around to it. One Pearl spot died about three years ago and now the last one's gone too.
One of these days, I'll go down to the Fisheries College and pick up some fingerlings so that the well doesn't look so empty. The suckers are still there, but they're not sociable creatures. They stay at the bottom and if at all they come up to rest on the underwater ledge near the water surface, they lunge for the bottom as soon as my shadow falls across the water. Maybe, unlike the Pearl-spots, they believe in a cruel god.
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