I love cities and Dalhi is no different I suppose. Walking back in the quiet night, I watched as the last of the sleepers closed their shops and cleaned the huge pans and tucked their hands into their pockets and wrapped their scarves around their faces and walked back home.
I like watching people. Just watch. I don’t really want to know your story, but let me stare at you for a while. Let the untrue words and the crazy thoughts form. Let me build a story of your life and then you can walk away. You have done your part.
So it turns out that Ms. Polka Dots does not have as limited a vocabulary as one might have intitially presumed. Which is a good thing no doubt but I still think it is limited to about five pages. Well, maybe six.
It would be kinda cool if people could spit out dictionaries, or atleast carried copies of their dictionaries around. And I don’t mean no frikkin Websters or whatever but their own, personal dictionary. Containing a list of words and/or phrases which they most commonly use and the meanings of the same.
But then it would make getting to know someone a little less exciting, a little more straight forward.
When you are suffering from a particularly severe case of Wanderlust, I guess the worst thing you can do is watch back-to-back episodes of Long Way Around. No but really, the whole staying put at one place is gettng to me now. Must. Get. Away. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Was telling the Sibling, I really appreciate it when she screws up. Especially when it is on the gigantic scale. Allows my minor fuk-ups to slide away unnoticed. It is sorta like the opposite of having an over-achieving sibling. Setting the standard so low that it makes looking good/normal relatively easy.
You know how that book starts with the words which sorta go like each family is sad in it’s own particular way? Well, my family is kinda demented in its own particular way. A house ful of uniquely crack-potted ppl.
The question “WHY” is being shouted in my mind. All the time.
Oh dude, so I was like in the bus today? You know like the long, red one with the a.c. and all? Yeah so I was in the bus and it was slightly crowded and so I was like just standing there in the aisle and this guy like entered and he stood behind me. So like our backs were like facing each other. And then like the bus made a sharp turn and like our bums touched!!!! And I was like totally freaked out and shit. Does that make me a homophobe? Dude? dude?
And I patiently reach out for the roll of duct tape which should ideally be reserved for situations such as these.
I frikkin wish.
I have often wondered about why I am not as popular as I obviously deserve to be. Is it that my wit is too sharp for most? Or perhaps my clear complexion and wonderful skin tone intimidates most people. Could it be the truckload of sex appeal or the fact that I smell like Brad Pitt that makes people think twice before entering into social intercourse with me?
Social intercourse! Blah!
Call me a pervert but there is only thing which comes to my mind when I hear those two words and it sure as hell ain’t rubbish talk about the weather, ifyaknow whatta-i-meeeen. Nudge nudge. Wink wink.
I think I would make a great flirt if only my face did not get in the way. Somehow whenever I try putting on the sexy pout, it comes across as more of a face spasm rather than a call to them estrogen thingies.
One of the funniest incidents in recent memory is when I was trying the “sexy look”, this laadie looks at me and trys to imitate me. Poor job. So, as to encourage and guide, I tells her “No no no. You must put in the sex appeal!” to which she (most poker-face-dly) replies “Oh that’s what you were doing”. I would have called her all sorts of terrible things if I wasn’t too busy laughing me ass off. Goddamit.
Hate it when humour comes in the way no? I mean there is part of me which is super-insulted and all, but then there is another part of me which is poking me in the shoulder and going “Ha! poke !Ha! pokey pokey” and so on and so forth. That part of me tends to win most of the time. Bloody bully.
I think the reason why I do not really “hang out” with people is coz they just make me acutely aware of my questionable (think pathetic) conversation skills. Which is kinda sad cause at most times I can talk complete crap for hours. Like in this blog for instance. But when the time comes for normal, semi-intelligent talk, me mind goes complete Buddha on me. Serence and empty and calm and all that.
Fukin hell.
When she says something that makes her sad, her eyes open up and you can see the pain inside them. Beautiful.
So there is this cat. Which rummages through my dustbin. And then when I chase it away, it gives me this dirty look. Accusingly. Who the fuk are you to disturb my meal kinda looks.
I do not like cats, primarily because if you call a cat a sonofabitch, you are sorta displaying your own stupidity.
So there is this Goa festival on at Goa Sadan which is on Amrita Shergill Marg. Think of a beautifully maintained, broad street right next to the (in) famous Lodhi Gardens. Then think of classy bungalows on either side. And then think of a freshly painted, white house which goes by the name of Goa Sadan. And then add a couple of counters selling feni and some selling pork and chicken and fish. Also, if you are’nt too tired by now, add a stage and musicians and people doing the dancing thing. And if you still do not have enough add a cool breeze and wonderfully pleasant weather.
I have not gotten sloshed outta my mind for the longest time and right now I cannot, for the life of me, understand why.
I sometimes wish I was the opera master of the world. Like swing the stick and people start acting the way I want them to. Kinda like a witch but with a suit. And spectacles. Those opera master chaps almost always have spectacles.
I often find myself wanting a soundtrack in the background. Would be kinda cool to live a bollywood film. Which is why I found myself watching Andaaz Apna Apna for the n’th time on Youtube. Bits and parts of the film. I really think it was way ahead of its time. There is outright comedy but there is also a more nuanced part to the film. A true classic. That and Salman Khan’s “Aila!”. Superb.
So another person told me to get a life. In a nice way. But still. It is not like I don’t have enough stress on me own you no? Goddamit man.
By the way Ms. Cheetah if you are reading this I hope you are alright. Do not buy any more polka dotted dresses though. Quite embarassing to be seen with someone who wears one of those.
So she looked very pretty today and I liked how open she is about her feelings. It is strange that I find honesty so appealing since I have a personal average of one lie per minute.
It has been so long since a member of the opposite sex paid any attention to me (other than in a “fuk off you freak” kinda way) that I had more or less forgotten how nice it feels.
There was mist in the morning today. Looked so gorgeous as I stood in the balcony and surveyed the land before me. I guess that is why I like heights. So that you can look down and pretend that you are checking out your kingdom.
The phrase “grabbing lunch” came up in a conversation recently. Was slightly perturbed by it. Not the most peaceful way to describe the eating process now is it? Grab. Like a greedy little pig. Or maybe a demented kid who wants all the candy in the world. Grab. Grab.
Nope, I do not like that word: grab. Not one bit.
I have once again awoken my obsession with “Naaat” jokes. Disturbing. NAAAT!
Really. It is soooo easy.
Am no longer surprised at the sheer number of pricks in this world. Just follow the path of least resistance and you will sooner rather than later reach prick status.
Path of least resistance. I learnt that with reference to lightning once. Made it my motto of life. Gentle, midly undulating path this one. With grass on each side (not too pretty but not dull either) and a faintly smelly river flowing alongside. The best thing about this path is that you don’t get bumped by those “power walking” type aunties.
You know, the ones who look like they swallowed an entire year’s supply of Duracell or something. OR a lifetime’s supply.
I always used to wonder about the whole “life time supply” thingie. Like when there were all these competitions where the 1st prize would be a lifetime supply of baked beans. How would you calculate that? Do you get one can a day? Do you have to prove that, statistically, you shall live till you are fifty nine? Had me puzzled for quite a while until I finally gave up.
So we lost the match. It was close. And I watched it while sitting in a mithai shop situated in the aptly named New Friends Colony. I have never (and I do mean never) taken that long to finish ‘em gulab jamuns. I swear. Cricinfo is fine and all but it ain’t close. Even if you plug into the radio and laugh at the “shaandaan chauka” or “magnificent six”. If you ever want to learn the most obviously fake English accent, you know what to tune into. It gets even funnier when the english chap and the hindi chap are arguing back and forth in their respective languages.
Radios can be quite amazing when you think about it no? Little people living in that tiny, black box. Capable of seeing things so far away and then telling you about it. I like the radio cause it allows me to imagine what the person looks like. So you are free to form your own fantasies. Unike tv where its all take it or leave it.
Have realised that it really is about not giving up. Corny? Yes. True? Yes. There are times when I want to go into the world of darkness and never ever come back. So enticing. And then there are times when I realise that a little perseverence is all it takes. Live another day and then just one more…
Much as I hate to admit it, my education has taught me a few things. And it has taught me a fair degree of rationality.
Also I am no longer bothering to reply to all comments made by this idiot. Why? He is an idiot.
Nope. For sure.
By now I should have written and co-produced a fantastically witty tv-show on lawyers, made love to Jennifer Connelly (and subsequently dumped her for being physically unsatisfactory), visited Indonesia and eaten an authentic Mongolian meal.
Instead here I sit, my silence broken by the occasional, smelly fart and the noise of the neighbours as they settle down to a good old game of who-can-shout-louder. I sit here and I type these words and the Forces of the World look down at me and stroke their gardened beards with pity. Tsk tsk, it was not supposed to be this way.
Perhaps I should lay off the cough syrup for a while.
In other news, the winter sun rarely pokes out behind the clouds. And I have learnt that if you want to learn anything then you must be prepared to be a little scared.
Nice chat with a kid on his future made me evaluate my own goals for a moment. And I realised that I do not really have one. Which is fine I suppose. I should really go out and find that tree. You know the kind of tree where that chap got all enlightened and shit.
It has been a little too long since I have stepped out of the city’s limits. Though I did venture to Gurgaon for an interesting little breakfast. Some fancy bagel place. Not bad though the bagels were kinda tiny. Plus the waiters were clearly members of the Union of Waiters who ignore me. I wonder how the word gets passed around.
Gurgaon is a bit of a contrast really. All you hear about is those giant, gleaming malls but when you actually go there, you realise that it has some pretty simple roots. I wonder what it was like before all the hype.
The best thing about the city is that you get to hear the authentic Jat intonation. Brilliant stuff really. Makes even the most normal of sentences seemingly loaded with innuendo.
Random (really) thought of the day: Chawal would be a good nickname for someone with the surname of Chawla.
Yet I do not know any Chawla good enough to call him/her that.
Strange. One would have thought it would be quite a popular nickname.
The Times of India has devoted an entire page to how and why the state of West Bengal is suffering from a state of paralysis.
Don’t you have to be active first? Can so imagine pattu da in Beliaghata, waking up from the afternoon seista. Scratching in the afternoon sun and scanning the newspaper. This article catching his eye and a smile on his face. Kee jaali! And then he brings the offending article to the attention of his homies. Sitting on the bench and then launching into a four hour discussion on how bad nespapers have become and how in their times, Sen babu and Das babu were the TRUE journalists. Odee baba!
I am in love. Yesh it is true. And I am sure about it. So forgive the Mills and Boons moonlighting.
I am in lubh.
Tra la la la [hops around while twirling the pig tails on top of the head]
As if. Fuk you. This world is covered in the spit and cough of the vagabonds of this universe.
And we are living on a giant gob of flem.
No wonder we would like to believe in heaven.
