Two things reminded me of Calcutta today.
One was the arrival of a good friend who was working in that wonderful city. Over home-made khichdi (God bless the inventor of the pressure cooker) and insufficient cutlery we spoke of the six-rupee auto rides and the momos and the crazy things which can only happen in that city.
I like to think that I am an adopted child of kolkata. I guess its just so bloody impossible to be indifferent towards that city. Either you hate it or love it. And the more you love it, the more you complain about the dirt and the heat (uff kee adbhoot gorom) and the mad bongs going “hain hain” all over the place.
The other was an article in open magazine about how the turnover of food stalls at the Book Fair was more than that of the publishers. By a pretty decent margin.
And I can totally imagine the bhadrolok in their monkey caps and “maafler” biting into another telebhaja and making sure that poor Shunty’s is not suffering from some new form of cold.
And the clear drops of dew on Maidan and the tram rides through the smoky city. And the yellow taxis coughing and shivering in the cool evening breeze.
And I remember the taste of a kabiraji and the cool, cool taste of daab sherbet in me mouth and I wish I could take it with me wherever I go.
And I think about the sweet, crazy and insanely talkative people of that wonderful city. The ferry rides across the Hooghly (it is not the ganga apparently)
Cycled through this city in the middle of the night and it felt wonderful. The broad avenues and the empty roads and the sweet, lingering chill of winter on my face.
If only those fukin dogs wouldn’t attack me for no fukin reason, it would all be good. Bastards really like the concept of catch-catch. It gets real fun in the fog cause then they all appear out of nowhere. And there I am: trying to swat them away with highly inadequate “shoo shoo”’s while they nip at me ankles.
I am sitting on me desk right now and it is a little cold outside. There is a glass of hot, sweet milk on me table and I can see the steam rise slowly off the top of the glass. The hot bath was nice and relaxing.
I know that there will always be some friends I can count on for anything.
The chat box is open and the words are making me smile.
There are not too many things I wish for in this world.
Not too many.
This man is leaving for the englend ie the land which I think his soul was actually born in.
And I am feeling a little sad because for all his quirks and eccentricities, he had one of the hottest short shorts in the history of short-wearers. Super tight and super short, they started somewhere near the belly button and didn’t really do much after that.
The Quaker was a wise man and an illiterate fool. He jabbed at people for absolutely no reason and could not handle the stress associated with maintaining a conversation while crapping.
And he used to cheat at table tennis. A lot.
And now he is heading to a land far far away where they will probably be able to understand him better. Like not on a philosophical or emotional scale but on a more literal scale. The Quaker talks like the soul of some 18th century Brit is buried right inside his knickerbockers if you know what I mean.
Farewell dear hot-ass possessing freak and may the Motherland welcome you with wide arms and a delightful cuppa tea.
The candle burnt out long ago but the legend never will. Too hot, ‘em shorts. I swear. Pinky swear.
I quite like this bloke. Or at least his blog.
I also like the idea of sitting in the sun and reading a book. Turning the pages and watching the words swim into my mind.
If any of you have ever cooked desi food then you most probably have come across rai. Those tiny, round things which go pop-pop in the heat of the kadhai? They look like this:
Evil little fuckers. Spilt an entire packet of ‘em on the floor and spent half an hour trying to clean the place up! Little round bastards sliding all over the place, sticking to me feet and silently sniggering at the jharoo. Fuckers.
Scoobs and me took a random walk through a nearby hospital. Totally scoping the place out and wondering where the cafeteria was. Bit morbid really cause we were pretending that it was some sort of park. And it was quite like a park though some of the walkers looked kinda fucked. There was this one kid who was being carried by his pop. There was that tube thing sticking out of his tiny hand. You know the thing which they later attach to a drip? Connects the blood vessel to the drip. Sticking out of a tiny hand wrapped in white cloth.
Ever looked at photos of someone you used to find utterly gorgeous?
And in your head, you are going “what the FUK was I thinking?”
Happens with unfailing regularity.
Cold wind is a lot like sand, in the sense that it gets in everywhere. I do mean everywhere.
I am currently waiting for a “friend” to tell me something. I already know the “something” but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth cause I don’t think I am supposed to know the “something”. More importantly, I would like to believe that I inspire enough trust and loyalty to be told this “something” from the horse rather than from the manger-keeper if you know what I mean.
Don’t think its going to happen any time soon and this is totally pissin me off.
Oh and while on the topic of women, the most gorgeous set of thighs (and the rest of the body) is getting married in a month or so. Heart-broken me is. Oh you should have seen them (the Thighs). Most delicious.
On a scale of emotional stability, I would rate a ten. Really.
Where I spew wisdom, like those tiny food particles which come out during a coughing fit
1.The milk has been heated enough when it starts spilling out of the container and onto the stove.
2. Do not insert hand into bucket of water while water is being heated by an electric rod (or raad as it is called here). Water is a good conductor and bad insulator. Or something like that.
3. Do not try chasing a mouse. You will not win. Think of Kishore Kumar in Chalti ka naam gaadi where he tries chasing that hen and Madhubala is just laughing her head off.
4. Mallu restaurants here will always have some potthu fry. Never on the menu though. Or if it is, it will be written in mallu.
5. Watch Six Feet Under. Superb series with so much dark humour that it will having you snorfing juice out of your nostrils.
6. The trick to making people uncomfortable in the Metro is to look at them at a point just near their chin. Stare.
God bless Youtube. Really.
There is a point where laziness and indifference meets desperation. That is when, in my life, things get moving. Or rather I get moving and get things done. Until then, lets pile on the laziness with an extra scoop of indifference. Super size me.
I like to imagine a person as an ice cream flavour and facets of their personality as those extra toppings that you can choose. “Oh she’s a real butterscotch, with chocolate shavings” or “Oh dude he’s a frikkin vanilla man. No toppings nothing. In a cup!” or whatever. The weirdos would be strange combinations like mango with mint sauce (don’t try it, it is yuck) or strawberry with toffee sauce.
The yummy ones would be cookie dough with sprinkles or roasted honey with black pepper.
I think the greatest honour you can give to someone is name an ice cream after ‘em. Can so imagine the President (Hagen Daz) pinning a medal of a cone on this distinguished gentleman’s lapel. “I officially make you a Knight of the Cones” or something like that.
The proud, old man making a thoughtful little speech, desperately trying to keep the quivering of pride and joy out of his voice. The audience, delectably dressed and seated around round tables covered with white satin, looking on and clapping enthusiastically. Hoping to god that the camera is panning on them and all the make-up is not slipping away.
You could have an entire food awards. The Foodies. Like the Oscars except much more interesting. “And the best dressing in a greek/caeser salad goes to…..”. Excited chefs running to the stage, knives in tow and thanking their parents and all that. A special mention to the taster who spent hours reviewing their creations. And the camera would zoom onto the fat fuck with bad teeth who would give a polite nod and a wave of the hand.
Fuck, just think of the possibilities. You could have PETA crashing in when the “Best steak” award was about to announced. Or maybe they would throw spinach and other leafy vegetables onto the stage. And then just think of all the categories you could have. This would be any advertiser’s wet dream. Surely your product would win some award or the other. Even if it is the kind of award that they announce when the advertisements are being shown. Who cares.
The Foodies could become a stage for international discontent. The Americans booing when “french fries” wins the Jury award for “Best movie snack”. Or the Supermodel Union boycotting the entire affair, stating that it is against the over-glorification of food. The Conspiracy Theory-wallas crashing into the party as well. Spreading rumours about who paid which jury member how much to swing the award in his favour. Paid in donuts and falafel. Man, I would kill to be on that jury.
And then, just to show solidarity with the “common man”, there would be a street food series of awards as well. “And the best aloo da tikki goes to….”. And there would be this excited sardar running onto the stage, almost doing the bhangra even as he climbing the stairs. And you can see the presenter cringe when he hugs her but wtf she is on tv after all!
Good Lord! Sometimes, okay quite often, I simply stun myself with my own brilliance.
I guess the beauty of words is the infinite number of possibilities which every, single word holds. A stream which can be gently led into a field or a mighty river which goes where it bloody hell wants to.
Am dying to see Ishqiya and Road Movie.
I sometimes get me phone’s ringtone stuck in me head. So every few minutes I have to check if it is actually ringing or I’m just imagining it.
I enjoy conversations based on songs. You know, just toss the names of songs around, hum a few tunes and so the conversation meanders on. “Oh yeah, but have you heard…”
I want to learn how to make paan. Like have a proper thela with all the little jars and make my own paan.
I imagine the North Pole to be a pretty noisy place what with all the polar bears humping away and chunks of ice falling all the time. And those bloody seals with their “ook ook”.
I like clearing my spam so that I can see the msg “Hooray, no spam here!”
I think my computer has a distinct personality of his own. Lazy, little bastard who likes doing “nothing much” all day.
I think the world is flat. Like really. I do not care what all the photos from all the space “missions” Cough CIA Cough say, this planet is fukin flat.
I cannot get over the whole Tweety being the greatest philosopher ever.
The first time the putheecat is spotted it is the realisation that the End is inevitable. And then it is confirmed by the “I did, I did”, an acceptance of the finite nature of Existence itself. I like to think that while the intellectuals are wanking off to camus and socrates, little kids all over the world are watching the comics and getting all wise.
Scoobs and me made dinner today. Or rather he made it while I watched and made random comments. Things did get slightly tense while waiting for the pressure cooker to explode though. Waiting outside the kitchen for the explosion, hiding with our backs to the wall and then feeling extremely grateful that there was no boom.
There is a lone apple in my fridge. I am feeling quite sorry for it. Sitting there on the top shelf with nothing but the frozen spoon to keep it company.
It is amazing how words sound in your head. Like when you read something, you change the voice in which it is being read no? Was going through the blogroll on the right and imaging how each of them would sound in blogsphere.
For example Ms. AGG (aka Goddess) would be nonchalantly biting into a lychee while recounting another hilarious anecdote. Slightly lazy voice bursting into hyperactivity now and then (especially when on the topic of her mom)
Mr. Sroyon, the half boy half robot nutjob, would have a slightly less robotic tone in the Blogsphere. The narcissism would, however, remain.
Quaker would have a terribly stiff (think Viagra OD) upper lip accent and a slightly squeaky voice. Like an aristocrat at a horse race.
Ms. Mentalie would speak in calm, measured tones. Deep laugh.
Ms. Subtle Signs would probably speak in sign language. Or carry a paintbrush with a canvas and paints in her pockets. Splash together her words.
I shall stop now.
Probably the most annoying thing about Facebook is the friend request thingie. And what is a friends “request” anyway? Huh? What? What exactly is it that you are requesting?
How people send you these requests even though they have never fukin spoken to you in their lives. I mean fine, maybe a “hi” and a “hello” and perhaps even a “Is that dal on your beard” but nothing, no nothing beyond that.
And then when you think “Oh okay, we can communicate better through this fukin social networking site” and so you click on the “Accept Friend Request” and then….what. Fukin nothing. Not even a “Oh hello, i sent you a fukin request and you fukin accepted it. Thanks”. Nope. Nada.
What the bloody hell.
At any point of time, how many opinions can the rapper 50 cent have?
25
*bows down to the deafening applause*
