Having spent two blissfully lazy years in the oven otherwise known as Hyderabad, followed by an even lazier year of eating Pastry Corner egg sandwiches and re-discovering my not-so-hidden wild side in the wilderness of the mountains, I've realized one thing. That inspiration does not arise from spirits, beauty or even ample amounts of empty time. Rather, it is the result of numbing boredom (which I blame on the AC, not the work), sweat, and meltdowns during which sentences peppered with expletives as every other word - yes, it's actually possible to do that - are hurled at random obnoxious fellow commuters. The last two are readily available at and produced by the Delhi Metro service at rush hour. The combination of all of the above, in addition to a job which ensures a steady flow of reading that range from good to 'is that English?' in quality have resulted in this post, written some time (okay, two years) after the previous one.
Going back to the root cause of my inspiration. When you're wrenched away from the cool refuge of the hills, regardless of how willingly or unwillingly you embarked on this exodus, it changes you. Whether or not I can go back to that state of innocence (that better not be a snigger I heard) remains to be seen. This is the story of how I changed. Or, since I'm struggling to finish the post and constrained by the fact that I'm constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure that I'm not discovered by a colleague, this is the longest blog post I have ever written. And it's about how I changed. This could happen to any poor beknighted soul. This could happen to you.
It all started with the realization that I had to get a job. This led to a flurry of emails and applications and the sending out of a slightly exaggerated CV, until I finally struck gold, with a job as a junior editor in a publishing house that shall remain unnamed. For the security of the hard-won job of yours truly. An uneventful flight followed, and the merry month of May saw me emerging to the warm (major understatement, that) welcome of the New Delhi airport.
Two days later, I was dolled up (as a result of the forceful administrations of my sister) and ready to go. In true elder-sister fashion, she had haggled with the drivers in the auto stand outside her house and ensured that one of them would pick me up to get me to the metro. So, secure in the knowledge of my transport, I strolled out of the gate. Only to stop short. The auto stand was empty, and in the true spirit of Murphy's law, all the autos driving by were occupado. After a short moment (okay, minute) of panic, I managed to calm down, and, following my half-forgotten Hyderabad instinct, began to make my way to the main road, where I was sure to find a host of autos, all ready to help.
Ten minutes later (yes, the main road was a lot further than it looked, and the auto drought had extended there too!), I had given up, and was indulging in a loud bout of talking to myself, full of satisfying f***s and ... well, you get what I mean. Following a call to my sister, I made my way back to the auto stand, where I found a not-so-heroic auto driver, who decided to take advantage of my obvious desperation to charge me double.
And the first metro ride. I had experienced the joy of metro travel on previous trips. Now I was about to discover its horrors. The Noida City Centre metro station is a jungle. No exaggeration there. What little facades of humanity that it manages to retain in the form of cues and iPods swiftly dissipates, and is replaced with the predatory gleam inspired by the hunt for a seat the moment the train pulls into the station.
So there I was, your proverbial village mouse, struggling against the wave of humanity that swept me in the opposite direction, and then promptly elbowed out (by a very bony sharp elbow) when I finally made it to the door.
The next few minutes were spent indulging in ranting out loud, a practice that had ensured me a wide berth in both Chennai and Hyderabad, but didn't earn a second glance here. Hmph. Apparently New Delhi had its bar set high for aspiring loonys. Fortunately, I soon got onto the next train, and found myself entering the mass of smelly armpits and pokey handbags that is the lady's compartment at rush hour.
The metro, following in the tradition of the Indian ambassadar, is all-encompassing and inclusive - with the women inside shifting amorphously around you in order to allow you a place to stand. Of course this generousity doesn't extend to breathing space. And so it came to pass that I ended up sandwiched between a wall and a hard and bony woman, with the song 'No Air' playing very aptly on my iPod.
Having dealt with auto drivers in Chennai, I somewhat condescendingly thought that Noida autos would be a breeze. A few minutes spent haggling with an auto driver, and I was sitting in an auto, waiting. And waiting. The auto driver had disappeared into the crowd, but I soon spotted him trying to get more passengers. I immediately got down, and proceeded to find another auto driver, who was willing to leave immediately, with just me. What I didn't count on was the fact that all the auto drivers believed in utilizing space to the utmost. Which meant that they were all trying to leave with at least two passengers.
Finally, throwing caution to the winds, I hopped into an auto, with another young and equally lost guy. Despite the fact that he seemed very sweet, I was still apprehensive. Of course, what I didn't know at that time was that the next day, I would hop into a random auto with a Sardarji uncle and demand to be taken to my office. Ah well. When in Noida ... do what the natives do.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Hippie Stalking for Dummies: A Guide
I'll start by defining a hippie. Now, by 'hippie', i don't mean the regular peace-loving, 'free-loving', guitar playing longhaired hippie. However, due to a serious shortage of the 'genuine article' in Kodai, it now refers to (at least in Kodai lingo) any "pretty thing" (as my friend and fellow hippie stalker, Pavi puts it) that
a) Is not Indian - and no, that is not because i am biased against Indian men, it is merely in order to give them an exotic air.
b) dresses differently, or in other words, moves away from the standard jeans and shirt that most guys seem to sport (although exceptions can be made, according to the discretion of the stalker)
c) may or may not have long hair. Dreadlocks are an added bonus - especially if they at least look clean!
Now that the target has been identified, the procedure is as follows:
1) Mark the hippie season out on your calendar, so as to be aware of their migration patterns.
2) Hang around Pastry Corner - it's an assured sighting place, from which a "pretty thing" can be selected by the stalker. An added bonus is the AMAZING food, and the generous owners, who insist that you sample their yummy fruit cake or 'cooblicious' ice cream. ('cooblicious' was coined by one of my uncles - too many of them, so i'm not sure which one it was).
3) Be Indian. With a capital I. Be prepared to bullshit about Indian culture and festivals - it's a great way to talk to the object of your drooling! Just pray that your target is not writing a book on Indian festivals and using you as a source, or else his book might end up being more uninformed than that of a colonial British historian.
4) Refrain from rude gawking and picture taking - after all, we're not trying to objectify them, now are we??
a) Is not Indian - and no, that is not because i am biased against Indian men, it is merely in order to give them an exotic air.
b) dresses differently, or in other words, moves away from the standard jeans and shirt that most guys seem to sport (although exceptions can be made, according to the discretion of the stalker)
c) may or may not have long hair. Dreadlocks are an added bonus - especially if they at least look clean!
Now that the target has been identified, the procedure is as follows:
1) Mark the hippie season out on your calendar, so as to be aware of their migration patterns.
2) Hang around Pastry Corner - it's an assured sighting place, from which a "pretty thing" can be selected by the stalker. An added bonus is the AMAZING food, and the generous owners, who insist that you sample their yummy fruit cake or 'cooblicious' ice cream. ('cooblicious' was coined by one of my uncles - too many of them, so i'm not sure which one it was).
3) Be Indian. With a capital I. Be prepared to bullshit about Indian culture and festivals - it's a great way to talk to the object of your drooling! Just pray that your target is not writing a book on Indian festivals and using you as a source, or else his book might end up being more uninformed than that of a colonial British historian.
4) Refrain from rude gawking and picture taking - after all, we're not trying to objectify them, now are we??
Monday, December 8, 2008
Confused Confessions
Confession is something cleansing, which leaves you with a feeling of relief, after the purgation of your sins. Well, at least that's what it's supposed to be, but to me, considering my yo-yo routine between atheist and agnostic, it's something else. So, I am a Syrian Catholic (on paper), but in Kodaikanal, we have to resort to a Roman Catholic mass. Don't ask me the difference.
It was rare to confess, when I was growing up. As far as I can remember, I only went for confession thrice, the third time being the most memorable.
That was in Stella Maris College, yes, that hellhouse run by psychotic dictatorial nuns, with a pack of hellhounds (German shepherds, I think - with a NASTY attitude) at their beck and call, back in my first year, when I hadn't yet sunk to the depths of non-belief and was still struggling to come to terms with my faith. So we (the Catholics) were 'requested' to attend a weekend retreat, which I felt compelled to attend - not just by the fact that they were taking attendance - but also as a part of my own quest to 'faind Jaysus'.
There, on the second day, we were given the chance of going to confess. It might have been because I felt the burden of years of unconfessed sins. Or it might be that I had a serious overdose of praying and religious songs. Whatever it was, something made me march myself downstairs to confess.
Unfortunately, it was nothing like the movies I had seen, since there was no confession box. Which meant that I was face to face with the priest, which I might add is not the best way to be when you're baring your soul.
(The following part will be in dialogue - to heighten dramatic effect, I guess)
Unfortunate Priest (UP): Do you want to start?
Misguided Confesser, aka me (MC): Forgive me father for I have sinned. (deep breath) It has been ten years since my last confession. (Priest jumps slightly, and his mouth drops open. He then straightens himself up, realizing that it would not be an easy task ahead of him).
So, he had to sit through my long list - and no, I'm not including it here - which also included a loss of faith in God. This disturbed the unfortunate priest, I think, because he then proceeded to direct the rest of his discussion to me.
Now this might have had a profound effect on me, had it not been for the fact that I had just bought the sixth Harry Potter book the day before, and had proceeded, in my customary HP reading style, to read all night. So you can imagine what happened.
Yes. I fell asleep. Not only did I fall asleep in the middle of the unfortunate priest's talk, I also snored. Loudly.
So. The moral of the story? Avoid confessions like you avoid the teacher you owe an assignment? Don't buy a new Harry Potter book the day before a Catholic retreat? Or make sure you have more trusty friends, who would actually WAKE you up when you're snoring like a resting rhino? Well, I can't say that I learnt much from the experience.
I haven't been to confession since. Maybe in ten years.
It was rare to confess, when I was growing up. As far as I can remember, I only went for confession thrice, the third time being the most memorable.
That was in Stella Maris College, yes, that hellhouse run by psychotic dictatorial nuns, with a pack of hellhounds (German shepherds, I think - with a NASTY attitude) at their beck and call, back in my first year, when I hadn't yet sunk to the depths of non-belief and was still struggling to come to terms with my faith. So we (the Catholics) were 'requested' to attend a weekend retreat, which I felt compelled to attend - not just by the fact that they were taking attendance - but also as a part of my own quest to 'faind Jaysus'.
There, on the second day, we were given the chance of going to confess. It might have been because I felt the burden of years of unconfessed sins. Or it might be that I had a serious overdose of praying and religious songs. Whatever it was, something made me march myself downstairs to confess.
Unfortunately, it was nothing like the movies I had seen, since there was no confession box. Which meant that I was face to face with the priest, which I might add is not the best way to be when you're baring your soul.
(The following part will be in dialogue - to heighten dramatic effect, I guess)
Unfortunate Priest (UP): Do you want to start?
Misguided Confesser, aka me (MC): Forgive me father for I have sinned. (deep breath) It has been ten years since my last confession. (Priest jumps slightly, and his mouth drops open. He then straightens himself up, realizing that it would not be an easy task ahead of him).
So, he had to sit through my long list - and no, I'm not including it here - which also included a loss of faith in God. This disturbed the unfortunate priest, I think, because he then proceeded to direct the rest of his discussion to me.
Now this might have had a profound effect on me, had it not been for the fact that I had just bought the sixth Harry Potter book the day before, and had proceeded, in my customary HP reading style, to read all night. So you can imagine what happened.
Yes. I fell asleep. Not only did I fall asleep in the middle of the unfortunate priest's talk, I also snored. Loudly.
So. The moral of the story? Avoid confessions like you avoid the teacher you owe an assignment? Don't buy a new Harry Potter book the day before a Catholic retreat? Or make sure you have more trusty friends, who would actually WAKE you up when you're snoring like a resting rhino? Well, I can't say that I learnt much from the experience.
I haven't been to confession since. Maybe in ten years.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Episode 4: A New Hope
Sigh.. ah teh bliss of being on a new campus, all hopeful and optimistic.. actually believing that you're going to live up to all those lovely resolutions you have about actually using teh library.. so this is me, after a few lazy days of classes... still hopeful...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Unintended - Part 1
Ok, first off, this is NOT about a certain melancholic, "MUSE"ing song about unrequited love, this is actually about me. and my long list of unrequited unintended unreachable and unapproachable loves.. so, anyone who loves a laugh (at my expense), please.. keep reading.
SO, lets start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. When you sing, you begin with.. OK, the Sound of Music allusion actually is relevant. Cuz incidentally the first time i looked at a guy and went OOOH (after I learnt to talk) was Christopher Plummer as Captain VonTrapp - extremely hot, but sadly unattainable, since he was some 30 years older than me, and on the other side of teh world. But while i could wax eloquent on my celebrity crushes, this is about real life.
SO, my first crush that i could remember properly was a painful - and slightly funny one.. a guy a few years older than me, lets call him Elton John for the heck of it (not cuz he was gay - at least i don't think so - or wait, dammit, maybe ... ok, not going there), but because he was something of a prodigy, who could play the piano like a pro before he was tall enough to turn on a light switch.. SO, heer's the thing, we started out friends.. then he chose to play Can you Feel the Love Tonight (see the Elton John connection???) on the piano to me, and BOOM, or wait, i'm changing that to a less explosive noise, Plop (?) i so felt the love that night.. or that day.. whatever..
And here's where teh problem comes in ... i just happen to be one of those poor souls who CANNOT talk to their crushes ... as in someone who would play Russian roulette before they said hello to their crush... which is saying a big thing considering i'm pretty chickenshit..
So, back to my tale of woe.. Needless to say, our friendship evaporated in the face of my diving under tables, adn into lockers - a tight squeeze there - and staring in the opposite direction whenever uh "Elton" was there..
MOral of this story... uh.. wait, dammit, i don't have a moral... uh.. yah.. wow this is an anti-climax.. or no wait i got it... Unrequited love sucks.
That was profound, wasn't it? Wasn't it??
OK, i'm annoying myself now.
Will try my best to rise out of the ashes of this post, so please look out for Unintended - Part II. and please try and keep those groans to a minimum, i mean give me a break, i'm still new to this blogging thing.. takes a while to get into it.. ok, i'm stopping now. yes, i really am stopping.
AARGH!!
SO, lets start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. When you sing, you begin with.. OK, the Sound of Music allusion actually is relevant. Cuz incidentally the first time i looked at a guy and went OOOH (after I learnt to talk) was Christopher Plummer as Captain VonTrapp - extremely hot, but sadly unattainable, since he was some 30 years older than me, and on the other side of teh world. But while i could wax eloquent on my celebrity crushes, this is about real life.
SO, my first crush that i could remember properly was a painful - and slightly funny one.. a guy a few years older than me, lets call him Elton John for the heck of it (not cuz he was gay - at least i don't think so - or wait, dammit, maybe ... ok, not going there), but because he was something of a prodigy, who could play the piano like a pro before he was tall enough to turn on a light switch.. SO, heer's the thing, we started out friends.. then he chose to play Can you Feel the Love Tonight (see the Elton John connection???) on the piano to me, and BOOM, or wait, i'm changing that to a less explosive noise, Plop (?) i so felt the love that night.. or that day.. whatever..
And here's where teh problem comes in ... i just happen to be one of those poor souls who CANNOT talk to their crushes ... as in someone who would play Russian roulette before they said hello to their crush... which is saying a big thing considering i'm pretty chickenshit..
So, back to my tale of woe.. Needless to say, our friendship evaporated in the face of my diving under tables, adn into lockers - a tight squeeze there - and staring in the opposite direction whenever uh "Elton" was there..
MOral of this story... uh.. wait, dammit, i don't have a moral... uh.. yah.. wow this is an anti-climax.. or no wait i got it... Unrequited love sucks.
That was profound, wasn't it? Wasn't it??
OK, i'm annoying myself now.
Will try my best to rise out of the ashes of this post, so please look out for Unintended - Part II. and please try and keep those groans to a minimum, i mean give me a break, i'm still new to this blogging thing.. takes a while to get into it.. ok, i'm stopping now. yes, i really am stopping.
AARGH!!
Triumph of a Technological SEMI-literate person
Yay, it works!! Ok, before you decide i'm a retard, i'll explain the reason behind my uh testing.. this is my eighth blog.. yes, you can gasp, or wait maybe it's normal for people.. but wait here's a reason for you to gasp.. my other 8 blogs never worked..
You see, back in teh days that i was completely technologically illiterate, i tried (and failed) on several occasions (eight to be exact) to form a functional and normal blog .. normal being a relative term.. anyways, i tried and tried, adn have now at last succeeded!!
at least i hope i have.. full proof of my success will come if i put up another post. if i don't.. well, you'll know that i've forgotten my signing in thingy (which caused the failure of blog number 1). ok, so this is me, signing out off my hopefully successful blog!!
Anyone curious about my signing in name thngy adn my phoenix preoccupation can wait till i feel like talking about it..
:)
You see, back in teh days that i was completely technologically illiterate, i tried (and failed) on several occasions (eight to be exact) to form a functional and normal blog .. normal being a relative term.. anyways, i tried and tried, adn have now at last succeeded!!
at least i hope i have.. full proof of my success will come if i put up another post. if i don't.. well, you'll know that i've forgotten my signing in thingy (which caused the failure of blog number 1). ok, so this is me, signing out off my hopefully successful blog!!
Anyone curious about my signing in name thngy adn my phoenix preoccupation can wait till i feel like talking about it..
:)
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