Friday, May 29, 2009

Fueled by Frustration.

The same circle of faintly pretentious faintly good blogs, the same breakfasts, the same wet, salty, heavy air, the same face in the mirror. (Not same, exactly, though. I believe I see the precursor of a zit on my forehead. Definitely absent yesterday.)

I tried to drive it away with books, so many books, and I ate them all with the desperate sort of grabbing hunger that you see in middle class people for upperclass-hood and therefore for plasticsheet-protected sofas and dustjacket-bound English books that nobody reads. I met people and drank oversweet tepid coffee and warm masala pepsi  and took buses home that surprisingly went nowhere close to home and walked beach promenades and lost a slipper to the Bay of Bengal and made a sand angel halfway to Pondicherry (if you see it, it's the one wearing a tipsy crown) and ate furiously off roadsides, which were all good enough experiences in themselves I guess, but now I'm out of things to do (bad) and out of people to meet (good) and the very sight of books is annoying me, which only annoys me further, and that halfheartedly albino man who was in Johnny Gaddaar is singing incessantly on the bloody TV and my idiot sister is singing with him and one of these days there is going to be a hole in the TV screen the shape of my sister's head.

Jagdish Bhagwati should be compulsory reading at undergrad level at least... the whole concept of a pointwise defence of globalisation is very appealing. There are some issues with what I believe are patches of unwarranted optimism, but it's a very nicely laid out argument overall. Order and method, order and method. 

Which reminds me... how hot is Bips? Really. Phew. (Observe how I say 'Bips' like I've been living next door to her and lending her one cup dahi everyday all my life.)

Also on hot-list was Obama, though his sex appeal quotient fell rapidly from greek-god to snotface-perv when the US tripled aid to Pakistan. What the feckin fish, what? Sorry Obama-man. You're going to have to settle for Michelle. Who is not a bad bargain actually, except that she:

1. Doesn't have my sparkling personality, and
2. Has too many double-toned fluorescent dresses. 

Point two should be sufficient to draw sharp and flattering (to self) contrast to self.

If I have to face one more morning with nothing to look forward to but breakfast, and then nothing to anticipate but lunch, I will murder a cat for the sheer activity of it. I swear I will. 

If you live in a different city, invite me home. Now. 

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Keeping Up with the Cojones-es.

They say when your life is in imminent danger, it flashes before your eyes. I only swallowed much muddy Sutlej and energetically kicked a rock. I have the beautifully purpling bruises to show for it. My life did not flash before my eyes, unfortunately. If I had only remembered at the time that this was supposed to happen, I would have concentrated more on it. The idea is definitely interesting... I would finally find out if that boy I lusted after in class eight was indeed more important to me than my winning the math proficiency prize that term.

I have sometimes been called a nerd. I don't mind... always been attracted to nerds anyway.

What is almost as interesting as the rafting itself is to watch the other Gujarati family in the raft fiercely compete with your own in rafting prowess. Who gets to sit up in front, right in the Mouth of Danger? Jethalal or dad? Who can make more ineffectual-splashes-per-minute with an oar? Savitaben or mom? Family-group expeditions are always such wholesome, family-friendly episodes of do you have the Cojones, losers? So very Yum, no? :)

If you're Gujarati, these are all pseudonyms. What? What was that? Yes, I rather do enjoy regionalist-stereotyping actually. 

Now that I have river-rafted, I only have paragliding, bungee jumping, rock climbing and doing several, mostly illegal things to Gael Garcia Bernaz, left on my bucket list. To all of you sceptics: I am perfectly aware of the possibility that some of these ambitions may not reach fruition. I have doubts about my capabilities as a rock climber. See? I am firmly in touch with reality.

I watched craploads of television on that darling big tv in that lovely big chain-hotel in Shimla. It has been five months since I last watched TV. Why, you idiots, did none of you tell me about Coupling? What a very excellent show... in my more spazzed out moments, I simply watch it to hear them say 'bottoms' in that BBC accent.  Is it only me, or does the word 'bottoms' immediately bring to mind my (or generic, really) great-aunt's admittedly respectable but sadly unexciting posterior? It just cannot describe a young and pretty bum, can it.

The multiplex strike confused me. Then I read Filmfare on the Kalka-Shimla narrow gauge, and everything was immediately Light. Now I am only annoyed at the multiplex strike. I am growing very suspicious at the Tamil film industry. The same songs that were playing on the radio when I left for college two years ago, are still being played. Everyone I confront regarding this abomination gets all shifty eyed and mumbles something about a multiplex strike. I have decided to frequent that antiquity, the single-screen theatre, to check whether tamil films are still being made. I very much Doubt It. I am a Doubting Divya. I am a Deadly Dastardly Doubting Divya. 

I bought four very decent and very large gravy-stuffed bun thingies and one disgusting but large chocolate pastry for sixty rupees from a posh baker on Shimla's Mall Road. If that's what posh costs in Shimla, I will grow two more chins and grey stubbly chin-hair and live like an Angrezi Mem in one of those delicious cake-like cottages. I would also wear brown tweeds, but they are remarkably unsexy. I am not talking about the New Styles in tweeds. An Angrezi Mem would not wear pink silk bustiers with tweed miniskirts. That's Just Not Cricket, luv.

One more year of law school down; I am no closer to knowing what I want to do at the end of it. Sometimes I shrug and think I may as well become a lawyer. That would be such an anticlimax though, no?

Ah well.

PS: I now have six followers. Such cheap thrills I am having I tell you.