May 31, 2006

The One Where Bill Kills Everyone

Off to see Titus Andronicus in a fit of rage that has made me murderous all day, and the object of my mis-affection safe in only being hundreds of miles away.

By S. Clarke Hulse's count, Titus Andronicus is a play with "14 killings, 9 of them on stage, 6 severed members, 1 rape (or 2 or 3, depending on how you count), 1 live burial, 1 case of insanity and 1 of cannibalism--an average of 5.2 atrocities per act, or one for every 97 lines." Reviewer Mike Gene Wallace adds, "This is a great play. We're talking fourteen dead bodies, kung-fu, sword-fu, spear-fu, dagger-fu, arrow-fu, pie-fu, animal screams on the soundtrack, heads roll, hands roll, tongues roll, nine and a half quarts of blood, and a record-breaking 94 on the vomit meter." Really, there's not much more to say; that is the essence of the play. Titus Andronicus is a non-stop potboiler catalog of abominations (with the poetry itself counted as a crime by many critics). Source

If Aristotle was right, this should lead to catharsis. Or else, a life is in grave danger.

Study Leave Checklist

1. Woke up late despite not having studied at night, only walking along the river: Check
2. Ate big breakfast to ensure I remain sleepy all day: Check
3. Spent the morning closely reading two mails, one from Dad and one from the Guardian News Service: Check
4. Personally checked if any of the blogs I have ever read have been updated: Check
5. Bunked study group meeting and did not make presentation, thereby making sure everyone in my class hates me: Check
6. Punished the feeonsay severely for being who he is: Check (and then some)
7. Had long hot water shower with half my hair going down the drain: Check
8. Shed two tears, one of which was for hair: Check
9. Dawdled between two books unable to choose which one to read: Check
10. Fantasized about Veggie sandwich for lunch: Check
11: Realized how pathetic it was to fantasize about Veggie sandwiches: Check
12: Confirmed that no other blogs updated in the meantime: Check
13: Decided to update mine: Check

May 26, 2006

Review By Telegram

ARE YOU GOING FOR FANAA STOP  

May 25, 2006

Overheard in the Elevator

Cojoined Conjoined Laila Majnu. Laila sifting through jhola looking for something.
Laila: Oh my God this is so not cool……..Oh, it is cool. It is cool……..Oh NO! NOT COOL…….Wait. it's cool. Yeah. Cool. (Triumphantly pulls out room keys)
Majnu: Is it cool?
Laila: Yeah. It's cool. It's cool.

May 24, 2006

Cannot Ishtudy

Words are dancing all over the pages
But not because I am like… drunk
And deep in sleep lie the personages
Thoughts of whom are being thunk





May 21, 2006

Up, Up, and Away

Last night in my dream, I saw a trampoline
Tramp Tramp Trampoline
Trampoline Trampoline
Tramp Tramp Trampoline
Trampo Trampoline

(If you don't know CBeeBies, you're free to think I'm suicidal)

May 18, 2006

Newsflash

London came under terrorist attack this morning. Three hundred and sixty five Indians aboard a flight from Delhi decided to bombard Central London with a strange substance that caused the city dwellers to cough, sneeze, rub their eyes raw, and wish they had never been born. Samples were collected and the MI6 has found that the lethal weapon was a traditional Indian sweet packed by Haldiram's, and commonly referred to as Soan Papdi. In the mouth, it tastes like ghee and besan needles, but in the eyes, nose, and throat, its flakes can cause damage such as inability to see the traffic signal while crossing the road, sneezing fits on first dates, and coughing up breakfast and lunch. Also, women who lovingly washed their hair in the morning were aghast to find the weapons of mass destruction entangled in their hair on returning to their rooms.

The three hundred and sixty five Indians, who demanded to be named but whose names could not be spelt, have said that they are innocent and their mandatory Soan Papdi packets are intact in their VIP suitcases. They accused the British authorities of insanity, saying that anyone who has no hope of going to India soon would never throw away his or her precious Soan Papdi, even if it would kill of half the Londoners and make queues at "Marks and Spencer Simply Food" shorter.

In unrelated developments, the plane tree that beautified winter London with its nakedness is now unleashing cute little furry brown darts that are flying all over the city and settling on every potential surface to make cushions for people whose sneezing fits make them fall down.

Revision

I'm preparing for my exams these days. Here are the preparations so far:

1. Have regularized my sleep pattern. This is the key to concentration. I have concentrated my waking hours to about two and a half in the day time and three in the night time. Nineteen and a half hours are for recharging my batteries and dreaming about question papers with paper flowers stuck on them (drama in real life).
2. Have designed and circulated a calculator that shall allow me and my classmates to decide how much to study for the exam to pass the course, given that our essay scores contribute to the overall score. Since other people are ambitious, the calculator also tells them how much they need to study for a merit and a distinction.
3. Have covered all the topics that were taught throughout the year. They are either on last week's list of "Potential topics for exam revision" or on yesterday's, or on today's. No topic can claim to have not been considered and rejected.
4. Have bought sachets of Double Chocolate Mocha. Have tested one and it is good before bedtime for long and deep sleep.
5. Have been a silent witness to group study sessions, thereby ascertaining that my classmates are so far ahead of me that I might as well give up the beaten track of study-and-write, and think of creative approaches to tackle the paper. Sticking paper flowers is not beyond me.

May 13, 2006

Cross Border Firing

So the Bangladeshi lady across the paper boards that the Brits call indoor walls occasionally plays Kumar Sanu songs full volume. Nothing about those songs is recognizable - movie, music director, cast - except the buffalo-cious bellowing of the Bong bullfrog (patented). Sometimes (usually) I am in bed and all I need to do is to wrap my pillow around my ears and go back to sleep. Some other times, I am pissed enough to retaliate by putting on some better music (Sardari Begum/Swades/Arth/Yuva mostly) at an even louder volume to make my point. The firing either stops or turns to angrezi rap music which gives me indigestion on any given day. The biggest revenge I have taken so far is leave "Andey ka Fundaa" on loop and gone and cooked, eaten and washed up after dinner, knowing full well she was in her room all along.

There was her "Kabhi Kabhi and Silsila phase, which was ok for a bit, but she took to looping (most original!) and that got on my nerves. I countered her love ballads with Mughal-e-Azam's qawwali "Teri mehfil mein qismat aazmaa kar hum bhi dekhenge" and that was an ace which sent her scurrying for good songs. Some attempts later, she was back to Silisla, and I let her work off that phase.

These days she's been on the phone perpetually, and laughing her hyena laugh, and not listening to so much music. But as I type this, "teri mehfil" is playing on her comp! Finally! I win!

Which brings me to the other thing:

"Teri mehfil mein qismat aazmaa kar hum bhi dekhenge
ghadi bhar ko tere nazdeeq aakar hum bhi dekhenge."

"Teri mehfil mein qismat aazmaa kar hum bhi dekhenge
Tere qadmon mein sar apna jhukaa kar hum bhi dekhenge."

Which one fits your definition of love? Or is there a third you wanna write?

May 09, 2006

In Which I Jeopardize My Impending Marriage

Being in a relationship with me is very simple. I need to be woken up with a phone call every morning, where I will mumble something about having slept really late and not expect to be understood, much less replied to. Once during the day, I need talking to, where I will nicely (or not-so-nicely depending on various factors) listen to anything that is told to me, and ask a hundred questions (which are of no significance and are repeated day after day, so in a week one can answer them without reading the whole sentence). Also, I will crib about something in the near or distant future that is worrying me (it's just my way of keeping happiness at arm's length). For this, a macro can be written, and pressing Ctrl+Q will type out the reply "Kyun chinta kartey ho? Live for the present. We will worry about tomorrow, tomorrow." That is also the best way of getting rid of me, because after a round of verbal and physical abuse, I shall grant permission to leave. Not that it is needed, because I can be trained to be ok with being two-timed, three-timed, zillion-timed with any other activities that need the attention of busy and important people. At night, one more template SMS about sweet dreams and world peace will temporarily placate my anger, and I shall go to bed sooner or later.

Being me, on the other hand, is a little more complicated. How the hell would I live from day to day if I did not worry about everything in the world? Being happy ain't enuff, dude!

May 04, 2006

Vacation Log

Escaped from the tourist deluge for a bit and where else should I go but the Lake District, and specially to Ullswater, where Will Wordy spotted his precious daffydills. Can't really blame the man for his verbal diarrhoea anymore: he must have been constantly doped without opium (unlike his friend Sammy) just because of the sheer beauty of the place. Himalayan goats like us can never be overawed by firangi mountains, but Delhi-ites like us go into raptures at the sight of water bodies. And the English ability to not only maintain pristine beauty but to heavily capitalize on it makes the experience truly post-cardy.

Did not have a camera, so no pics. Was nice in a way, after multiple instances of shutter-crazy travel company. Am sure there's a middle path that the world is missing out completely.

Have also spent lotsa time with my baby niece, and have appropriated her chocolates and toys and brought them back with me. Have phantoms of nursery songs floating in my head, and the indelible picture of a three year old in pink pajamas doing wee-wee in the living room on her little blue throne, playing the guitar on a plastic racquet and singing "ay ay yippe yippe ay" in a cherubic voice. How adorable children are! And how grateful I am they are nowhere near me!