New Moon

Well well well, guess what ended today. Ended with a bang, too. Bad, bad film theory paper. Two of us messed it up big time; the others didn't. Anyway, then we went Dolly'ing. Sohini took a bunch of absurd photos. For the first time in my life, I actually ordered a second plate of sausage salad - but then, my immediate neighbour gave me a hand - or a mouth, should I say - at finishing off the first plate. Yes, beat me by a letter, she did.

After which, we split up. A, S and P went home, while N and the other two P's boarded a bus to Salt Lake, and landed square in the middle of N's comfy bed, where they curled up, but did not fall asleep. Now N, of course, is one hell of an artist (Japanesely). So I decided to try my hand at drawing with her tablet and her pen. Poor me - I assumed it was like a normal pen, but oh no. When I, in my enthusiasm, imagined that I was de-capping the pen, the thing fell apart, the battery popped out, and the other two were in splits on the bed. Anyhow, after N had put the bloody thing back together again, I tried drawing. The result was so ridiculous, that it wasn't a drawing at all. :-| N introduced the other P to the bubble-popping game, which she took to as Joy Adamson took to the lions (I have no idea why I made that reference). Anyway, she's good at it - very good. My attempts weren't as successful.

Besides which, we had delightful ice cream, the flavour of which no one could put their finger on till I - being the genius I am - declared it was lichi. They agreed by and by. Anyway, what matters is that it was good. Very good. This phase of bubble-popping and lichi cream licking was followed by the lol cat phase, which wasn't all that extraordinary; but there was more than one instance of the three of us clutching our stomachs and doubling up with laughter. The high point was:

Skuz me.

- little black cat with beautiful blue eyes -

You haz seen a tail? A lidl black one?

Movie time. Cut to Inox, CC.

N and I had been laughing at ourselves from the moment we decided to watch New Moon. We continued laughing at ourselves while we bought tickets worth 130 bucks each, three days ago; laughed through an after-ticket-buying CCD coffee session; all the way through the weekend and this morning - we laughed and laughed, and we just couldn't stop. We succoured the decision with the thought of cheese popcorn. Now, you ask, why had we decided to watch New Moon? Because, being the fantasy freaks N and P are, they'd read the Twilight series and were dying to laugh their way through a movie that was so bad, it was brilliant. And we did. We cackled, and made snide remarks which no one else heard (so the whole point of them was lost, but what the hell). N and P made some bad puns. I cracked my Irish nun joke. We discussed the racist angle of the film. We made a (should I say racist?) politically incorrect comment ourselves. Then it was over.

And yes, N has just sent me Twilight. I am going to dive back into the world of sparkling vampires and emo werewolves again, after ten whole years.

Amen.

The Private Life of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

I was reading Hamlet for tomorrow's exam. Was reminded of my Ophelia days. OOma was Hamlet, Dotlet was Ophelia, and the former marched down the school auditorium aisle towards me, as I waited on the stage in my flowing white skirt and my borrowed white peasant top (Hamlet's property), without my glasses and unable to see a thing in front of me. The auditorium was one huge dark room, with a blur of semi-human faces. I lay on the couch with my (first) cellphone to my ear, as Debo(Laertes) delivered a lecture on why I should not love Aparna(!), from - ahem - the airport.

Hamlet, eventually, reached me, and we had that famous exchange. She took a bloody long time to get to the stage - I was getting nervous, my hands were clammy and I was trembling. Anyway, she got there eventually, and we had said famous exchange.

Fast forward to my suicide(ahem). I'm dancing around and singing with a large bunch of flowers in my arms, and a (plastic, methinks) flower wreath thingy crowning my head. I put the Crazy Flower Song to tune meself - and that too, on-spot, because I kept forgetting the old tune every time we enacted the play, and kept making up a new one on-spot. Jaysus. So anyway, they drowned me in long lengths of painted blue cloth that smelled disgusting. And since I had to lie there onstage like that under that mound of stinking cloth, by the time Debo did the "From her pure and unpolluted flesh may violets spring" bit, I was ready to rise from my watery grave and punch the whole freaking lot in their bloody faces.

And the last scene. Not likely to ever forget that. Aparna and Debo at each end of the stage, toy gun in hand, creeping towards each other slowly. Oh wait. At every single practice session, Debo, stalking onto stage, would burst into laughter after "Where is my father?" Everybody else would then follow. There must be something insanely funny about asking where your father is.

As for the toy-gun duel. Ah. They'd bought recorded gunshots. One person had the duty of pressing the button on the tape recorder at the exact moment when one of the lads fired at the other. The coordination was difficult, inspite of regular practice. One brilliant idea my paramour had come up with, was to lighten the mood at the last moment, and have flowers pop out of their guns as they fired, followed by a burst of song (Phool bahaaron se nikla, tyang-ta-tyang-tyang-tyang-tyang-tyang; Chaand sitaaron se nikla, tyang-ta-tyang-tyang-tyang-tyang-tyang).

Then the cast and crew went to Shantiniketan and had one hell of a time.

Old days. :)

I realise now that there's always a reason people say things about other people. There's always a grain of truth somewhere. It hurts, to have stumbled across the truth at this stage, when things finally come to an unexpected, bitter climax, and all your illusions are shattered. I misread people. I really do. And I'd been so sure that I don't.

Remember the dead.

Without a Title

You know, when you set out to write a titled story, a story with a title, the title sort of drifts past you in hazy smoke and as you type your story, you realise that it's far, far away from what you meant, or what the title meant(if it had a title at all). Disconnected, sort of... repentant, almost, head bowed with the guilt of not living up to the title. It's a dangerous thing, the title. It really is. It can unsettle your thoughts for days and leave a little meandering trail of worry weaving in and out of your sleep.

So, when you've reconciled your conscience to the betrayal of the title, you roll up your sleeves and say Ah, let us see. We have not birthed a plot of any importance for a year now. We have not strung two words together, and then two more, and may be even three more, to make a plausible chain of events they'd call a story. A story.

A story.

How do you write a story, then? Well, you begin (to yourself), you pick a line. (Go on.) Then you put your fingers to the board and type it out (yes). And then you look at it for half an hour, and say to yourself - Does that make sense? (no.) Then you look at it for another half hour, and leave the seat for a five-minute coffee-brewing session. After which, you return to your chair and balance your delicate nose on the rim of the brown coffee mug, and inhale, deeply inhale the steam rising up like a mist that burrows into a mountain tunnel, and the train... what is the train? Nothing.

(Nothing, the train. Nothing is the train. The train is nothing.)

So then, you realise, you have no story.

Let's take an example.

The matchstick turned a double somersault.

Look at the sentence. Just look. It means nothing (But it could.) Is it really worth it, looking at this sentence for minutes and minutes and minutes, and thinking, simply thinking, What could I do with this line? What meaning can I imbue it with? What story can I make for the burnt corrupted matchstick that turned that last double somersault before dissolving into fire?


You run your fingers through your hair, combing it, entangling it further and further; brushing those edges of your skin - that you hold alone, against the world - over your scalp; remembering, perhaps, the lingering touch of the fingers of some past lover, or an idle grandpere basking in the mellow sunshine of a winter afternoon, May be - just may be - giving yourself a lead, a hunt on a trail unwinding.

The matchstick turned a double somersault.

The idle grandparent wades back into his own little sea of time. He sits in a little tea shack somewhere in British India, lights a cigarette with a little match (that dissolves into fire), and he says to himself - I've done nothing. The he comes shooting back through time, and then he says to himself - I've done nothing. But oh yes, I learned my lesson when my father came to know, and that was the end of all matchsticks for me. But then again, I've done nothing.

So you prevaricate for a while before asking yourself what the damn matchstick means to you anyway. You decide on a demonstration. You slide open a little box with two black cats facing each other on the outer shell, and take a tiny little stick of combustible mineral matter between the tip of your thumb and your first finger; then you strike it against the box. The impact isn't powerful enough to fulfill the purpose; instead, you lose control of the stick and it does that double somersault before settling down again between your finger tips.

You are stunned. The thing has a life of its own. A flimsy little thing like that holding its front against you - you're awestruck. You sniff at it.You examine the rough side of the box. Little brown-red streaks mark the place of union. You peer at the stick, then you strike it again. It can't bear the friction any longer - it bursts into flame. You grin menacingly, with a strange glint in your eye. You've tamed the beast.

The sulfur wafts into your nostrils, and you breathe in deeply. Relief fills your mind. You relax. You sit back. You gaze at the matchstick as it glows with agony, crumpling under the heat little by little. The flame inches towards your fingers. You feel the heat. You slide your finger tips down to the very end. The flames runs faster. When you can take it no more, you blow out the flame, and the smoke diffuses in the air.

You lit no cigarette. You lighted no candle. You merely killed a presumptuous little matchstick that dared to hold its own before your might. Your cool, wet might. You toss the smouldering carcass into an ashtray and settle back in your chair, knowing full well that you have no story. That there is no story.

The ding-dong theory

(..which, incidentally, has nothing to do with this post.)

Today I wrote half a philology exam, another complete philology exam, and hung out at Worldview for about an hour sniggering over absurd titles, ridiculous translations and the bad quality of paper in - alas - Neruda and Lorca.

Tomorrow, I have another bloody modernist prose exam, which, it is to be fervently hoped, won't be too much of a bother.

My cousin's getting married in two weeks. I have to get a sari blouse tailored, buy a blue drawstring purse to match the sari, a silver bangle, and new shoes. I also have to get a silver hair pin polished. And learn how to do my hair in a fancy coiffure or, at the very least, a french roll.

My room resembles a cross between a yard sale for second hand clothes and a garbage dump for non-biodegradable waste. The worst part is that the kid I tutor is brought to this room, and made to sit at my squeaky clean desk, which is at complete odds with the rest of the room.

I've just noticed that my maroon school tie is still hanging from the clothes-rod on the door, two years after it ceased to be of any use, apart from occasional nostalgic fits (the kind that make you smile sadly, and heave sad little sighs).

I shall now betake myself to the kitchen, fix myself a cup o' tea, light a cigar, rekindle the dying embers in the fireplace with a nasty-looking poker, and sink into my antique oak armchair with the brocade pearl-encrusted cushions that my great-great-great-great-great grandfather pinched from the.. Nawab of.. erm... Oudh.

--The End--

P.S.: The point of this post is to bore you out of your wits, damn you.

Postscript

Wokay, so that was the first poem I've posted on my blog. Good response. Now I think I've courage enough to post more, as they come. Amen.