Nine Things..

that I associate with a Gust Of Cold Air..

1. A Walk on the mountains (Possibly a reminiscence of a Rickshaw Ride I took late into the evening in December '99 through Mussorrie. Most memorable.)
2. A windy autumn day
3. A fancy hotel room (Quite an amusing association, this.. Not only do I imagine myself in a fancy hotel room, I can almost smell the scent of the wooden cupboards, clean linen and air-freshener. And for a moment, I unwind. Most heavenly.)
4. Winter Rain (Surely the best time of the year, when that comes along. With the exception of, of course, a Foggy day)
5. A failed romance
6. A broken friendship
7. A New Life
8. The Titanic

and finally,

9. Winters (Duh)

Tagged

by Kyra

I am thinking about…

.. how pathetically Shilpa Shetty carried herself.
.. how I shall fare academically this semester.
.. what the upcoming IIM-B Cultural Fest will be like.
.. how mediocre I seem to be at everything. If not pathetic.

I said...

nothing. I fear saying something I shall surely regret sooner or later.

I am…

.... someone I can't seem to change, no matter how hard I try.
I know one should be oneself. But couldn't I change just a little bit?

I want to…

Be adept at 2 things (that are worthwhile).
Move to a place with a better climate.
Feel inspired to write more often.
Learn how to talk less and wise.
Be more confident.
Tap my full potential.

I make with my hands…

Coffee, and pathetic coffee at that.

I wish…

My short term aspirations would come true. And long term.

I cry…

for selfish reasons.

I hear…

The Fan. The Insects. And the silence.

I wonder…

What decisions I'll end up making in the near future.

I regret…

Far too many things. But then again, I'm never satisfied.

I confuse…

Everyone who doesn't know me well enough. And a few of those who do.

I dance…

In my imagination. And I dance well.

I sing…

Only to be told to shut up. I wish my voice was, well, pleasant.

I am not always…

Talkative. I have my off days too.

I write…

far too occasionally. I suppose I'm lazy. And unlucky.

I need…

to be more occupied. Think less. I need to lose some weight and tone up.

*********

I tag all that have not been tagged.

Change

Isn't it funny how things can change?
Just when you thought all was perfect, everything seems new? All askew?
Returning to all that you left behind not so long ago, to find that it isn't there any more?
When you thought life is better, it gets worse.
You thought you took a step forward and found yourselves a mile behind.

The good old melodies go stale.
Brand new friendships fail.
Home is not where you thought it was.
Making decisions only because.

Is it a price for what is past? Or what I await?
Or is it simply fate?

It's Change.

"If you knew that you would find a truth
That would bring a pain that can't be soothed
Would you change?

If you knew that you would be alone
Knowing right, being wrong,
Would you change?

How bad, how good, does it need to get?
How many losses? how much regret?
What chain reaction would cause an effect?
Makes you turn around
Makes you try to explain
Makes you forgive and forget,
Makes you change"
- Tracy Chapman, Change

Of Ecology, Nomads And Innuendos

Why, just today I had made a sneaky attempt at luring my Electronics professor into an argument over how Hydel Power Plants were being erected at the cost of destruction of the entire ecology of a river and how human domination over Mother Nature wasn't a part of Lord's plan for us. Him being an ordinary selfish mortal of an engineering background wouldn't flinch beyond calling it 'a price to pay for development.' I would, au contraire, accuse him of being in alliance with 'A League Of Extraordinarily Apathetic Gentlemen' and proceed to enumerate one million and one ways that nature would revenge those that belonged to this Anti-Environmental Mafia. But initiating such a debate wouldn't be a cake-walk. And it was imminent for the success of my mission to find a way.
I thought I'd lure him with a plate of Cheeses. Only, I didn't carry my plate of cheeses to class that day. So I thought of an alternative approach. I would decoy him with a technical question. And right when he was least expectant of an outburst, I would present one. It would be no less than accusing him of mere scandal. And thus, I posed a cautiously well-framed question.


The cautiously well-framed question was 'put off' until he 'delved further into that area'. That "co-incidentally" did not happen.
Did he see right through my inquisition? Or did someone prompt him into dismissing me before I could lash my whip at him? A conspiracy, no doubt. But I was warded off.

Not disheartened, I looked ahead and eagerly anticipated my very first class of Environmental Sciences ever. Expectations were high. Aspirations unlimited. Finally, I was to be face to face with another being who would reciprocate my firm convictions against the advancement of technology at the cost of Ecological damage. If he were to suggest anything to the contrary, he would be failing at his duty, cheating himself and betraying those, few but loyal, that battled their own kind for the good of this planet and all that it harbours (besides us).
Needless to say, I was disappointed. The fellow knew no more about the environment than he did about Madonna's lipstick collection. Possibly, a lot less.
What he was good at, in fact, was Dramatics and elocution. The next 45 minutes, he spent reading off senseless statistics and meaningless numbers from the screen with such zest and sensation, one was convinced his classes had been Produced and Directed by either Alfred Hitchcock or Ekta Kapoor.
His elocution skills must have been marvellous for if none other, he had convinced at least himself of his supreme knowledge and expertise in his 'area of specialisation'.

His pupils did not feel deprived of reason to babble and chortle at him. He scarcely felt concious of himself but occasionally would ask us why we were roaring, put his hands dangerously close to his pelvis, raise them consequently (palms facing outwards) and ask "I'm okay na?", only sending us into another fit of sniggers.

He made constant references to what he had told us in 'yesterday's class.' On numerous occasions, I felt ever so tempted to correct him that we had necer had a class 'yesterday' to begin with. My inner wisdom prevented me from shattering his notions of lectures that had never taken place at all. And thank god too, for as it dawned upon me soon after, he had been all the while referring to a lecture he had delivered to us almost a year ago (three days to be precise) that I had missed.

I was only just about to curse him for being such a grave disappointment, a dimwitted fool and a bore that a rather explicit illustration of three men, unclad from head-to-toe holding up spears whilst exhibiting their genitalia appeared before us on the screen. Needless to say, some gasped, some one or two fainted while most, sooner or later, guffawed. As if that weren't enough, he too yelled "Yes! Yes! I wanted you all to see...."
(and passionately gesturing with his arms, mind and soul towards the innocent naked men on the screen, he approached the climax)
".... THIS is what we all were...."
(adopting a grand pose, holding up an imaginary spear of his own and thrusting his precious pelvis forward, boomed....)
"....HUNTERS!"

Our lungs collapsed in laughter.

5 Things I like About College
1. F.R.I.E.N.D.S (My own, you fools)
2. Always having someone to talk to.... well, almost.
3. In-Class fun.... however limited.
4. Lots and Lots of Laughter
5. Canteen

5 Things I Detest About College
1. Single Bed
2. Having to walk 5 kms for drinking water
3. Having to walk 10 kms for the nearest toilet
4. Dull Subjects
5. Idle moments

Fast Car

Thus, I find myself back in college. A hectic life had beckoned me, I had thought. I wasn't wrong, but note entirely correct. A hectic and dull one did. Chemistry cycle is sheer boredom, I have realised. I can't say I'm thankful.
It's fantastic to meet up with everyone though. I'm awfully grateful for my friends here.



This evening, I took the monumental task of unpacking as well as putting up all that I had brought to ornate my room, and was thus pretty exhausted.
Just then did my room-mate request my company to the market. In no position to walk, any more than the length of a tennis-racquet, I hastily declined.
Having decided that it would be appropriate to take my first meal of the day (dinner), I escaped with a friend to the neighbourhood Tapmi (Tammy) Mess. As we were returning, I had taken but one step towards the gate when he cried "Stop! Let's go for a walk first." As if in the know that I was only about to protest, he quickly continued the conversation in a rather casual tone devoid of any hint of accusation, yet so full of it saying "Boy did you eat a lot today. We're almost quits for a change."
I had only pointed out that he had had 5 chappatis (four was the exact number, as it turned out) and I, only 3 that he retorted "But you also took a Gobi Manchurian. Gosh, it was absolutely flowing in oil, wasn't it."
So we walked.



Meanwhile, I had a most delightful beginning to the semester.
The day commenced with a Math class. Hon'ble professor walked in and began to call the roll.
"251... 252..." he went on and I listened patiently. How long ago, it felt, since I'd answered a roll call. How long it had been since I was to raise my arm to 279 and call out "Yessah."

"261.... 262.... 263...." he went on and I called off their names on my fingers, seeing how well I could connect numbers with people. Not too well, it turned out.

And it was round about at 268 that she walked in, dressed in a charming outfit. "May I come in sir?" she interrupted. I was stunned.
No, it wasn't love at 3,563rd sight. Her clothes were jangling.
"How particularly odd" I thought to myself.
"Her dress is jangling." I told myself.
"Yes, I know!" myself told me. "I can hear just about as well as me, thank you very much."
"Why is her dress jangling?" I asked myself.

Before myself could respond, another entity entered the door and the massive population of that class-room was increased by one.
But 'one' did not look as he had the previous evening.
"That's funny! No more than 16 hours ago, he had not hair as short as that." you-know-who told you-know-what.
Before the latter could snap back with a "Yes, I know wise-guy. I was right there in you, remember?" I snapped out of my thoughts.

Teacher : 301.... 302.... 303.... 304....

Me and Myself in Chorus : Uh-oh!

Land de incompréhensibles

Some anti-social elements that think not well of humanity may assert that vis-à-vis I am about to share, I am to some extent or other, be blamed. But don’t you believe a word they say. Mark their expressions of astonishment. Note the disbelief in their laughter. Is it not mere pretence? Disregard their counter-allegations. They attempt to deceive you. What they have against me, I cannot say. But what I am about to tell you is unbiased and true.

Manipal truly is a land of incomprehendibles. The waiters, the peons, the newspaper boys; they know not what they say. Nor do we (know what they say.) In an attempt to adopt one million South Indian languages that they wish to preserve along with Hindi, they have succeeded in developing a hybrid that we, helpless migrants, fail to grasp and are consequently victimised.

Is there a different purpose behind developing this alien dialect? Is it to cheat us? To deceive us? I do not know.

I shall recount a few occasions during which gave birth to my allegations.

Incident one, two and three occurred at an Indian restaurant titled Sheela. Interestingly, anything that you may order here takes over 20 minutes to cook, inclusive of “Maggi’s 2-minute noodles”. Well, everything excluding “Idlis” and “Vadas”, which are served quicker than water.

If that isn’t enough to make you sit-up and take notice, there’s more.

The dishes listen on the Indian menu may sound conventional enough. But do not be fooled. Look at them carefully. Are they exactly the same? What is that you say? They aren’t? I didn’t think so myself.

The “Navrattan Korma” is conveniently re-titled “Mixed Vegetable Korma.” Any ignorant bystander would not have noticed the difference. But I am not to be bamboozled. Are the 2 dishes exactly the same? Or has the original recipe endured mutation so as to render it different in look, make, flavour and what not?

We are not ignorant bystanders. So we do what is expected of all those who are not ignorant bystanders. We hail a waiter and ask him “What does this contain?” And it is there that we err.

Under usual circumstances, you would listen attentively to every word he utters. You would jump for joy for every ingredient that you savour that has been retained, and adopt a look of grief and anguish for those that have been omitted in the preparation. As for those despicable constituents that you despise but have been included, you pucker up your nose, put on a frown, stick out your tongue and go “Blech!”, while spontaneously relieving your face of the nasty expression so that neither it becomes permanent upon your face (should the wind change its direction just then) nor the waiter becomes convinced that you are impolite.

But such is not the case in Sheela. For under the first 3 circumstances, the following ensued.

Incident One:

Me : What does the “Mixed Vegetable Korma” contain?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

And I looked at him, expressionless as a goat, courteously waited for him to finish, turned to the person next to me and….

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Two:

Me : How long will a plate of Maggi take for preparation?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

……..

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Three:

Me : Do you have any pineapple juice?

Bonus : Incident Four

Me : Boss, could we have the bill please?

(Five minutes elapse)

Me : Boss, we’d asked for the bill.

(Seven minutes later)

Me : Boss, bill please? It’s been ages.

Him : *Mumble Mumble……… Grumble*

Me: (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident 5 was fairly recent.

After 3 phone-calls, I had managed to convince the News paper agency that I, in fact, did not want newspapers delivered to my room for the three weeks during which it was to be uninhabited.

On the evening of the 3^rd call, a boy magically appeared at my doorstep with a stack of bills in his hand and a plastic bag containing money and proceeded to hand me one from the stack.

Doubtful of the fact that I had received merchandise (in the form of newspapers) worth the Rs. 200 advance that I had already paid, a perception that the boy echoed, I proceeded to clarify with him that I had absolutely no intentions of paying a further advance to him for two reasons, one that I had discontinued subscription and two, that I did not plan to revive it in the future (for that particular daily).

The boy peered at me in a most queer manner, as if I was barmy, and proceeded to mumble something that I did not understand. At that point, I was pretty sure that he was somehow or the other related to that waiter at Sheela.

I did, however, manage to catch a numerical figure in his oration, I believe a sum of 60 rupees.

Though sensitive of the fact that he was simply a functionary of the agency, a paid employee, sent out to do his work that he was expected to complete, and that he had not bargained for customers like my royal highness when he took up his position, I refused to be cheated, however meagre the amount involved may be.

I thus began to present him with evidences in support of the fact that I should not have to pay a further advance. And to that effect, I began to dig through the clutter on my study table, which at the time resembled the aftermath of a horrific calamity with the intentions of discovering and presenting to him a bill bearing the date I had paid the advance. The expedition was a failure, for I was pretty sure I had thrown it out ages ago, but I hoped that the boy, who now stood impatiently at the door, would give up on me and walk away, leaving it to the agency to negotiate with me. He continued to look at me as if I was loony.

My room-mate meanwhile had lain on his bed with an over-pronounced smirk on his face. After 10 minutes of excavations, as I stood gasping for some oxygen, he sniggered “He’s not asking you for any money, he simply wants to pay you your balance.”

60 Word Saga : Let It Be

Having been tagged by Nishant to create my own, I present my 60 word saga on the prescribed topic (Let It Be).


Let It Be
_________________

CRASH!

Johnny stiffened as he feared he had broken one of Aunt Helen's antiques.

Aunt Helen came rushing through the door with a look of horror on her face, having feared the worst.

Noting the broken antiquity on the floor, she sedated and to Johnny's relief, said "Don't worry about it. It was my Mother-In-Law's. Let it Be."

________

Note :- I can't figure out if M-I-L is to be considered one word or three. I've taken it as 3 but MS Word considers it one. Thus, if MS Word's judgement prevails over mine, then "Noting" may suitably be replaced by "Taking note of".

Thank you!

I tag anyone who must be reading this and hasn't written his/her own 60 word saga.

Potpourri

I was at my cousin's place the other day, and we decided to order in for dinner.
In agreement with the more regional palatal preferences of the family, we decided it would be best to order some good old Mughlai.
While he placed the order, I took out some of my most precious time to flit through the take-away menu card of "Moghul Room", located conveniently in some part of Lajpat Nagar.

I certainly feel that that outlet deserves to be a significant landmark, for it is the very first "Mughlai" restaurant I have known to serve............. (drum-roll).............. Italian food.

Knowing that all and sundry wouldn't flock to 'Moghul Room' in hope for world-famous Italian delicacies, the chefs at that most spectacular diner decided to keep their offerings, under that certain category, limited.
However, the few listings under the alien section were most unheard of. It is my firm belief that those items were introduced there to either confuse us, or give us a jolly good laugh.
For indeed, as I looked at the first item under the Italian menu, I felt as if I'd seen a yeti.
The first item under 'Italian Dishes' read
"Chicken Tikka pasta...."
Yes, I know! Incredible! Quite enough enough to send a Mughlai-Chef to rehab. But wait! It doesn't end there.
Item One under "Italian Dishes" in its entirety read
"Chicken Tikka Pasta.... with Chinese topping."
Something tells me dish must have been the outcome of one huge disaster.

Workshop Practice : Beginner's Blooper

It was like any other day of the first week of college. The sun shone brightly, hot and merciless, peeking from behind the scattered clouds that we had foolishly hailed as a messiah that would rescue us from the scorching heat. To no avail.
As is not unusual in the first week of college, I was to be acquainted with yet another new subject, which I was to either like or dislike but sooner or later, loathe.
Wednesday morning had arrived and I was scheduled to attend my very first 'Workshop' class.

I had heard many tales of Workshop Practice, tales of lust and desire.... err, no wait. That's a different story.
Oh right, tales of laborious work in the gruesome heat, in a shabby little shed tucked away in a place where the cries of anguish and horror could not reach Superman, Spiderman or any of the outside world, for that matter. And wednesday had arrived. It was time for my first dose of workshop penance.... uh, practice.

But wednesday was like any other day.And like on any other day, I was late for class.
And so I strudded along, late as usual. It took me just less than half a century, eight minutes to be precise, to make my way from the hostel gates to that infamous shed; and having descended no more than 500 steps, about 16 should you desire an approximate, I stood at the porch of hell.

There wasn't a soul to be seen. The silence was haunting. Had I gone to hell? Had a famine wiped away all traces of humanity? Had a flood occured, washed away my room-mates and miraculously dried up?
Naturally, not. I was late for class and they weren't. Thus, they were seated inside, and I wasn't. And as I stood there, it dawned upon me that it would be in my best interest to join them, however late. I entered.

Indeed, they sat there, rows and rows of boys and girls with their eyes and ears transfixed upon the two specimens of homo sapiens that sat before them, one short and one tall, who I suitably assumed to be our instructors.
As I approached, the tall man looked me up and down, a nasty glint in his eye, disapproving in every way, peered into the attendance register, looked up again and in a tone one would take with a victim, said "You must be 279."
"Yes, sir", I responded.
As I took my seat, he forewarned, "If anyone enters the class, hence, after 9'o' clock, he or she must carry a note requesting permission to attend that class while forfeiting any claim on attendance." As he spoke, he set his eyes upon me. In my mind, I stuck my tongue out at him. In truth, I looked away.

After a thankfully short and mostly inaudible lecture by his short colleague, we were escorted away by him to be introduced to the weapons, I beg your pardon, tools that we would be working with.
The exercise began. He'd hold up a tool, describe it in unnecessarry (for us) detail, some would listen, others would ignore.
After having introduced us to about 3000 different types of files, 5 to be exact, came the hacksaw, hammers and so on and so forth.
Not surprisingly, I lost interest in the form of concentration. My eyes and ears continued to follow the Smith and his tools, but the remaining senses explored a world of their own.
And in nearly no time from the moment my senses took leave of us, he held up another queer but boring instrument.

Teacher : This is called.... (A short pause elapsed in which, I suppose, he expected the class to answer in chorus, almost as if under the assumption that knowledge of Workshop Tools was General Knowledge.)
............. Tri square (after we shattered his miserable notion by not responding).
(And having confused himself with a Disc Jockey, working up the crowd......)
What is it called?

(To some succcess)
Class : Tri-square
Teacher " It is also called...... Engineer's square. What is it called?
Class : Engineer's Square.
Teacher : It is also called ..... Two-Seventy-nine.
(At this point, some of my senses were restored. And they scrutinized that funny little tool, that resembled a right angle but was called a square though it looked nothing like one, and queerly, was also called Two-Seventy-Nine.
And as my senses pondered over that tool, I realised that I was looking right into my eyes and he into mine.
No, it wasn't love. Something much worse. He looked positively peeved.)
What is it called?
(Realising he was speaking to me, I broke out of a daze and answered..)
Me: Two Seventy Nine.
(People all around giggled. I was annoyed. Seemingly, so was he.)
Him : Yeees, what is it called?
Me : Two Seventy Nine.
(Everyone all around giggled again. Some sniggered. I was all the more annoyed. Here I was, minding my own business, answering the question and people all around were sniggering and he was repeating the question like a malfunctioning tape-recorder.)
Him : So what is it called??!?
Me (Louder and slower as if speaking to a retarded person) : Two - Se - vin - tee - Nine.
(Meanwhile, my friend standing right beside me, one of the many spectators of the show, took upon himself to educate me of my gross misunderstanding.)
Mohit : Err.. I think he was addressing you by calling your roll number.
I sank into my shoes.

DK's Box Office

In accordance with my nature of wanting to contradict all that elapses in my immediate surroundings, having roomed up with a movie buff, the number of flicks I sat through in the past four months was fairly limited. That unfortunate tragedy was compensated to a fair degree in the weeks that have elapsed since my return.
The following is a list of flicks that I saw, with my opinion, en bref

1. Garfield - Tail of 2 Kitties : Sweet. But frankly, I'd like to kick that cat once in a while.

2. Don : For most part of the movie, I was cursing myself to have allowed my folks to drag me into watching a Shah Rukh Khan flick. I've seen so many of his. Aren't all of them the same? Well, he jolly well seems to play the same character in each.
However, the synopsis was completely unpredictable and left an impact, making the flick worthwhile. As did the presence of Priyanka Chopra. And the music.
I forgave my parents and myself.

3. Dhoom 2 : On that front, I had no choice. I had no option for I was on more of a young-teenage-boy-sitting task. I was to take my 2 cousins for the flick, one of whom had seen it already and wanted to watch it again. Why? Because he's young and innocent and possibly believes that certain robbers specialise in falling from the sky, breaking into supposedly-highly-guarded train compartments wearing one of the most fascinating genus of face-masks that not only substitute the most impossible plastic surgeries but also, in fact, magically transform the voice of the bearer of the mask into that of a person of the opposite sex. Brilliant!
Aishwarya's performance was less-than-mediocre but better than her worst. Abhishek Bachhan, forgettable.
Hrithik was quite good indeed, but I believe he always is. Except when playing the lead opposite Kareena.

4. Funny Face : A 1957 musical starring Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire. It was my first absolutely delightful watch of this vacation. And one that I'd recommend to all. The surprise package of the film was Kay Thompson, one of the most accomplished people in Hollywood who hasn't appeared in anymore than 3 films as an actress. And indeed, she stole the thunder from right under the two main characters. A most fascinating character.

5. Umrao Jaan : The film is 3 and a half hours long with a trillion songs. It is best watched on DVD so that the songs can be skipped. No, the music isn't horrible but the film has simply an overdose of it. Edit away most of the songs and you get a lovely film, made with a lot of effort and definitely worth a watch. Ash is superbly brilliant. This could've been her big comeback and brought her laurels, but fate had other plans in store. I suppose she can expect more out of Provoked, to be released next month. Shabana.... well what can I say. She is supreme. The entire industry should bow down before her. She is, no doubt, the best actress I've ever known in this lifetime. One is almost convinced that she has been living her character all her life, she plays it with such ease and perfection.
Yes, the film is unending. But that is absolutely necessary if the story has to be told completely.

The film was magnificent with pathetic reception, no doubt due to the, what I believe, intellectually challenged indian audiences who insist on making as much use of their Top Floor while in a cinema as they do of their appendix.

6. Meet The Fockers : It didn't have me rolling on the floor with laughter as I would have expected it to. But it was worthwhile. If nothing else, it broke my stigma against Ben Stiller, him being one of the three actors that come to mind presently, that I cannot stand to look at (the other two being Brad Arm-Pitt and whatshisname). So I suppose he's off my list. I'll celebrate by watching Meet The Parents next.

7. Breakfast At Tiffany's : Another Audrey Hepburn classic saw her in yet a new and refreshing character altogether from what she had played before. George Peppard played the male lead with sophistication and style. The film was a great flick though I still can't see much of a connection between the story and the title.
Audrey has indeed starred opposite the most suave men in hollywood, such as George Peppard and Gregory Peck in 'Roman Holiday.' They are possibly the only American men I would want to emulate.

8. Bhagam Bhag : To all those who found this film horrible or anything in that family of adjectives, I ask you a few simple questions :-
a. When you purchased your ticket for this particular film, were you or were you not hoping to catch a good thriller? You weren't? I supposed not.
b. In continuation with the previous question, were you or were you not hoping it would be a good comedy? You were? Why, that would make you a majority!
c. All through the film, did you keep a straight face and not let the remotest giggle escape your lips?
Those who answer in affirmative, I would like to remind that it is futile to tell lies on matters such as these.
To those who answer in negative, which should now comprise all those reading, I say "Then the movie succeeded in its attempt to send forth a few laughs.

Now I know good comedy when it comes my way. Hera Pheri was good comedy. Phir Hera Pheri was good comedy.
Masti was lame in its attempt to incorporate comedy of a good nature. As was Golmaal.
Bhagam Bhag, in my opinion, would qualify in the former genre of the above two, and not the latter. My word is final.

I wholeheartedly enjoyed the flick.
The USP of the film was Govinda. No, not his brilliant portrayal of his part but the fact that his role was limited. I despise Govinda and had the lowest expectations of the flick of which he was a part. But lord, or rather, Priyadarshi has other plans in store.

9. I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer : The third in the series of horror flicks and hopefully the last should never have been made with its horrid story line and pathetic actors resulting in horrible output.
Stay AWAY from this film.

Well, I suppose that's all that I can recall having watched, so Ta ta!

On New Year's and Astrology

Hello again! A happy new year to you all.

Once again, another year has ended and a mostly horrid one for me. The last few months, though, were certainly delightful and I hope that trend continues…. till my death.

However horrible, I can’t say the events of the year were unexpected.

I was reminded by my New Year’s date, if I may call her so, an old-time friend, 3 years to be specific (the friendship being 3 years old and not the person), of the events of last New Year’s eve.

Last year, I sat at home, pretending to study, awaiting my dreaded pre-board examinations with a preparation only marginally better than the neighbourhood dog’s.

A mind as distracted as mine would wander so, and I finally gave up the pretence, for after all, I was alone at home and when better to not have to pretend than in solitude.

And so, out of the blue, with a future as uncertain as new-born baby, I decided to pick cards, hoping to gain an insight into my future. As per the outcome, my worst fears were corroborated as a turbulent first half was on the cards, right up to that month of the year when the Central Board of Secondary Education updates its website, to some people’s joy, some others’ sorrow and, of course, to the indifference of a few. Further, I could expect a sea of changes in my life.

The accuracy of that reading, performed no more than half an hour after the commencement of 2006 till today renders me speechless. And it doesn’t end there.

Just then, I happened to receive a phone-call from my 3-year-old friend (then 2-year-old) who was subsequently acquainted with my rather peculiar hobby and fascinated by it too.

As I, upon request, picked cards for her, she was more than pleased with her gratifying forecast, which too, was precise in every way.

So did I repeat the exercise on the 31^st day of last month or the first of this? I’m afraid not, for the cards lie in an almirah parked in another part of the country altogether. Thus, I’m afraid I couldn’t initiate a small, funny tradition of my own.

I did, however, have pasta for my last meal of 2006 and first of 2007, and I’m hoping that sets the tone for my palatal preferences for the coming year(s).

On the astrological front, the paucity of my own cards was compensated by the reading published in the morning’s newspaper. Though I never believe in horoscopes printed in newspapers (for indeed how can one reading fall true for millions of people) if there has to be just one person for whom it may be true, there’s a ruddy good chance that as far as MPU’s reading for 2007 is concerned, I’m he. As my horoscope-obsessed mother read out my forecast for the year, I somehow knew it would come true. But will it? I suppose time will tell.

Winter Blues

Humour? The winters hold no room for humour.

Winter is the season of romances and heartbreak. It is a season of pain and suffering. Of suppressed grief and unbearable losses.

It is a reminiscence of fond memories and ghosts of the past, a time to share warmth with our loved ones while we emote within the self.

Come winters, we usher in a new year. Why does the mercury dip so on the last day of December? From where comes the thick mist that envelopes the city? Or the harsh rains, heartless and cold?

The mists and the rains… are they a conscience? An innuendo of our promises not fulfilled and of our misdeeds forgotten by us as we, in oblivion, welcome the new year with resolutions that may soon be rendered meaningless?

Do we rejoice with a hope of driving away the gloom? And why do I find solace in the mists and melancholy?

Winters, cold and merciless, can strip away all mask of pretence, revealing the ugliness of human nature, to the eye that bothers to see.