To Nihal And Sara

Apologies to K...this post is close to my heart, and a rather tangential post to what we usually add out here, but it must be done.

Ladies and gentlemen, we youngsters are a very wierd species. I don't know when it became cool to have a million and one significant others in your life, or it became a given that relationships lasting longer than a specified period of time needs to be scoffed at, or even gazed at with a cynic's eye. Of most people I know, perhaps I have the cynic's eye more firmly implanted within my optic chambers, but even I don't get this wierd, warped way of thinking.

Therefore, it is with great joy that I learnt that two of my closest friends, Nihal and Sara, just completed four years of going out. True love still deos exist in this world, and these two guys truly epitomize that feeling. I've known them apart, and I have known them together. Both ways they are perfect, but I love watching the two of them together. To say that they are the best couple I know of, is no exaggeration..

Either ways, guys, here's to you..happy four years, and may your love always grow. I may be a million miles away, but I'm never gonna forget you guys. Happy Anniversary once more..

Cheers and good notions

V

THE MIND OF A TEENY-BOPPER

THE MIND OF A TEENY-BOPPER

(DAN DAN DAN DAAANNN...DAN!!)


Tis a strange mood that one finds me in today..hence, in order to either welcome you all to MY strange mood, or enable you to go into stranger moods yourself, I shall present to you a conversation I was privelleged to eavesdrop on. Enjoy, or make your own decisions as you read along. Bear in mind that this conversation happened a good two months ago, and therefore some major alterations may have happend to the main characters. That disclaimer in mind, ONWARDS!!!!

The Mind Of A Teeny-Bopper (for want of a better title)


The setting: Cafe Mochas, Churchgate, Mumbai. A rather chilled out coffee lounge, complete with hookahs, waiters dressed in somewhat traditional Moroccan attire (I say somewhat because I don't know what proper traditional Moroccan attire would be) and a rather Arabic feel and smell to it.

The Characters: Two teenaged girls, henceforth referred to as Teeny-Bopper 1 and Teeny-Bopper 2, this blogger(trying to look as if women are always late when meeting him, no big thing etc etc, but secretly wondering where the hell his company for the evening is), the waiters and other patrons of above mentioned coffee lounge.

The story:
Our tale begins at 5 pm on a Sunday evening. This blogger was reveling in the air-conditioning and trying to sing along with the original version of Ayesha, when the two teeny-boppers, who were incidentally seated behind me, decided to start a conversation. Having nothing else to do, being naturally predisposed to eavesdropping and owing to the fact that they were really,REALLY loud, I decided to lend an ear to their conversation.

T.B 1(with a tone of voice to convey imminent world destruction): YOU KNOW WHAT JUST HAPPENED????
T.B 2(eyes wide open): WHAT??
T.B 1: I really don't know how to tell you.
T.B 2: Tell me WHAT??
T.B 1: It's just way too wierd.

At this point, I let my eyes wander and noticed that several other tables were also paying attention to this highly intriguing conversation. Satisfied that I wasn't the only depraved individual in the establishment, I returned to eavesdropping. Bear in mind that nothing of importance had been said during this short interval, owing chiefly to the fact that the waiter had returnd with their orders.

T.B 2(taking a sip of her cold coffee): So tell na, what happened?

Yes, what happened indeed? T.B1 took a glance around to see if anyone else was listening. Obviously, EVERYONE was, but I don't think she noticed that fact.

T.B 1(taking a deep breath): HE asked me out!!!!!!
T.B2: He? Who he? (catching the meaningful look in her friend's eye) OHH!!! HE!! EWWW!!!

Lovely isn't it, the way these people have with words???

T.B1: I know!! I was, like, shocked! I didn't even know he liked me.
T.B2: And what did you say?? Please tell me you said No!!
T.B1: Obvio yaar!! How stupid do you think I am??

I'm sure everybody wanted to answer that question, but curiosity prevailed, and we listened on, hoping she'd explain why exactly she said NO!!

T.B2: Oh, thank God!! (religious, aren't we!!)
T.B1: Ya! I mean, just look at the clothes he wears..(AHA!!! We are getting somewhere!!) I mean, those baggy jeans, those stupid black t-shirts...CHEEE!!!!

At this moment, all the gentlemen (our young hero included) looked down to see our baggy jeans and our boring black t-shirts and cringed! But hope springs eternal, they say! And so it was, even in this dire state of mind, as she further proceeded to explain how we could become un "CHEEE".

T.B1: I mean, if only he wore some nice fitting, flared jeans, some nice pastel shades, and shoes instead of floaters with socks, then maybe I'd have said Yes. (How sweet of her!!) But now, EWWWW!!!
T.B2: I KNOW!!!How could he even think of asking YOU out? (The nerve of this guy!! Imagine...asking HER out??)

At this point, the conversation disintegrated into a fit of giggles and meaningless talk. My sympathies went out to the mysterious HE, although I feel that had he heard this conversation, he would thank his lucky stars that she'd turned him down.

And now. let us analyze the lessons learnt from this dialogue:

a) Eavesdropping is good fun?
V: Yes..I mean No..i mean..oh, just use your discretion when eavesdropping. Anything else??

b) The two girls were the dumb blonde types?
V: Incase you weren't paying attention, YES!! NOW ANYTHING ELSE??

c) You are not cool??
V: Ahh!! You are correct, sir. You see, dear reader, my entire wardrobe consists of predominantly black t-shirts(much to my granny's despair) and really baggy jeans(she has a few choice words about those too). Therefore I AM NOT COOL!! It takes getting used to.

But hope springs eternal. I too shall hunt for some nice-fitting jeans, some nice pastel-shaded shirts and shoes!! I TOO SHALL BE COOL!!

Cheers and good notions,
V

P.S: I'm not actually going to buy those! So I'm uncool! Atleast I'm comfortable!

TULL!! (Part 2)

And check this out. Visions of Delany again. You'd never guess from the name what it's about, and neither can you guess where it goes from the first stanza to the tear-jerker ending.

"The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)"

The disc brakes drag,
The chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
The young man's home; dry as a bone.
His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
Dead or alive.

The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,
touches the old man where he sleeps.
The nurse brings up a cup of tea ---
two biscuits and the morning paper mystery.
The hard road's end, the white god's-send
is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.

The still-born child can't feel the rain
as the chequered flag falls once again.
The deaf composer completes his final score.
He'll never hear the sweet encore.
The chequered flag, the bull's red rag,
the lemming-hearted hordes
running ever faster to the shore singing,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.

TULL! TULL!! TULL!!!

Ian Anderson is a lovely lyricist. And this writing is so Samuel Delany. Just savour this:

"Budapest"

I think she was a middle-distance runner...
Could be a budding stately hero.
International competition in a year.
She was a good enough reason for a party...
(well, you couldn't keep up on a hard track mile)
while she ran a perfect circle.
And she wore a perfect smile
in Budapest... hot night in Budapest.

We had to cozzy up in the old gymnasium...
dusting off the mandolins and checking on the gear.
She was helping out at the back-stage...
stopping hearts and chilling beer.
Yes, and her legs went on for ever.
Like staring up at infinitythrough a wisp of cotton panty
along a skin of satin sea.Hot night in Budapest.

You could cut the heat, peel it back with the wrong side of a knife.
Feel it blowing from the sidefills.
Feel like you were playing for your life(if not the money).
Hot night in Budapest.

She bent down to fill the ice box
and stuffed some more warm white wine in
like some weird unearthly vision
wearing only T-shirt, pants and skin.
You know, it rippled, just a hint of muscle.
But the boys and me were heading west
so we left her to the late crew
and a hot night in Budapest.
It was a hot night in Budapest.

She didn't speak much English language...(she didn't speak much anyway).
She wouldn't make love, but she could make good sandwich
and she poured sweet wine before we played.
Hey, Budapest, cha, cha, cha. Let's watch her now.

I thought I saw her at the late night restaurant.
She would have sent blue shivers down the wall.
But she didn't grace our table.
In fact, she wasn't there at all.
Yes, and her legs went on forever.
Like staring up at infinity.
Her heart was spinning to the west-lands
and she didn't care to be
that night in Budapest.
Hot night in Budapest.

TWO JOURNEYS

by

K.

Journey 2.
Or
Further Adventures of a Furious Character

a.k.a.

The Drear Side

I have already mentioned the funnier aspects of a BMTC Bus Journey. That was Journey 1. But, being cursed to travel every single day, and that many times within the course of each single day, I have opportunity to study the sadder, more melancholy aspects too. Indeed, look at all the facets of Journey 1: the drunks, the smells, the fear and the loathing (to borrow but a phrase) and you will see what I mean – they can be a representation of the sadder side too.

If you do not see as yet, go by bus. To someplace, anyplace. Then come back home. Go, and come, by a crowded bus. Believe me, you will then know what authors mean when they say “a bespattered cross-section of the lower strata of humanity” or some such shit. Because that phrase means, roughly translated, “all the people who go by BMTC buses”, in Swahili. Other terms in Swahili meaning roughly the same thing are, “The UnderPrivileged”, “Smelly Cats, Smelly Cats” and “FCUKinkybuggers”.

It is a very depressing thing, going by bus. Very saddening, very maddening. Hey! I can write a poem about it!!! See (if I were to write it), it (would) goes thus:

It is really saddening, maddening,
It’s not the least bit gladdening,
The way you go by bus.
It’s all very depressing, oppressing,
And there’s also a little cross-dressing,
In the way we go by bus…

The travelers are so flagrant, vagrant,
And not too very fragrant,
As they go by bus.
I hope you see my meaning, gleaning
Something from this preening
Of how I go by bus.

And so on.

I am every day enveloped by the collective unconscious (No, not the new Herrera perfume for women, the feelings of the people) as soon as I enter a bus. Any bus. Crowded, uncrowded; stinky, fragrant – it doesn’t matter. There is a…sadness in the air, what’s left of it.

You get the feeling it must be really, really sad for all these people to be condemned to such a fate as to come by such dreary means everyday, and then you realize that you do the same thing yourself and you heartily agree with whatever you just thought now.

Some of the things you see outside the buses always seem to portray something of an idyllic, pastoral charm. Be it the early morning sunlight slanting through the leaves, the sambhrani smoke from earthen houses, the people meeting at the local bakery and having a cuppa chai. Or it is evening and amidst all the people rushing back home, you see someone walking a dog, some children playing, someone walking with a lover in a park.

I can clearly remember the line from Le Carré’s first Smiley,
“Beyond the trees, Smiley thought, cars are passing. Beyond the trees lies a whole world…”

Indeed, beyond the window, life exists. And it is somehow amplified by the fact that you cannot move at all, you cannot take too deep a breath – A metaphor between traveling in a bus and the ultimate oblivion? I don’t know. Maybe Death is an infinite BMTC bus-ride. The Final Bus-ride. Passes Not Allowed – when it is but human to move and breathe, these being the biological indications of life. An organism is said to be a living organism if it eats, excretes, breathes and is able to move from one place to another.

And then there are the drear scenes…

Moving through Kalasipalyam, I see policemen inside a bylane. The bus moves forward, crossing a police vehicle, and in it, dazed, eyes wide, sits an old woman. She seems shell-shocked, unable to move, blink, or close her open mouth. Her hair, and the whole left side of her face is caked with red blood. She just sits there, staring out through the protective grille, as the bus moves on.

We near Hebbal, and it is night. The roadlamps cast a sickly yellow glow over everything. There is a rotting pig’s carcass on the roadside, and some crows are making an evening meal of it. Right next to them, as though accentuating the metaphor of death, a man climbs down from an Ambassador, dressed in white dhoti and anga-vastram, to perform someone’s last rites in Hebbal lake. And then I remember that the Electric Crematorium is just on the other side of the road.

A little further ahead, are some…beings. Hermaphrodites. Eunuchs. Doubling as prostitutes. They sit on the roadside, no expression on their faces, clothes undone to display wares. Selling themselves. Gender-confused daughters of Hermes and Aphrodite selling themselves to the rest of humanity.

Dreary, bleary scenes. Scenes of life, the way it is. No gloss, no glamour. Just blood, and gore and flesh. And death.

Scenes from a moving bus. Life.

And, as usual, a Sabbath song comes to my mind. Also, in passing, I must state that Iommi and Ozzy are some of the GREATEST lyricists ever. Heavy metal rules. The lines I’m thinking of go:

Inclination of direction, walk the turn and twisted grift

With the children of creation futuristic dreams we sift

Clutching violently we whisper with a liquefying cry

Many deadly final answers that are surely doomed to die.

Won’t you help me Mr. Jesus? Won't you tell me if you can?

When you see this world we live in, do you still believe in man?

If my psalms become my freedom, and my freedom turns to gold

Then I'll ask the final question: if the answer could be sold…

The song is appropriately titled, “The Thrill of It All”.