Lessons.

I am writing this because I am clever and diabolical and no one will ever know. I am Sauron. I am an unknown evil genius mobster's bald pate sticking out from behind a chair. I am a devil. I am a dimer debhil. I will now sit at a trestle table and wear fancy headgear with blonde braids and look all beery fierce and applecheeked and clink tankards around. Nothing matters, I am now so beyond cool it's scary. And no one shall ever know. So there. Muahahahaha.

This is most definitely a Cryptic Post. Not to mention a First Of Its Kind. Go figure.

Stupid.

In exactly three hours I will start wishing I had bothered to read the text when I had the time. This always happens. Right now I'm supposed to be reading about the text instead of the text itself but no, look, it's Beowulf! It's almost like Tolkien! It has words like gumption in it! It has fighting! It's just a poem. Right up there with all the other idiocies I exhibit lies the fact that I'm good at coming up with the wrong kind of excuses. I'm also fabulous at being happy that soon, soon, soon the exam will be over. I'm not a bad literature student, I'm not really a bad anything. I don't think anyone is. It's just very likely that I'm the lemming PB warned the class about. I'm twitching my nose already, look, and very soon I'll start running.

Oh man. I hate Regina Spektor's new album so much it hurts. Mainly because I loved her earlier work so much it hurt. I hate it that the simplicity's gone and everything's now arranged and synthesized and very obviously melodic (melodious?), and there are no fun parts and no fun lyrics and she doesn't suddenly slam her fingers down on the piano in the middle of a song anymore. I used to like that discordant feel. And now there's nothing quirky, nothing startling. I'm not really a pop music hater but it's sad when everything starts becoming popsical. Music heartbreaks always hurt that way.

Second cold this season. What is this. My physiognomy's a farce. Or do I mean system? I mean system if system includes inner mechanisms, they're also working dubiously. In a bid to clear the head and improve concentration (no, really, that's just an excuse) I turned to the Rubaiyyat. Goes to show exactly how guilty I am of faulty judgment, but even that isn't half as disturbing as the laughing-and-sneezing-at-regular-intervals routine that's been on since eight AM today.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd -
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

Must. Stop. Finding. Innuendos. Everywhere.

I'm definitely still stuck at the anal stage.

Mostly I miss school lunch breaks. I miss Debhuti's muri and Bapi chanachur and I miss Sil's chilli chicken and I miss Sonali's pink gobi (now that was a work of art) and I miss Soeta's aloo stuff with the mayo stuff. Mostly I miss how everyone just came alive for those thirty minutes. Then we went back to class as figures in uniform, inanity and empty lunch boxes chuck into bag please thank you. Outside of that half an hour we were all so different I think we wouldn't have been friends at all without the prospect of having that lunch period to fool around in. Mostly I miss that, it's the only thing I miss about school.

Lessons learnt at the KFF this time were like The Shawshank Redemption, which is to say, after crawling through a lot of shit short films are free air, which is to say I didn't just say that.

बचपन

सामने जो एक नाला है ना, गिर नहीं जाना उसमें, ठीक?

गिरने से क्या होगा?

अरे! गिरने से क्या होगा? एक हज़ार नौ सौ छिपकलियाँ एक के बाद एक नाले के कीचड़ से निकलेंगी, फिर पानी में तैरकर तुम्हारे ऊपर चढ़कर आस्ते आस्ते तुम्हारे मुंह तक पहुंचकर अपने तेज़ नुकीले दाँतों से ... चीखो मत!

मुझे घर जाना है।

क्या? क्यूँ?

मुझे घर जाना है!

पर घर तो नाले के उस पार है।






From ever so long ago. Horrible kid I must've been.

Winter's here! Apples! There are apples everywhere. I ate five yesterday and paid dearly this morning but no matter. Apples today also, also oranges, soon. And grapes and papayas and aaaaaaaaaa I love winter fruit.

List, tentative:
KK.
Socks.
Confed?
Wok.
Beowulf?
Plum.

Ok. First three nada, no money. Wok arbitrary, really, what's the need? Beowulf should've been top on the list, now that I think of it. Ok. I'm going to die of bad decision-making ability.

Replied to pending emails, deactivated Facebook account, started waking up early to take walks, I am Changing my Life! Clap clap. It's getting a little boring being this perfect, though, which is why I haven't cleaned my room yet. I refuse to. But since I've been Changing my Life there must be rewards, hence am working my way through unwatched movies.

Been cooking random stuff all week. Frittata and sausage rolls and coffee pudding, will be cooking some more. Cake possibly, but more likely spaghetti. Since all I'm doing at home is reading irrelevant stuff - reread Adrift on the Nile and a Dick Francis, not to mention a highly entertaining morning with an anniversary-special Femina, that magazine's hysterical - I think it's highly productive and head-clearing at the same time to cook, I don't have to think about the food while I'm making it. What I object to, however, is the folks thinking that this qualifies me to cook omelettes everyday. Everyday omelettes are not a joke. Omelettes are works of art and unless they're treated that way they'll be mean to you. Fact.

On second thought, this is a very pointless post. Wahoo.

THEY'RE PLAYING VENGABOYS AT FULL BLAST. THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE.