The Alphabet Avalanche

Have you read the story of the Alphabet Soup? It is about a little boy who loved food more than study (hm..I wonder why). So his mother cooked up (pun intended) this brilliant idea of serving him alphabet soup, that could help him learn while eating.

I want Alphabet Soup. Something that would help me learn while eating (since Eating is a rather over-regular habit of mine) But more than that, my brain currently feels like an Alphabet Soup - overloaded with letters, words, phrases, sentences, whole paragraphs and texts. I suppose it's what happens if you get branded as a geek (Hey, I'm happy to be one ok?) But it is finally turning against me.

Too many alphabets in the mind, and too little time to sort it all out. Each alphabet has become an abbreviation for a much larger topic and they're all swirling and tumbling out like an avalanche. The best way to get it all out is to write it somewhere. And since I have finally reached a stage where I type almost ten times faster than I write, I figured this place would be the best to let the dam burst and bring forth all the alphabets.

So, just for my own purely narcissistic incomprehensible catharsis, here goes:

JHEDKGHFJIRUTHYOPINLGKFHDJSNIWHGYTEIFHSLSKAHFEFNVMCNXZASKWOQPEORUFHGNDMSLAPWRIDN.

It isn't a code. It isn't cryptic in any way. It's just a way of getting my frustration out on my keyboard and onto the screen. Suddenly, my mind feels less jumbled, less complicated. Try it, it may not make your hair shinier or skin fairer, but it will definitely make you feel lighter.

Bhel Puri.

This post resembles one. A mix of tangy, sweet and sour days that constituted these past couple of weeks.

Firstly, I've graduated!!!! Yay! (Okay, so I missed my convocation, and haven't seen my degree certificate but the fact that I have a degree certificate lying somewhere with my name on it is good enough, thankyouverymuch.) It's taken a year for us to get it though. The enthusiasm doesn't seem to be as high as it was on our 'graduation' day, but still. It feels good to hold a Beeyay degree! (For further reference on how much this Beeyay degree matters to me, kindly read up the Beeyay trilogy - one for each year of my Beeyay - Beeyay I , Beeyay II and Beeyay III)

I'm working on a Yemmay (MA) post soon too. Just haven't found enough people to make me indignant enough for it, which may be a good thing - I guess education does earn you respect.

And then there was Friendship Day. Remember how we'd all make friendship bands in school? And then tie them to 'only our close friends' and compare it with others to see who had the maximum on their hands. Somehow, I never really believed in the 'Friendship's Day' idea. Not because I think I everyday is a friendship day or any of that jazz. But more because it forced me to tie bands on only certain people. I mean, how long would those bands last anyway? (I've saved some and used them to tie on my baggage for easy identification) Do you still have the bands people gave you in school? Or even better, do you remember which band was given by whom?

So Friendship is more than just a band (unless you're in the cast of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai). My friends today are scattered far and wide, and we may not really message one another on this day, but are still close enough to be able to message any day, at any time, without giving it a second thought. That's what truly matters, I guess.

Friendship is when you feel so low that you just send a sad smiley to your friend sitting cities apart and she immediately sends one back and calls.

It is when you're struggling to reverse your car, and your friends are standing behind you, glaring at anyone who dares honks at you (including noting their license number...and bothering to remember it hours later!).

It is when you really want to eat an ice-cream at this parlour and you're so sure it was designed for romantic couples, but your friends insist on you trying it out anyway, and grab spoons along with you and attack it with a gusto that would've put soldiers of the World Wars to shame.

It is when you know that if you go online, there's always a friend waiting to share their day with you, to hear out yours, and discuss everything under the sun and beyond.

So cheers to the new age friendships - that don't need bands or vows to reaffirm the connection.

Okay, after all the mush, let's turn to slush. Last week, I waded through the slush to land up at Karol Bagh. Brilliant place it is! Like the Punjabi T.Nagar-land! The beautiful beautiful clothes there brought out a sigh from even a tomboyish cynic like me! (I only have one 'beautiful clothes', FYI...to prove the tomboyish cynic jibe.)

And it has been raining all day all week. It started off by being very romantic (and I mean this in the connotation of relating with nature, not love), and now it has turned plain boring. I mean, everyday? Enough, ok? Delhi, please dry up your tears and bring forth sunshine. You washed away your summer grime very well.

Oh, and have you all been reading about the Commonwealth Games? We're all proof to how much the progress really is. I shudder to think how it'll all be completed. It's like a ghastly assignment that's due in a week's time and you've no idea how to go about it. Let's just hope they do know how to go about it, and will do it. Each day seems like a stab on their report card, and makes even people like me follow the reports anxiously, wondering how our country will be able to pull it off. It's turning me into a Jingoist, and how.

So these past couple of days was truly a Bhel Puri. Since I cannot eat it (do you know how lethal it is to eat anything raw from outside, especially in Typhoid-Jaundice ridden Monsoon in Delhi?) I figured I'd metaphorically use it to convert yet another self-obsessed bunch of thoughts into a blog post. :-)

The Sun Sets on Summer

Two months have passed, and how. If you were to ask me (since I tend to make you ask me ridiculously hypothetical questions on this blog) where I'd spend my summer, I'd promptly reply 'Anywhere but in Delhi, thanks.' And since my life is basically a null hypothesis, where the opposite is always proven right, I did end up spending a scorching summer in Delhi. Which would explain the nostalgic weather posts, I suppose. Well, the experience was totally worth the weather....or so I tell myself in order to dive deeper into denial.

The good part is that I got to see a side of Delhi I never ventured to explore. The buses. Ever tried getting into a DTC bus, mate? Try it. It's awesome. And after you return from the orthopedic ward, tell me ALL about it. But no seriously. I spent two days driving back and forth from work, endured traffic jams, tyre punctures and road rage. Then I decided to give the car a rest and try the bus instead. Worked like a charm. Well, almost, since I spent a fair amount of time tripping down the stairs, elbowing people out of the way, grabbing a seat..the usual stuff. But the view from up there is great! (and I'm generally sensitive about views. All short people are.)

My Hindi improved drastically. So now I actually say something and the other person understands what I'm saying. And if you were to randomly ask me the time at 1.30 in the night, I will now mutter Dedh Baje rather than Saade Ek. Remarkable improvement, wouldn't you say?

I'm more comfortable flying. Yes, because I've suddenly sprouted wings and decided to test them cross country. (Sunsets on Summers does wonders to my depleting Sarcasm Levels.) So in the past two months, I've gone back and forth from home and realized it's not half bad. That would be because my recent flight included a snack of Paneer and a video of Veer. They rhymed to torture me, I suppose...but it did take my mind off flying and focus on lousy in-flight food and entertainment.

I've finally realized the value of 'Home'. Lounging on your couch and watching TV all day, drinking Chocolate Milkshake and leaving the glass below the couch knowing that it would be gone in an hour. Taking small things like wet towels and strewn socks for granted. Having your say in the menu of the day (okay, my mom refused my dream menu of Potatoes for breakfast, Potatoes for lunch and Potatoes for dinner...and after making a mess of the house in two days, I was ordered to pick up after myself as well....but you get the drift.)

So yes, Summer has been a good teacher. Not just in understanding how all my undergraduate and graduate textbooks have transformed into real people and cases, but also in managing a work+home schedule, travelling to far away places in buses, handling car malfunctions, bearing the weather, irate people and crying children. The Sun Sets on my Summer, and will soon rise on a new beginning. (That almost sounds like I've ripped it off a song from High School Musical - I really do need to work on better conclusions.)

Of Whims and Pansies.

I've never reviewed a movie on my blog. And for good reason, because I like every movie I watch. So technically, I should be given commission by the distributors for reviewing their movies because I will invariably write a glowing review. Not a very good, objective journalist, no. But it works for me, because every movie becomes a delightful experience.

The best kind of movies are those that you end up watching on a whim. (Okay, so I had planned on watching this one since forever...but something kept turning up to thwart the plan...and I had almost given up for good when a sudden let-off from work inspired a bunch of us to run to the next available show.)

And yes, I was trying to 'up my cool quotient' (courtesy Sneha) by not mentioning the name of the movie...but I guess it would be out eventually. I was clamouring so vehemently to go watch I Hate Luv Storys. Which I really don't. Hate Love stories, I mean. However, I do hate intentionally erred grammar, but that was forgiven when I saw Imran Khan's beatific smile on those huge posters everywhere.

So yes, it began with that let off (my story, not the movie.) One moment we were trying our best to calculate IQs and DQs and SQs and the next moment we were sent off politely to enjoy the rest of the day. After frantic phone-calls to those who live near newspapers, we found one theatre showing the movie within 20 minutes. Without wasting any time, we hopped on to an auto (actually, we did waste time trying to find an A/C bus....but in vain. One day I will personally vandalize 724 and change every damn bus to numbers of MY choice. I only see the A/C versions of that one bus.) and ran to Connaught Place.

Have I mentioned Connaught Place before? The place I used to love to visit, because of the many 'hurring' opportunities, because of the brightly hued clothes, baubles and shoes lining streets, because of the radials that seem to merge into each other, every step being a new one even after you've walked around for hours. So yes, fun experience.....WAS.

Today, it lies choking amidst the dust emanating from the non-existent footpaths. The pillars are on crutches and roads cease to exist between the radials. Which would explain why our seemingly congenial auto-bhaiya stopped in front of Janpath resolutely and refused to budge. We started our mini-trek amidst the debris to reach PVR Plaza. After crossing many radials, and almost getting steamrollered by a bulldozer (no really, because we kept trudging along the muddy-slushy path without bothering to look up and see that 15 foot monster glaring at us.)

We reached the first building that resembled a multiplex and demanded tickets for the 2.50 show. No can do, we were told, since a 2.50 show didn't exist at Plaza. We cursed wrongly printed time-tables in newspapers until it struck us, to um....I don't know, maybe read the name of the multiplex we were standing in. (really, we HAVE to look up once in a while....bulldozers, wrong multiplexes...everything evades us.) It took us about a millisecond to realize that a 2.50 show does exist in the Plaza, except we weren't there. And it was 2.45. So we began another dash through the radials to search for Plaza.

A couple of very frustrating, sweaty, muddy and hunger-filled moments later, we found ourselves in plush seats, surrounded by popcorn and air conditioning. The movie finally began.

So how was it? Well, I *loved* it. The songs, clothes (including a particular shirtless protagonist ;-) ), the acting, the jokes, everything. It makes for good entertainment. And since I'm a sucker for love stories (and my room is pink), this is one movie people have made with credulous pansies like me in mind.

So the best way to watch a movie is on a whim. Plan everything in advance, and you'll end up expecting too much. Just take the next available means of transport to a theatre and watch the first movie playing, and you'll walk back home in the drizzle with a smile. Or at least, I did.

I've Heard That Song Before...

'I've heard that Song before' ..did you know that's the title of a rather creepy Mary Higgins Clark book? But it is also a phrase that's been going over and over my mind lately. (and is in ABSOLUTELY no way related to Higgins Clark...who by the way, is the author of some pretty fantastic psychological thrillers.)

So anyway, like every other post, I digress from the topic, getting carried away by an allegorical title. Hm. So when was the last time you happened to channel surf on the radio and catch an English Song from way long ago?

Today I heard 'November Rain' by Guns N' Roses. Blame it on the weather (it was actually raining today...and I don't mean the paltry tears of pity.....but more like how my house gets flooded when I read books like 'A Walk to Remember'.

Took me back to school memories. (And no, I'm not that old. Just some memories with the song.) And it got me thinking.....how I've loved one genre of music at various stages of my not very old life.

Remember Aqua? Those neon-fuschia haired people who looked like they were perpetually inebriated on psychedelic colours and weird lyrics? They sang that noxious Barbie Girl song. (now I call it noxious...back then I knew the entire song by heart and would go HAW when the undress me everywhere part would come) They were the Coolest! (Back then.)

And then came, of course BoyBands. Yes yes. I've also drooled over Nick Carter at some point in my life. And bought the BackStreet Boys cassette just to have a record of his photograph. Songs like 'I want it that Way' and 'Show me the meaning of being lonely' were, like, soulful. Or whatever. I've never somehow felt that miserable in life to sing Backstreet boys songs to myself. Then and now. Thank god.

I even tried experimenting with Rock and Metal and all those non-breakable types of music. St.Anger, was it? Where prisoners beat food plates and sing in some frenzy? And that Linkin Park song? Where the whole song happens underwater, and you come to know right at the end when a fish goes gurgling by? Very interesting videos. Songs were catchy too. I remember narrating the video of Guns N' Roses 'November Rain' to a friend of mine. She burst out laughing at the whole wedding-funeral lachrymose. But when I told her the name of the song....she had this awed look. So I eventually realized. The more ludicrous the video, the more popular the song. How else can one explain Thriller?

Oh, and then there was that Avril Lavigne stage. Oh Dear. I don't like thinking about it. I'd sing 'Complicated' at the drop of a hat. It was so bad that if I were to assess the Passing through the Avril Stage version of myself, I'd diagnose Cyclothymia. (milder version of Bipolar Disorder). And then came Evanescence with the pseudo-head banging routine (which has nothing to do with the song's video....but more to do with look I can appreciate clanging music and follow its rhythm.)

Who can forget School/College fests with Summer of '69 and Zombie? They've been played at every fest I've attended. Every. Like an anthem of sorts. Even now when I hear those songs, my mind goes into reverse gear and takes me back to then.

So isn't it funny how every song can remind you of something or the other? I've cast my iPod (which I gave my dad actually, who, in a fit of enthusiasm, filled all the memory with songs from Sinatra, Simon and Garfunkle, Beatles, Eagles, Abba etc etc. Ancestral but brilliant music-makers.) away for my dysfunctional Mp3 player just because it plays the radio. So I can listen to English songs that spurt out spontaneously, and not from a rehearsed shuffle pattern. So I can dream on with every song I've heard before.

Bharta of the Brain

A Bharta is a dish of burnt brinjal. It is roasted over a slow flame until the skin is completely charred, and then cooked into a dish. In this scorching summer, I feel pretty much the same. And no, this is not *another* rant about the weather. It is a nice, quaint, petite collection of minuscule things that make me feel like, well...uhm....MAKING A BHARTA OF THIS WORLD.

The other day, I had the misfortune to fall ill and sleep on the couch and watch TV all weekend. Big Mistake. After watching a million reruns of Castle (I will hunt down Richard Castle and marry him someday, yessirree.) and 90210 (What? I was sick ok? I have the right to watch it.) and Scrubs and every other possible show on Star World, I finally found the remote and changed the channel to watch something in Hindi. I figured I would be able to improve my hindi in some way, and not scandalize my poor unsuspecting patients by asking them ridiculously worded questions.

So I put this channel. And this serial is coming. The woman is yelling at her daughter-in-law. After some 20 minutes of yelling, I realize that she's gotten her son married only so that she could find an object of torture on which she can displace her forty odd years of marital frustration. The poor girl gets yelled at for cooking well because this Hitler incarnate feels that this harmless person is trying to usurp her position in the family. By cooking theplas, apparently.

Before I have time to react, another serial begins. (Most hindi serials are 20 minutes of torture and 10 minutes of advertisements) In this one, two 15 year old children are married. *Married*. And the Mother casually asks her older (unmarried) daughter on the phone, 'Beta, we're getting the kids married..can you come early from college today?'

Remember when Baalika Vadhu came out and everyone hailed it as something that would break conventions, stereotypes and expose the rural India's fatalistic beliefs? Well, not exactly. Since the protagonist of that serial is now seen enjoying her 'marital' life by running around the house in pretty clothes, worrying about how much salt to add to the khaana and if her husband is well supplied with his daily dose of jalebis. So much for female empowerment.

Has the portrayal of a woman deteriorated so much in Hindi Serials? Show me one soap where the woman is hailed for being, well, just who she is - a normal person...and I'll show you failed TRPs. Almost everything that comes on TV domesticates the woman like a household cat, which just needs to preen and occasionally purr at people. If the woman is working, then she's either in love with the boss, or the colleague, or just random people. She's not just 'being herself' without the tag of wife/girlfriend/daughter etc.

Why must we be forced to watch pregnant women singing happily about their upcoming babies, married little girls cooking halwas and awkward young women standing in front of random strangers for being 'accepted' as a prospective daughters-in-law?

Feminism in the Hindi TV Serial world has regressed to the 1800s. And we're watching it like unblinking zombies. If the weather hasn't overcooked the grey cells already, then let's just say this has just about burnt it completely.

Weathering Heights!

If you are born a Bangalorean, you will be obsessed about three main things.

1) The Weather.

2) The Weather.

3) and The Weather.

There is a large balancing scale up there in the skies. When the weather gets too sunny, the clouds tip the balance and pour rain all over the city. When the rains get too overwhelming, the Sun tips the balance and pours sunshine instead. The scales stay at an equilibrium, thanks to this natural tipping technique. And we boast about it to the rest of the universe.

Sure, there are those things that irritate you about the weather. For example, I constantly worry about the clouds causing turbulence, which will effectively make me a nervous wreck during take off and landing. Also the fact that now, thanks to the Metro construction work, muddle puddles are no longer just 'Muddy'. They're filthy, and you really don't feel like jumping into one just to dirty your friend's shoes.

But the most irritating thing about Bangalore's weather? You can't enjoy it once you're out of the city. Chennai, you're home. I agree. You have the sea, the sea breeze, and evenings that resemble Bangalore. But you also have Humidity. Someone who blissfully ignores my city.

And Delhi? Oh well. Whatever. You're like Fried Ice Cream. Too hot, Too cold.

But Bangalore? You are a true blue sadist. Making me fall in love with you for over 20 years, and then depriving me of your warmth and coolness.

A place I can wear a sweater in June and not fuss about how everyone will laugh. A place which always has sparkling clean trees, because they've just been given a wash. A place where you can sip hot coffee, and eat ice cream on the same day. A place where you can just walk...with no destination, and no care in the world, because the weather is perfect, and that's all you need.

I miss you. :-(