Some thoughts, some memories

If I haven’t said it before, I’ll say it again—I think a part of me is going to miss this city with its weather changes akin to mood swings of a woman with PMS. When I landed here for studies I think it was raining (I have quite a bad memory, so please excuse me) and when I leave this city to go home, it’s raining again. Normally every city follows a cycle—if it rains in November last year then one supposes it should rain in November this year. But not Bangalore, no. 

I’m not rather fond of rains;yes, I can get fussy about traveling when it rains. It’s all for good reason: I know there isn’t any scientific reason behind this, but every time I get wet in the rains, I catch a cold. I’m not exaggerating. It’s either that or sinus. Besides who wants muddy water splashed on them.It also gets uncomfortably cold and there are mosquitoes everywhere humming an annoying tune into your ear, not letting you sleep. Yes, I can see you indicating that mouth-watering food can be had at this time of the year, but I disagree one can have delectable food when they want and that it shouldn’t be dictated by weather. But if you are going to take that argument further then listen to my points.

Summer is indeed a wonderful weather for good food! Imagine ripe watermelons either cut into pieces with  chaat masala sprinkled on them or as a cold juice, whichever your mouth prefers. Mangoes! Now, I’m not a mango lover but I can see you are one. Cold mangoes and cream or ice cream or in a milkshake or just eaten without chopping it into pieces. Cold coffee, ice cream, salads, cold beer, cocktails and mocktails, iced tea… You are a hot pakodas and chai fan? Well, have them in the evening as a tea time snack.

Tell me, do you REALLY want your movie plans ruined by a rainy day, a constantly gloomy day that puts you to sleep or worse, a day that doesn’t let you shake off your blanket? Of course not!

Anyway, back to the subject, we have drifted enough. Bangalore has given me many firsts (some of which I’m not going to list here and will keep it as a secret) like standing 2 feet away from my idol, breathing the same air as him. I don’t think that would have been possible if I’d stayed in Chennai or moved to Mumbai. My first major fight with a close friend, a taste at living with unknown people (and people thought finding soul mates online was worse), north Indian friends (yes yes, all my close friends before postgrad are south Indians), one Goan friend(!), savouring Spanish wine (thank you Priyanka!), getting a story published online, cake at midnight thanks to the numerous people whose birthday is celebrated in the hostel irrespective of that person being one’s friend or not and many other memories, which I’ll cherish for years to come and try to remember most of it.

I haven’t gotten a job yet, I’m hoping to get one in the near future and I think it’ll be in Chennai most probably. I did think of moving to Mumbai for some time; yet another city, which is close to my heart but the plans did not materialize. Maybe it isn’t time yet, but I do know for sure that I have a strong connection with that city and only time will tell.

Coming back to the main subject, I have most certainly bought more books than clothes and footwear combined. Then again, no one can have enough books. Blossoms and other random book sales are my favourite haunts in Bangalore. Every time I step out of my hostel, I make it a point to buy at least one book. I don’t know what it is but that pull towards books is magnetic, almost gravity-like to the extent that I have gone broke due to it. Nevertheless, that has never deterred me from purchasing some more!

10 months have passed away amazingly quick and everything is a blur to me. When college started, I could only crib at how much I missed home and every holiday was a chance for me to escape home. At one point I realized that I knew nothing about the city I made home temporarily. I woke up. I then began my journey discovering Bangalore and I must say it’s such a fulfilling one. I’m glad I took up this decision to move to Bangalore for a short period, glad that I met some amazing people (some random, some permanent), indulged in good food and better moments. Thank you, Bangalore!

An update

We have to create a webpage for our thesis (as we aren't multimedia students). Nothing could be more boring, especially when all classes and the thesis viva is over. One week of enjoyment also not allowed. The only thing I'm looking forward to is going home and taking a break before I land a job.

To make my time in the lab seem more er.. "attractive" I'm listening to music. And I have noted that people stink even after they take a bath or two. Why can't they use something called a deodorant? And why can't they talk softly for the love of god!

Anyway, current earworm is "Yengae Yenathu Kavithai" from Kandukondein Kandukondein

And my favorite lines, for good reason that too!
paaRaiyil seydhadhu en manam enRu
thozhikku solliyirundhaen
paaRaiyin idukkil vaervitta kodiyaay
nee nenjil muLaiththuvittaay

Had to be said

That I'm feeling like Blair Waldorf in season 3 of GG when she joins NYU.

My short story

Recently I participated in a short story/poem/play competition conducted by NGMA (Bangalore). We, the participants, had to view a painting for however long we wanted and then get inspired and write.

Now, I may not be an art connoisseur, but when a painting makes no sense, it just doesn't make sense. I don't remember who the painter was, but I remember the painting. One word: Haphazard. There were ducks on a table cloth, an airplane, a cycle, a car and some people.

I didn't really get inspired, but the cycle set me thinking and that's how my short story evolved. I do hope you enjoy reading it. Bouquets and brickbats are welcome!

Book review — Lucknow Boy

Vinod Mehta’s Lucknow Boy, A Memoir, I’m sorry to say, starts quite unexpectedly dull. The first two chapterswere incredibly boring (in fact, I put off reading them for a while) and was quite a task getting past them. 

You would expect Mehta’s professional life, which was nothing short of a roller coaster ride, to be written in an electrifying fashion, but it hardly promises to live up to that. The book, then takes an interesting ride when he takes up the editorship of Debonair (apparently, India’s own Playboy).

How Mehta became the editor of Debonair is another story altogether. Tired of working as a copywriter for an advertising agency (modeling was his other option) and left with no other means of money, (he wrote a book titled Bombay—A Private View, which actually sold more copies than he expected) he wrote a letter to the publisher of Debonair and pleaded with him to give him just six months with the magazine.

The rest as they say is history.

After former Prime Minister Vajpayee’s remark to Mehta about how the former had to hide Debonair under his pillow, Mehta thought it was time to leave; but he wasn’t finished yet.

He would bring out India’s first Sunday paper, Sunday Observer, become the editor of Indian Post at the request of his publisher, resign due to a controversy (a word which always exists in Mehta’s dictionary) and later become the editor for yet another newspaper: Independent (and resign subsequently). In between Independent and Outlook, Mehta worked for yet another newspaper, which the skeptics dismissed at first, but Mehta’s arrival, reversed the fortunes of the paper,Pioneer.

His biggest project, the magnum opus,Outlook,would be the turning point of his life and would pose as the biggest competition for India Today (as Mehta puts it, “India Today stood like the Taj Mahal). 

With Outlook, Mehta looked like he would stay put in one magazine for quite a long time and he did. His career in the magazine spanned 17 long years (he resigned recently and Krishna Prasad has taken over as editor-in-chief).

The book also tracks Mehta locking horns with Arun Shourie, Salman Rushdie, Sharad Pawar, Shobhaa De etc., and his cordial relationships with A. B. Vajpayee, Sonia Gandhi and quite a few others.

The autobiography has two quotes before the introduction, one by George Orwell, and another by W.B. Yeats. The Orwell quotereads, “An autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful.” The book agrees on that note: Mehta fathered an illegitimate child, something that he regrets. This, to me, is the single most scandalous fact in the book.

Lucknow Boy reads like a storybook, the flow is smooth, interesting, and honest and one gets a good glimpse into Mehta’s professional life (his personal life, however, does not get much of a mention). Lucknow Boy is one of those books you would want to keep on your bedside table and flip through it to understand journalism in India from 1980 until today.

A letter to Dr Singh

Dear Dr Manmohan Singh,

I have questions for you Dr. Manmohan Singh, and they’re coming thick and fast. But don’t worry; they’re only a meager three—nothing more, nothing less. I promise.

You’re just a bit short of being a wonderful prime minister. Make the ministers (sorry criminals who parade as ministers) accountable for what they’ve done (CWG scam, 2G scam) and I’ll agree you’re marvelous, if not wonderful.

Remember, you were the one who lost face after the scandals that India, not the actually tainted ones.

How can you allow someone like Anna Hazare to take the upper hand? As Ramachandra Guha fittingly writes in the Telegraph (Dec. 2011), “This last failure explains, among other things, the appeal of Anna Hazare, a man whose intellectual vision is as confined as Singh’s is large.” That Anna Hazare who has been compared to Mahatma Gandhi, how can you be so fearful of someone like him or your own government or should I say: Sonia Gandhi?

Agreed you did so well during the Indo-US nuclear deal, you asserted yourself and how! Then again, we might have surrendered ourselves to the US; a deal with the devil must be paid for.

Sometimes I think, and I’m sure many will agree with me on this, that you were a better finance minister than you were a prime minister; “father of financial reforms,” they call you. You welcomed foreign investment in India and opened up Indian economy. Before that you were the chief economic adviser, finance secretary, deputy chairman of the Planning Commission and Reserve Bank of India governor, where did all that go?

Agreed you’re the widely traveled Indian prime minister, after Nehru but why is it that you don’t travel more often within India? Yes, the world has its charms, but so does India. It’s important that you establish a rapport with Indians rather than George W. Bush who remarked that “the people of India love you.” Right now, I don’t think that’s the situation.

You’re known for being affable, a man of high integrity, and a decent man in Indian politics but at the same time you’re a social recluse, you keep to yourself and my number one pet peeve: why you don’t talk at all.

At best Sushma Swaraj sums it up for me: “Normally, our prime minister doesn’t talk, but when he does, then no one in his cabinet even listens to him.” It’s a big day for us when you decide to hold a press conference and address journalists.

Fine you have a Twitter account like Barack Obama or David Cameron, but addressing the nation when something big happens and holding criminals accountable and a once-in-a-while-friendly-chat would do. (In case if you didn’t know, there’s a parody of you called Dr Moneymohan Singh and he talks a lot!)

You really know you’re in danger and it’d do the nation good if you could answer my three questions. Rather, it’d do yourself good if you can answer those questions.

Yours sincerely,

A concerned citizen of India

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This was one of my op-ed assignments in college

A platonic, hidden love

Is it possible to love a city, which I once disliked? A city which I preferred for shopping and small visits. A city which wooed me with its variety of restaurants and nightlife (OK, restricted nightlife). I vehemently declared that I'd be back once my course gets over and there were times when I complained that Bangalore wasn't Chennai and that life here was absolutely boring. (Of course, it helps my cause that I've been removed from the city and I reside a good 20 km away from it) 

Now, however, I've slowly started to like Bangalore. I'm suddenly OK with finding work in Bangalore, because let's face: what's life without a change? 

There's something enticing about Bangalore: long walks at Malleswaram, crispy dosais at MTR and Kengeri, idli, sambar, upittu and coffee at Press Club, buying books wherever I find them, and I find them everywhere! (I end up buying more than I can carry sometimes and I can never have enough books!) street shopping for clothes and shoes, buying magazines and going broke for the rest of the month. 

Hell, I'm enjoying the bus rides from KR Market to my college! You know how KR Market can be with those cows taking up the entire stretch of the road to themselves while they nonchalantly *do their business* - all this whilst chewing cud. 

On the other hand there's the Victoria Hospital with people scurrying about here and there, vendors with their fruit and flower baskets spitting paan on the road (no matter where it lands!), and big buses having no concern for the common man's plight - ready to ram you in a second.

All this makes a city what it is: livable, busy, noisy, full of life. 


Bangalore, you'll never be like Chennai, but I love you all the same.

Hugo: Life in clockwork motion

I suppose the theme of this year’s Academy Awards had something to with Paris (or France). Why would three films—Midnight in Paris, The Artist and Hugo have a  French connection?

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is the opening shot. Wonderfully created, it starts with parts of a clock in motion and segues into a scene of Paris at night. The camera then slowly moves into a railway station—Gare Montparnasse—and proceeds quickly like a train that is gathering momentum and focuses on a clock, from which a boy, Hugo Cabret, peers.

Hugo sees an old man, Georges Méliès, at his shop, where he sells and repairs toys. Hugo is an orphan and is effectively in charge of adjusting the time of the clock towers in the station—a job his uncle was supposed to be taking care of. Hugo is searching for something: a hidden message from his father, who died in a fire while he was working at the museum.

Hugo meets up with George’s goddaughter, Isabelle, who is craving for some adventure in her life, and together they have their own escapades.

 

Hugo’s obsession with an automaton passed onto him by his father leads Isabelle and him to discover Méliès’ secret—which is the turning point of the movie. The second half moves a lot quicker than the first and then the importance shifts to George from Hugo.

This film has delightful characters: Asa Butterfield as Hugo, the lonely orphan who travels through the station by ducts and roofs and pinches food from the station café while finding the missing pieces to the automaton; Ben Kingsley as Méliès, who initially comes across as cantankerous, but has a sorrow hidden inside; Sacha Baron Cohen as the overbearing but funny station inspector who fancies Emily Mortimer, the florist; and Frances de la Tour and Richard Griffiths, a pair of station workers who find love through their dogs. Jude Law plays Hugo’s dad in a blink-and-miss role, but he does justice to it.

Martin Scorsese has pulled a shocker in this one, that too in 3-D! Completely different from his signature films—Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, which focus on crime and violence—this one is a children’s delight and an adult’s fantasy.

Hugo is adapted from Brian Selznick's novel The Invention of Hugo Cabret by John Logan. The film’s background score, by Howard Shore, is haunting and stays with you long after you watch it.

Although Butterfield is the central character, after a point the movie is taken over by Kingsley, which seems partly unfair as this is primarily a children’s movie. Nevertheless Kingsley does what he is supposed to do, as he unconsciously did for Gandhi.

Hugo won five Oscars—for cinematography, art direction, visual effects, sound mixing, and sound editing.

Watch it for Scorsese who has given a gem of a movie, a roller-coaster ride into Hugo’s life, a fulfilling experience, and fall in love with it!

He came, he saw, he conquered—and how!

I’ve never been an enthusiast of nicknames, especially misbegotten ones. I’m happy to say that my idol of 10 years is also not very fond of the sobriquet bestowed on him—The Wall.  “I’m indifferent to it,” he said, and I agree. It sounds like an insult, anyway. While Rahul Sharad Dravid is the strong and silent builder of innings, that does not make him a “wall.” That technically makes him the foundation.

On Friday afternoon, the Indian cricketing fraternity, one of the oldest and the most revered in the world, bid farewell to that strong and silent warrior after 16 years of a glorious cricketing career (tests, ODIs and T20s included). And it was only fitting that I had to be there in person. 

The name Dravid sends people into a tizzy. I remember the many heated arguments with friends, family and complete strangers I have had on how Dravid is not just good in Test cricket, but in all forms of the game. Years later when he made his T20 debut against England, he made me proud by hitting three consecutive sixes off Samit Patel.

Can you think of any other player who would’ve opened the innings, batted at Nos. 3, 4, 5 and 6 and kept wickets at the beck and call of a captain? This adaptability and versatility is what sets Dravid apart—it differentiates him from the routine and the mundane. 

Who said Dravid doesn’t take risks, or plays it safe and by the books? In fact, those who bat in a settled position are those who don’t take risks because Dravid has done it all. Hell, he has even tried his hand at bowling!

Which is the one innings that stands out the most in my mind? Adelaide. 2003. I can still visualize that day in December when I came home from school just to watch Dravid bat. I didn’t eat, didn’t change; I bunked my tuition classes and sat on the chair watching Dravid bat, watching him make those exquisite cover drives with a flick of the wrist and elegant shots in the midwicket before he got out on a splendid 233. I rose with the crowd in Adelaide and applauded. 

Each time I needed a sense of calm and peace, I’d look up his batting videos online and be content. It reassured me and bizarre as it may sound, it was as if Dravid’s batting spoke to me: everything’s going to be all right. 

One of the reasons I wanted to become a writer was so that I could interview Dravid. After reading numerous columns about Dravid, I made up my mind to somehow become a journalist-cum-writer, interview Dravid, get it published and then quit my job. That was enough, that one interview, one meet where I could confess I was his biggest fan. And on Friday, when I was clicking his photograph despite all the professional photographers pushing me away, I stood my ground and clicked away, not caring about the light, the frame or the shot. And when he glanced at me, my heart skipped a beat: I was overjoyed.

Patience, resilience, perfection, an eye for detail, perseverance, dedication, consistency…I could go on, for the words that describe Dravid are endless and no lexicographer could make an exhaustive list. It has been an honor watching him bat, and I wish it could go on, but I’ve heard that all good things must come to an end. So long, Dravid, and for your many admirers across the world like me, you will always serve as an inspiration.

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The same was published in my college website

Ah the distance

My blog looks like a ghost of my former self. I hardly recognise it anymore. For a person who *loves* writing and swears by it, I'm hardly following my passion. Or thats what I called it.

The parent is being transferred to Vatakara for three years. Kerala yet again. (Last time it was Thiruvananthapuram). Atleast he had his sister and uncle for company and more importantly, for food. Kerala being Kerala with all the strikes and bandhs cannot be depended upon for hotels to be open at all times. And Vatakara being a coastal place reeks of fish. Appa being vegetarian is feeling orey helpless. Cha I shall really miss him. 

We've never had the usual father-daughter relationship. It's more like a father-son relationship. But rest assured, I have always been able to discuss any topic with him, and I mean any!

Now whom will I discuss politics, cricket and food with? Fight with 24x7? From whom shall I grab the remote and hide it? Who will address me with silly nicknames and wake me up early in the morning? (make that try to wake me up) Who will irritate me with his antics? And give me valuable advice on how to eat mangoes (I, on the other hand, teach him how and when to eat oats).

I now feel guilty that I haven't spent enough time with him. Also now that I'll go back to pursuing my studies, hence putting me in a different city, I'll have less chances of interacting with him (when he does come to Chennai). Sure, we have phones and we can talk and all that (I'm really bad at phone calls, really. Barring a few I can't talk to most) but nothing beats talking in person and shouting at the top of our voices. 

Come back soon, appa.

(A website informs me that Vatakara is the land of Kalarippayattu. This is the land where warriors like Thacholi Othenan once lived. Hmm maybe appa can come back well versed in Kalarippayattu and kick-ass. Hiyeaaa! Oh wait, that's karate no?)

An infinite loop

There is this profound silence in my head and all around me when I think. Which is always. Lost in thoughts is a phrase you can associate me with. I think so much that I end up being unrelated to the world I am supposed to be in. I hear fuzzy noises of people speaking, images blur before my eyes and everything in motion is suspended. I have favourite places to think. Leading the list is my white-tiled bathroom. Most jobless Saturday afternoons were spent there, thinking. And I end up forgetting what I was thinking about. Almost always.

I think faster than I write. It's extremely hazardous. Precious quotes and topics have been lost this way. Before I can pen down a few sentences, my mind is racing with the next set. My memory fails me. I struggle hard to remember them, but in vain. 

Even when I read a book, watch a movie, listen to music, write, cook, eat, or do everything at the same time; I'm thinking. Random thoughts, vague ones. Unrelated stuff. 

Thoughts become imagination sometimes. Okay, most of the times. More often than not I find myself day-dreaming. I wish I could be paid to do that. No, really! I have built stories in my head. Stories that have a beginning but no ending. Ones that start off pensively, that end up nowhere. Like this post.

Mind games...

Memories have become a thing of the past. Every time I smell freshly grounded coffee, I'm reminded of my home. When I see cloudy days and the smell of rain hitting the muddy floor, special classes at school at 8 in the morning. The smell of strawberry essence reminds me of days in Mumbai where every meal would be vada pav and ice cream (and strawberry/raspberry would be available always!). Bright Saturday mornings remind me of my white-tiled bathroom (this, I have No clue why). Watching cricket takes me back to the days where I'd be the umpire to a game of street cricket and arguing with the children who used to go: "Akka give out akka pleeeeeeaaseeeeeeee" against "Akka you are fair to their team wonly akka, what akka?" 

When I go to my cousin's house I'm reminded of playing games such as 'tree-to-tree,' cricket, treasure hunt, hide and seek etc. Tree-to-tree in particular used to be the most popular one. My cousin's house compound is really huge with a lot of trees pretty close to each other. A catcher would be chosen and the rest are a group. The catcher points to one tree where the group would huddle and he'd point out to another tree which we have to touch in the form of a long chain. Usually the gap between the two trees have to be quite long, so that when a gap falls in the chain. Which means the chain is split into two. Therefore the first group runs, followed by the second group. While doing so the catcher catches a person or a group thereby making them out. This continues till everyone is out. And the game starts again. I seriously LOVE this game!

There was this time when my friend and I (sometimes joined by both our sisters), we go up to our terrace (hers or mine) and throw water bombs at unassuming people walking on our street and immediately duck, before they can spot us! I know, it sounds a bit mean but hey we were really young and we loved to see people get wet, get angry and look up to see no one at all and just walk by shaking their heads. There was this one person who tracked us and came to our terrace. We got scared and climbed up another ladder and hid in the water tank for some time. After 15 minutes or so we slowly climbed down, only to see him waiting for us. He severely reprimanded us and then left. I think we stopped after that, we started feeling sorry for the pedestrians I guess.

Van games used to be somewhat similar too! Only we used to throw paper and/or chalk at other vehicles. The riders used to yell at us and complain to the van driver who would yell at us on his part but that didn't exactly stop us!  

There was this library in my locality which my dad joined as soon as shifted. I found a friend and we started borrowing books almost everyday (during the holidays it used to be morning and evening!). Some books we never used to return and claimed that we did not borrow and that they made a wrong entry. We still have most of the books. They recently shut down and my friend and I still think it's because of us that they went into a loss and that they shut down. And every time we see the owner we run and hide, even now. 

I miss those days. I still secretly wish I could throw water bombs at innocent people. I just might.

There is something headily enticing about independence.

Now this blog title has been doing the rounds on my FB status, Twitter and Gtalk and finally arriving here. But of late this has been in my head. I do have the freedom to do things I want, but I always think twice (or more) before I do it. And there are constraints in the form of money, parents, job timings and all that. While its fun to be one kind of independent with a job, the money that comes with and the said freedom; I want a complete and total independence-the sort where you live alone and fend for yourself completely. Though it sounds a tad early, I'd like it all the same. I've got cousins and friends telling me that it's tough to live alone, the things you have to do for yourself, which gets irritating after a point. You start feeling homesick and miss home-cooked food terribly. You miss the familiar surroundings and sights. You miss everything and everyone. And the fact that you have to clean up after yourself. Yes, there are shortcomings, I agree. But look what independence has to offer, in a slightly different angle.

You travel to new places. A LOT. Meet new people, have new adventures, take lots of pictures, eat different varieties of food (okay not so much if you're a vegetarian, but hey it was worth a shot!) and do other fun things! Yes, you also have to pay the rent, buy groceries, cook for yourself, clean up and be responsible all over - but isn't that fun in a way too? To do everything by yourself and gain insights into the world at large. (sounds like a sermon now) But seriously its time I went independent. 

My dinner guest list

Okay as I retweeted Kals Nats post on list of authors she'd love to have dinner with, she asked me to do one too. I'm kindly obliging her :) 

In no order:

Enid Blyton: I know it sounds childish, but most of my childhood was consumed by reading this wonderful author. And as clichéd as it sounds, I did imagine all of those midnight feasts (minus the meat of course!) complete with tins of pineapple slices. I'd read them all again.

William Dalrymple: I've read two of his books - The Last Mughal (partly) and Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India (read review here) and I've been impressed. His flair for the language, style and narrative style have me hooked. I'm self-confessed fan, Mr Dalrymple :) And the fact that he is both a historian and a travel writer only adds to the list of attributes!

J K Rowling: No it's not the norm to add her name to the list. Rowling is indeed one of my favourites. Writing about magic is quite a tough job and it obviously requires much imagination. To make us imagine the sequences requires even more imagination. (Okay so you get the drift). Here's tipping my (imaginary) wand to you!

John Grisham: I think I've read almost all his books and they're pretty interesting (hey they keep me occupied!). He made me like law-based books, I owe him that much. My favourites are The Rain Maker and The Partner.

Ruskin Bond: My list can never be complete without Bond. I can visualize school memories of running to the library and borrowing his books, reading them, returning them and borrowing them for a second time. I've always wanted to meet and talk to him. I'm secretly happy that he lives in India!

Agatha Christie: I’m running the risk of my list sounding more and more un-elitist. Christie is one of those authors I’d read anytime, anywhere. This also evokes school memories where I’d ask my friends to borrow some so that I can read more than one at a time. I still ask my sister to borrow some books from school to keep the tradition going. Murder on the Orient Express is my all-time favourite book.

At this point you may argue saying that Arthur Conan Doyle writes better detective stories and that Sherlock Holmes is a better detective than Hercule Poirot, but I beg to differ. Poirot is an utter delight with his bald head, oiled moustache and prim and proper shoes! Especially his ‘tap those grey cells Hastings’ dialogue! Holmes’ fans can turn their noses up at me, Poirot wins hands down!

Ramachandra Guha: I like everything about this guy! The fact that he doesn’t restrict himself to one genre and explores various others is a blessing. His articles/columns are equally interesting to read. I’d say it’s a must to read his work! Him being cute is an added bonus! Again, I’d love to converse with him.

The list doesn’t end here though, there are various others I’d like to add but that’d just make it bulky.

God put a smile upon your face

I've heard of people saying that they have their days. And their rough patches. 

My rough patches seem to last a long time. I feel invisible all the time. I listen, yes. I just want to be listened to. For a change I wanna talk too, you know! 

Also why don't people stick to a routine in certain things. I mean why do they have to confuse and confound. What joy do they derive? It throws off my mood, my balance. 

Only Coldplay is keeping me company during my time of invisibility. Maybe Chris Martin knows something about me. Hmmm.

Title inspiration: God put a smile upon your face (Coldplay)

Towenty-ten and beyond - I

First things first. 2010 was not what I expected it to be. Not one bit. There's still 4 more days I left though and anything can happen.

At the beginning of the year I was in college, doing my undergrad and blissfully charged through it, unaware of what the year had in store for me. And believe me I never thought I'd be where I am today. Not that I'm complaining.

College was one hell of a ride. With so many twists and turns (yes, I might sound a bit melodramatic, but its all true) I wanted to get over with it. Looking back, it did have it moments and so did I. College taught so much about life and people, their behaviour, character and the changes. I've always been a change-embracing person (so much so that I look forward to them), adjusting and adapting to it. So college was just another lesson in life (sniff). There might be a whole lot of people I'm not going to see or keep in touch with, but I'll always remember them!

Post April, after exams, came the hard part: What to do next? Study, work or take a break? (The third option would've never happened, but its nice to list the choices no?) So after much persuasion from parents and also the lure of travelling, I signed up for universities in UK. Got through one of them and was looking forward. Went on a whirlwind shopping spree and got all ready. But the news about how UK isn't stable and all that came through, from friends, family and well-wishers. So half-heartedly I had to postpone the trip and chose my last option: a job.

When this confusion happened, I also applied for jobs simultaneously. So N and I (both of us applied) got a call from Kingfisher's lifestyle magazine and they asked us to take a test before the interview process. After writing a really easy test, they asked us to fly to Bangalore for a selection-interview-process. (This coincidentally became my first visit to Bangalore! and more visits ensued of course). We did end up going by train of course.

Once we reached there and got settled and all (at cousin's beautiful place in Bannerghatta Road, which has become our all-time option whenever we visit Bangalore) we went straight to the interview. Results were announced immediately. We were given an option to take the job within a week (and find a place to stay as well, madness only). We said yes at first and happily shopped around Bangalore for the two days we were there. Then we started missing Chennai and wanted to get back as soon as we could. Which we did. And after much call-dodging and all that we refused what-could-have-been-our-first-job.


To be continued....

Hmm

Check list for 2011:

New glasses. Check.

Haircut. Hmm thinking,

Sibling thinks the new glasses gives me a nerdy look (she said intellectual, but I knew what she meant. hmpf)

Oh well. I guess there's no turning back.

One more day for new year. And still no plans. Hmm

Why the vacuum cleaner sucks

You've caught me. The title has nothing to do with my post, I just wanted to indulge in some err wordplay, perhaps. You can't blame me you know, its 8.46 pm and I'm at work, persistently (if I may add) for the past 5 days. Including Christmas eve, Christmas and Boxing Day! I'm no Christian, but when the whole world takes off and lazes around, its only fair that I long for one! (Especially when you have a sibling who sleeps tight till 10 am while I trudge off to work). Oh and its a Sunday today. No one I know works on a Sunday! And add to it the sleeplessness of 4 nights in a row - there you have it! One grumpy child. Waiting to get away.

In other news: N is having fun with person-I'm-not-naming-here. Let's call him anon. N and anon are having the best time, I hope it really works out for them :) They make sucha cute couple!

D, my colleague, is pregnant and might take leave only in May end. What a huge sigh of relief! She's one of the most efficient worker and awesome gossip-person and partner-in-spitting-crime. I shall miss her when she is gone. I might leave by May also. Sets me thinking.

T's quiz is not loading. Damn, now how do I kill time at work? Also I've seen it a million times. Just trying to check if I know all the answers every time I view it.

Craving some extra dark chocolate. (Why do all my posts of late contain a reference to chocolate?)

I wanna hold your hand

Remember that little voice in your head? Well, mine instructed me to play the Beatles. Just like that. And this is the first song I reached out to instinctively. No clue why.

Indulgence is when you lick Nutella off the spoon. Over-indulgence is when you sit with the Nutella jar and lick it straight from that, ignoring the spoon. And that is what I did today (also spread some over toast) while watching cartoons. Felt like a kid again. Much fun, sososo much fun! 

Read the Mahabharata for some peace of mind (as I always do). I cannot wait for Bheema and Arjuna to kick some ass! 

No mood to write articles, absolutely none. I feel *so guilty* and sleepy. 

Title inspiration: I wanna hold your hand (The Beatles)

Harry Potter, a post was in order

Okay so the title isn't exactly captivating, I assure the post will be. Tons more. 

When the trailer came out I was all gung-ho about watching it first day, first show. But you and I know better that it did not happen. Worse, my sister and her gang had watched it before me. And other non-Harry Potter fans. That's when it infuriated me. I had grown up with the series (along with other books, of course) and vividly imagined Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and the like in my mind while reading. But I still stand by books > movies. Always! (Ok except for Chocolat where you can see the chocolate and drool) 

So while I was deciding whom to go with and when to go with, (after starting to work, I'm either busy or lazy to do other stuff) a perfect opportunity in the form of cousin from US of A (yes, he already has been mentioned twice in the earlier post) presented itself. We therefore decided (friend, cousin and myself) on an impromptu night show, notwithstanding the amount of work we had the next day. Carefully laid plans were given a toss. So on 15 of December we set out to HP and the Deathly Hallows - I with much excitement. As stuffed as we were we still bought a large packet of popcorn topped with seasoning, waiting for the movie to start.

This movie was touted to be the darkest of them all. Even Scrimgeour looked scruffy. Anyway moving on, the movie was interesting and mostly silent. For most parts the theatre was dead quiet. I kinda enjoyed the silence  though, it showed how intense the movie was. One of my favourite parts was the one where Ron comes back with the sword and exclaims he's back and Hermione's all angry. It's just so damn cute! Another favourite part was when Dobby dies. My cousin had to kill the moment by shouting (when the theatre was silent) "Are you crying?" (It was just a few tears ok) Ditto with my friend. I sunk into my seat. In my defence, it was Dobby, and if you'd read the books (and lived it) crying would've been the right thing to do. 

I liked how it ended, with Voldy facing us (I swear he's one of my fav villains) and leaving me wanting for more.  

Cannot wait for the second installment! And it's in 3D (sigh I'm predicting a headache).