White Room

2010-07-18T20:28:00.000+05:30

I don't think I was a very nice child

It's getting better all the time. (Can't get no worse.)

Shock and Awe

2010-07-15T17:10:00.000+05:30

Evil Baby Sister has a blog. O_o

What has the world come to?

nirobichchhino

2010-07-07T20:45:00.001+05:30

I shan't say it's a more intense feeling, or conversation because the point is that it's not

but the endless days and endless chances of sitting talking discussing doing nothing gossiping analysing teasing consuming cups and cups of milk sugar liquor tea of sausages and sandwiches and almond and brownie tea-shakes and the twenty buck scarves on street sides and striped and spotted and scribbled-on ties and the berets in tiny shops and the silver pendants and the knock-off shoes and the random movie watching and the constant movie trashing and talking of comics and comical people and coming back home to tea and squabbling with the folks and languishing glances and knowing smiles and the dark shadows on the stone steps where we sat talking aimlessly and needlessly and the conversations carried down the stairs and through the room and across the streets over coffe and cigarettes and the headaches and the heartaches of other people and the tight smiles and easy informalities and my old hatreds and loves and mild dislikes

and the bangla on every tongue and the shared knowledge of bangalitto, of shared truths and shared pasts

is all, all going away, and the sentimentality of it all is trite, is ridiculous, but two weeks is too little time in which to say goodbye to twenty years, no matter for how short a time.

2010-07-06T16:21:00.000+05:30

results are out.

beh.

blogsprouting

2010-07-01T20:28:00.001+05:30

there is a new blog. gods know who will read it. ah well.

it is here.

blame cheshire cat, gods know i do. (i lie, i lie, i love you, you know it.)

you can never go back home

2010-06-30T19:21:00.000+05:30

or to school, as the case might be. It will seem familiar and taunt you with missing teachers, absent mentors, red-tape complications, and unfamiliar, screaming juniors. It will suck and you will decide to never return, and then realise you made that promise the last time you visited.

However, since you will, like as not, end up stuffing your face with pan-fried momos, life is not all bad.

Especially if friends treat you to KFC ice-cream, and you realise a book you want is available for an extremely reasonable sum.

hyderabad blues

2010-06-27T22:01:00.000+05:30

in 25 days.

tick-tock

jude

2010-06-24T18:33:00.000+05:30

It is unfair to be made to feel out-of-place/superfluous/unwanted in a place you love, which you've proven yourself integrally a part of, which it would hurt you to leave.

But it is, perhaps, a reminder of the fact that it hasn't been all good, even when you're all brimming with nostalgia and bedecked with rose-tinted glasses/binoculars/telescopes/magnifying-glasses/what-have-you.

Yes, you still love the people you loved one/two/three/five years ago; it still feels amazing to be remembered.

Thirty-wo 'I'm' texts need not be from teeth.

Sophi. mashimas attempting to flirt is creepy as hell.

Bawal chai, bawal dao.

Aristotle was a blind man/scientist who invented the periodic table/Greek all-rounder.

Memento Mori

2010-06-16T12:52:00.002+05:30

Belly and breasts
And thighs spread around
Cunt, want-wet and clamped
Around your flesh in my flesh
Red from your teeth in my flesh
Clamped down and suckling:
This is how we come together
In hollow darkness, switched off,
And the gaps of clothes rearranged.

I have your marks still,
Crescent moons of blood pale
Against my surging flesh
As your flesh pale against mine
Dark as the bruises purpling
Beneath your hands on my flesh:
This is how I remember you
In blood beneath and on my skin
In enfleshed traceries of ownership.

498-A

2010-06-16T12:41:00.001+05:30

My torso is a drum

Reverberating under your closed fist and open hand

My back the mat

You wipe your feet on, careless, forceful.

And my breast the pillow

On which you rest your head and try your teeth.

You have taken and turned me

From human

Into furniture/instrument/tool.

You have dissected me,

Separated me into my component parts.

Tossed away every superficial thing,

Save(d) only the bare essentials.

The hands that bring you food.

The mouth that brings you love.

The throat on which you test the tenacity of your grip.

Foodering

2010-06-09T18:28:00.000+05:30

Everything is better with ketchup.

Everything is good fried.

Tea goes with everything.

The best things come in twos.

Am eating, cannot brain.

;)

Incarnadine

2010-06-08T18:43:00.000+05:30

So today was a bimbo day. Hair cut and colour and spa, and I always rather like these days, but never quite enough to do this more often. Though maybe I wouldn't enjoy them as much if I had them more often. Meh.

Anyway, there was a teacup human in the salon at the time I was. First she kept moving her head, and her mum had to come hold it so her cut would be uniform, and there'd be less risk of her getting nicked. Then she decided she couldn't possibly sit in the next chair during Mommy's haircut, oh no. So everyone painstakingly cut moved around her with blowdriers and scissors and section-clips, and she sat eating biscuits and looking smug. <3

Of course, at that age, I used to poke my head into every cabinet and try brandishing scissors the size of my entire arm, so it is possible that my perception is a little skewed.

Endnotes and Acknowledgments

2010-05-29T00:28:00.001+05:30

I've written my last honours paper today. Barring the possibility of failing, I'm done with my undergrads. It's been a good three years, and some of those days have actually been rather good, as well. I'm not very efficient at the task of personal happiness; I tend to check the teeth of all my gift horses, and get stuck in the eye by enemy spears.

But what does not kill us simply makes us stranger, to quote the Joker (r.i.p, Heath Ledger), and there's no doubt that JUDE encourages strangeness. Or perhaps it's simply that strange people come to the forefront in JUDE. Don't know, can't say, wouldn't make a difference.

I do know I love JUDE with a passion only equal to the way I despise it, sometimes. I have been content here, someetimes I've been ecstatic, at a word, an approving nod or passing smile, at any acknowledgment that my often unacceptable insanities are alright, here.

I do know I've been frustrated that we're often treated as somehow a little less than other batches. Which is probably an unwise thing to articulate, but it's true. Or maybe it's simply that we've been terribly unlucky; we have.

I do know I've realised that I shall never be a nice person, however much I try, but shall always be vicious. But I've learnt to hide it better than I used to, and that's something, at least. It isn't that I'm malicious, but I think I try too little to be civil.

I do know, and this is the best of all these little nuggets of knowledge, that the few friends I have I'm madly in love with, and if I have to leave them I'll be more than a little heart-broken. And perhaps even better is the fact that I feel some strange bond of kinship even with those I am not close to, even with the very few I fail entirely to comprehend.

I do know I'm grateful for these years, and that my first instinct of JUDE as home was in no way wrong. Thank you, everyone.

Renaissance

2010-05-19T21:23:00.001+05:30

This blog, as you can see if you so choose to, has been inactive oh these very many months, and it feels a little futile to write this post. But it feels stupid to not write it, too, since all those troubles (and excessive reactions) were lo these many months ago, and the past is another country, and besides the wench... er, has been made amends with.

Anyway, all that said and read, tomorrow is the beginning of my last finals for the undergrads, and there is (one hopes) a very real possibility of it being my last JUDE finals. Which is not to say I did not make a hash-job of my JNU entrance-exam, because I did, but I'm hoping EFLU goes a little bit better. Hell, I'm hoping it goes better than these finals so near-approaching, since I've studied just about nothing, and can't really make myself care.

It's not that the courses suck. Okay, IWE sucks, but that's just one paper, I rather like everything else, even Criticism, though Saussure remains impossible to understand. I just can't stand being here any longer, and yet. And yet it isn't the must-leave-Calcutta fever that's seized some of my friends, it's not even entirely a must-leave-JU thing. Perhaps it's that IX-X, and then XI-XII got me used to the two-year-then-gap system. Certainly UG-III has been dragging from the very start, despite the brilliant courses I've been taught.

Maybe it is simply time to move on, past time to move on. Maybe all this yearning will amount to nothing and I will stay here another two years. I hope not, I really don't want to have to study PoCo ever again, but hoping might well be futile.

But hope springs eternal.

2008-10-30T15:02:00.000+05:30

This is a dead blog.

Bye.

Books II

2008-10-23T10:09:00.003+05:30

This is by way of being an update to this post. Since then, I have acquired the following:

Anne Rice: Interview with a Vampire

Margaret Atwood: The Penelopiad

C.S. Lewis: The Narnia books.

Also, I have obtained Renault's The Persian Boy and The Bull from the Sea, so the mytho-historical novels, save one, are all with me.

As before, if you want 'em, say so in the comments.

Arunachal VI: Bomdila

2008-10-18T20:08:00.007+05:30

The resort is called Elysium. Hmph.

Very pretty, though. Down from a deserted-looking terrace to a set of rooms fronted by a balcony with lovwly flowers. There's a greenhouse nearby that I wish I could get into. This is a good place on the whole-- nice wood floors and good view and pretty bathrooms.

Good food, too. Though, really, in this weather: warm = good.

Scotch is being drunk. Not by me. I'm buried under a quilt, sweaters still on. It's more than 8,000 ft up. We're going at least double that.

Dinner = warm = good. The manager says it's 4-6 degrees Celcius. Brrr.

Before I forget, there's a humongous stray dog-- well, I'm referring to breed, not ownership or lack thereof-- belonging to the manager, or at least the place. We called it-- this is before we knew-- and it came running up. Raka thought it was chasing her and scrambled off.

Just swaddled the precious SLR camera (film *sigh*) in blankets and woolens. Froze on us, last trip.

Morning's all sun-dappled mountains and tin-roofed houses and cricket chorus.

Arunachal V: Bhalukpong-Bomdila

2008-10-18T19:58:00.006+05:30

We just rolled down the road from Assam to Arunachal-- still in Bhalukpong, though.

Assam's symbol is the one-horned rhino, btw. Dunno what Arunachal's is-- prolly the bison, if the huge head atop the entry gate is anything to go by. Told Dad the theory. The others are trying to call home. Dad just accusted a local kid. *sigh* Turns out I was right. P.S: The hornbill's the state bird.

Jiyabhareli/Kameng-- lovely; rolling green-blue water, gleaming white sand, dancing white kash.

Orchids. I have nothing more to say.

Forested mountains and waterfalls and the first fanged bite of cold.

Crickets like a hundred ghostly castanets. The Boy has freaked out again. Auntie M finds everything sweet. *sigh*

Huge landslide-- black mud and machines.

Car quarrels. Men. *rolls eyes*

Ill. Dammit. So ill.

Tiny dark plum-like apples.

Arunachal IV: Bhalukpong

2008-10-18T19:50:00.006+05:30

At long last. Can't see anything-- too dark. I'm numb from sitting wedged in the back seat. And then there's the Boy.

Great food, though, very warm. Nice beds, too.

Morning. Trespassing to get to the Jiyabhareli river and the unbelievable kash fields in front of it. Raka and I climbed on the ledge outside the roof of our hotel. heheheh.

Nice little look-out spot. But. Must get to river.

Went down almost to the river, Mum leading. The Others freaked the hell out, dunno why.

Arunachal III: Guwahati-Bhalukpong

2008-10-18T19:34:00.007+05:30

Well, here we are-- in tourist lodge rooms, trying to freshen up and change and eat in under an hour (yeah, right).

We were sitting at the station for just about the same time, probably longer-- not the most auspicious start to the journey.

Heh. It's the long way round to Bhalukpong. Normal route's fucked up.

Reception's shot, btw. And the battery was leeched away by the train trip, dunno how. Charged the phone for about half-an-hour at the lodge. Let's see how long it holds.

Apparently we get fed what these people want us to eat. Hmph.

The menu: Rice, khar, dal, pitika (alu-sedhdhho, basically), bhaji, chanar anja (paneer curry), mahor bor tenga (dunno), kanhudi/kharoli/khaisa, mahor guri, payas/dahi. Good food. No, I don't know what it was.

Amul On!! ad. teh funny-- the band-members-in-black-in-pool shot. tch. no pics.

Looong drive-- way too long. Hemmed in by cars and people and bhashaan parties in the towns.

Dark now. Surreal, the only car in the forest. Haven't seen any wild animals, though saw six tame elephants ewarlier, all told, carrying stuff.

Driver refuses to let us wish for wild elephants, btw. He has a point.

Arunachal II: Train

2008-10-18T19:13:00.010+05:30

On the train. The Others (Uncle B, Auntie M, the Boy) aren't here yet. *sigh* The parental unit has gone for tea/coffee. Oh, wait, they're here-- the Others, that is.

Went to hunt for books. The Wheeler has nothing both good and cheap-ish, though there is a Ken Follet.

Heat is unbearable, according to everyone. I'm noting this to compare and contrast with when they start stuttering and shivering 'cause it's cold.

And we're off.

Rural bangla outside the windows-- toy huts and patchwork fields and kasphool in white clumps-- small and pretty and deceptively calm.

Fluorescent orange sunset, wind whipping hair into eyes.

People with torches, tracing pitch-dark paths. Light-snake racing by the too-swift windows.

Quarter-dozen cups of coffee, jhal muri and chine badam. Yay, train food.

Leathery nan and alu and far too much foil-packed chicken.

Lots of north-easterners on the train-- at least two hot boys with killer cheekbones.

Onyo loker Durga Pujo-- trains allow people to be unintrusive voyeurs, na?

Maldah-- people and stalls and one lone man perched on a mountain of boxes.

We've got seats near the door and people are spilling water-- Dad and Uncle B are on the warpath.

Train loos are close blood cousins of the Augean stables-- first-cousins, if not brothers.

Blankets and hastily blown-up air pillows (not to mention ruti in paper left on my berth by the last passenger) and the train's rhythm the world's most mechanical lullaby.

Assam's all neat chequered fields, wooded and somewhat blue hills, huge rolling white-blue river with toy boats and action-figure fishermen-- subtly and unsubtly unlike Bengal.

Arunachal I: Home-Howrah

2008-10-18T19:01:00.004+05:30

We've sent Dad ahead with the luggage, on a rickshaw. And now we're going-- Mum and Raka and I. Teh ickle brat has her school-bag strapped on her back-- filled with accessories and magazines and bits of clothing and (yes, I'm a geek) the complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer, whuch I plan on using to avoid the Boy.

And now we're on a taxi-- bags stuffed in the trunk-- one of them took a tumble from the rickshaw. The driver decides to take off via Lake Gardens, to avoid the usual Pujo crowds, this being Nabami and all. Turns out he's right, cause we only stop a few times, and that at traffic lights-- huge relief, as it's way past two and the train leaves at four.

I love the stretch from Victoria memorial to Vidyasagar Bridge--vast and colonial, broad open streets and massive buildings.

We're here-- at Howrah station, that is. Coolies have congregated around us, and one is haggling with Dad-- always a spectator sport, though Raka almost spoils it, because she's still unused to each little twist he uses. We pile the bags on the coolie and follow his excruciatingly slow steps through the station.

Grumpy old toad takes us to Platform no. 9 (yeah, no 3/4 to add to it). His face darkens visibly when we find seats and drag our bags to it.

And then, at 3:20, the train chugs in.

Books

2008-10-03T22:42:00.002+05:30

Have just sent junior lots of books. Am surprised at benevolence. And, if you want them, please say so in the comments. I have soft copies of:

The Dark Materials Trilogy.

Brokeback Mountain.

most of Mary Renault.

all of Pratchett.

Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series.

I'll be adding to this list, and I'll post updates, assuming anybody wants them.

Writing Rambles

2008-10-03T19:51:00.004+05:30

Can an author actually shed his/her identity completely, abandon the physical reality he/she lives in, and all the circumstances, prejudices, information and opinions that make him/her the person he/she is, and take on the persona of somebody entirely different, absorb the nature of that person, become that person as thoroughly as if their lives are the same, the when and where of their existences are the same, as if they are one and indivisible?

If he/she actually can do so, will the literature produced by that author be at all comprehensible to those who read it, if it is about a different time and/or place? When anyone writes about a time and a place not theirs, don't they write in too many things which people of that time would have taken for granted?

Isn't contemporary fiction, no matter from what era and place, always subtly and unsubtly different from fiction about that time and place, but not written by those who actually lived through it?

Guess Who

2008-10-02T23:16:00.002+05:30

One of our very talented firsties has drawn this portrait of one of her classmates. More of her artwork's to be found here.

And she writes too. Such a talented kid.

Vampires inc.

2008-09-22T22:23:00.007+05:30

I spent most of today, when not interrupted by power-cuts, reading Stephenie Meyer's New Moon and Eclipse. I'd already read Twilight.

I don't know yet whether I like the series, though I'm usually faster at making up my mind.

The thing is, I get the concept, I even like the story the woman's selling. But what I don't like is that she doesn't really ground her mythical monsters in reality. We don't see much of the small-town life that the protagonist apparently leads, her school seems to have no memorable classes or strange teachers, the friends she makes slip away like so much smoke and are only very partially brought back, and that only as plot devices--the few fast friends she makes turn out to be myths themselves. I'm not even gonna start in on what I think of the girl herself. But I absolutely love Jacob Black. Rather more than beautiful, perfect Edward Cullen, actually. Though that's to be expected, I guess, I always side with the one who's left behind.

Though, frankly, what I just read about the plot of the fourth and final book does not impress me at all, about any of the characters.

S. Meyer writes rather well, but I think she'd have done better to read more of vampire and werewolf fiction before she attempted this. Dracula, at the very least?

Oh, and thank you for giving me the books.

Gariahat

2008-09-21T22:05:00.007+05:30

I went shopping today.

And my folks dropped me off, which meant I was wandering around Gariahat from 10:40 to 11:00.

Pretty early, I guess, for a Sunday morning.

Saw Gariahat, all shops in disarray, preparations still ongoing.

Glittery, cheap shoes being hung up.

Clothes being pulled out of gunny and plastic sacks.

A boy resting his hand on a neat file of glass bangles.

Men energetically hefting bags and bales of stuff.

A chai-walla hurrying past, huge packet of biscuits on top of his kettle-holder.

Metal flowers being hung up in 'jewelry' shops.

Real fruits, and flowers and twisted, colourful plants on bright blue tarps.

A rather mucky little girl tugging on her mother's saree.

Jute bags being pulled out of larger jute bags and staked in rows.

The Gariahat rings half-full of faded, empty hangers, awaiting clothes.

An officious-looking young man preparing his demo.

I've never seen Gariahat like that-unprepared.

Strange and somewhat unsettling.

Like a circus clown in his dress, without his makeup.

Or, perhaps more apt, a conjurer stuffing the cards and doves and coloured hankerchiefs in place, waiting for the curtains to rise.

The Loony Buns

2008-09-18T20:32:00.010+05:30

That's us, taken a while back. All the JUDE lot, plus a few others. And there's the photographer who, obviously, isn't included. And a couple of people, sadly, were unable to make it. And Reeti was there but wandered off before the pic was taken, or something. *shrugs*

There's about twenty of us, give or take one. And I dunno what there is to say, really, that that doesn't tell you. Twenty people, aged 18-21, very few of whom knew each other before JUDE, who don't share all the same interests, who could have got into huge ego clashes, have instead formed and remained in a single large group for one and a half years, now. If anything, we've grown closer and all the interlinked groups of three or four which existed at the beginning of last year, have become on huge group. (and, yes, i shall use the word group.)

I really don't know how to express what that makes me feel. I've never had very many friends in school, maybe two or three at the most. So it's a huge surprise to see that I can talk to, gossip with, discuss random rubbish and/or highly esoteric things with almost anyone in this group. It's odd to realise that nobody minds listening to my problems, however small. It's heartening to see everyone jump to the defense of any one of us, even though, and perhaps especially though, they start a blog-war during it. It's wierd that I can just sit quietly with someone. And every time someone does something nice for me, without any return or hope of return, I'm surprised.

And I want to always be that surprised. I've not had very many friends, and I never want to grow used to the idea that I have so many of them. I never want to stop appreciating them.

So, long live the Loony Buns. May they stay forever random, forever insane and forever friends.

P.S. I also adore having such lovely seniors. But that's another post.

P.P.S. This was inspired by this post. *hugs author of said post*

Rock On

2008-09-03T21:08:00.006+05:30

I leave it to others to write a coherent review. All I can say is, this is one of the best movies (non-animated) that I've watched in a rather long time, and, hands down, the best Hindi film.

I realise that the movie may not have a pan-India appeal because it does, after all, exhibit a very urban scenario, but it does display the rock subset superbly.

Perhaps more to the point, nobody in the film is a caricature or stereotype and ultimately, each of them, even perfect Prachi, feels real. 'Debbie', especially, was well sketched-out and also the perfect foil for Prachi's 'Sakshi'. And I really loved the fact that there were no 'villains', save, of course, the absolutely gross music directors. Thank gods they got beaten up. Yay!

I know many people may feel differently, but I liked the intensity of the friendships. Homosociality, specially when it looks this good and feels this human, is brilliant to see. After all, there's no real reason platonic friendships between straight men should not be as complicated and wrought with emotion as love affairs. And if, as I think, and julychild agrees, Rob is gay, then kudos to the director and Luke Kenny for such a subtle potrayal.

In conclusion, like Iris and I said every five minutes, dude, they're all so hot!

All my links

2008-09-03T19:58:00.002+05:30

Because my computer crashed recently, and I lost everything:

The Arthur AU

The other Arthur authoress

Stealing Harry

A Conner Story

Reconcilable Differences

Lanning Cook

The Tag That's Been Taken Off Rimi's Blog

2008-08-02T20:48:00.000+05:30

If I were:

beginning, I would be: boring

month, I would be: November in Lolegaon.

day of the week, I would be: Monday after a late-night Sunday adda.

time of day, I would be: the hot, breathless afternoons of dog-day summer.

planet, I would be: Uranus, tilted and bedecked in Shakespearean motifs.

season, I would be: bitter winter.

sea animal, I would be: a blue whale.

direction, I would be: confusing.

piece of furniture, I would be: an old-fashioned arm-chair with long extendable arms.

sin, I would be: pride.

liquid, I would be: deep, murky.

fraud/scare, I would be: innane.

gem, I would be: flawed.

tree, I would be: water-consuming and stingy with flowers.

tool, I would be: two-edged.

kind of weather, I would be: the wind that just flipped your umbrella inside out.

musical instrument, I would be: a broken guitar.

animal, I would be: a dog that bit everyone but its master/mistress.

emotion, I would be: wry amusement.

vegetable, I would be: potatoes.

sound, I would be: the suppressed sob.

element, I would be: air.

car, I would be: large and oddly-uncomfortable.

song, I would be: “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”.

food, I would be: chicken kebabs (any kind).

place, I would be: (not) home sweet home.

material, I would be: denim.

taste, I would be: bitter-sweet.

scent, I would be: musk.

religion, I would be: vague and intellectual.

sentence, I would be: complex.

facial expression, I would be: shark smile.

subject in college, I would be: the one everyone avoids till the eleventh hour.

shape, I would be: geodic.

quantity, I would be: lots.

colour, I would be: black shot with scarlet.

thing, I would be: dry half-filled refill.

landmass, I would be: a precipice.

book, I would be: Atlas Shrugged.

monument, I would be: Alexander’s tomb.

artist, I would be: unappreciated.

collection of poems, I would be: unpublished.

watch, I would be: early.

god, I would be: causing troubles for every immortal I’m related to.

vowel, I would be: A.

consonant, I would be: B.

formula, I would be: C + O2 = CO2.

Science, I would be: zoology.

theory, I would be: shaky.

famous person, I would be: hitting the paparazzi.

electronic equipment, I would be: cheap and throw-away.

sport, I would be: ludo.

movie, I would be: Brokeback Mountain.

cartoon, I would be: ask The Racoon Lord to draw me, why don’t you?.

explorer, I would be: dead during the first expedition.

scientist, I would be: dead/maimed during a lab explosion.

relation, I would be: the prodigal.

river, I would be: rain-swollen.

intoxication, I would be: tasteless and hangover-inducing.

alone, I would be: bored.

question, then I would be: rhetorical.

hobby, I would be: absorbing.

habit, I would be: neurotic.

end, I would be: unsatisfactory.

GameWorld Discworld

2008-07-08T18:58:00.005+05:30

A few years ago, (two, maybe three) I first laid my hands on Samit Basu's GameWorld Trilogy. I read the Simoquin Prophecies. Liked it a fair bit, re-read it, and subsequently bought parts 2 and 3, which I liked as well, though the Unwaba Revelations still seem too crammed to me. What I really liked was the fact that Basu had taken older stories, be they myths, or folk tales, or ballads or even other, older, novels, and twisted them. This, I thought, was really brilliant and, obviously, entertaining. Another thing I liked was the fact that Kol, set in a world teeming with magic, was so resolutely pragmatic.

Then, a few weeks ago, I started reading Terry Pratchett. And there I found a number of extremely-familiar characters and institutions. And, while this was to an extent understandable, none of them had been twisted. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork/The Chief Citizen of Kol, the Unseen University/ Enki University, the differences between the dwarfs in Kol/Ankh-Morpork and the dwarfs at home, it's all the same. Even, I think, the long-lost heir, though in the Game-World, the heir does accept his destiny instead of merrily ignoring it like Carrot does. Gods, even the gods in both series play games with the world, which is spread out in front of them and their table circles it. Haven't finished Pratchett yet, but the title of Moving Pictures sounds very like Mantric's project.

My rather high opinion of Samit Basu has gone down a few notches.

100 words a day

2008-07-07T21:24:00.005+05:30

So, I've joined this thing. And I would normally link to it, but can't, so here's last week's stuff.

1

When talking to people who aren’t your close friends or immediate family, we are usually rather careful about our manners. Not because we particularly like them, but, at least in my case, because we don’t. Of course, this translates into us being nicer to those we dislike, or are indifferent towards, than to those we do like. Which is rather a waste of time. But the people we love won’t care in the long run whether we’re polite, will probably suspect treachery if we are polite, while the outsiders will be offended if we aren’t. What absolute hypocrisy this is.

2

I need a break, which is, frankly, a strange thing to say right now, because I am, technically, lazing about and doing absolutely nothing constructive— term starts on Monday.

But my brain, never a restful place, is facing more turmoil than usual. Three worlds are colliding— one that I’m currently trying to swallow whole, one that’s been in there, in one incarnation or another, for the last four years, and one which I’m trying to get used to after a break of nearly five months.

And then there’s reality, which has never been more than a distant acquaintance of mine.

3

I am in a bad mood. Actually, the mood I’m in right now is what makes bad moods run and hide. Why? I don’t know. Am I now required to furnish a reason for a temper fit? No? Good. Because if you expect me to rationalize my homicidal rage, then you’re likely to end up as a homicide victim. And if you’re lucky, I won’t torture you first. Maybe I will, because, hello, homicidal maniac! This must be what ‘seeing red’ is like, except I can hardly see, I’m so angry. Just hope I’m left alone till I calm down.

4

Apparently 57% of all Indian men think they are smarter than women. This is probably nowhere near accurate, but it does point to a trend that should have died out by now. My dad and uncle and grandfather are the nicest and least gender-biased people ever, but it is depressing to think that at least half the male population (probably much, much more) still clings to the age-old belief of male superiority. It is extremely annoying. How can anyone say that they’re smarter because they have y-chromosomes and their mother / sister / wife doesn’t? It’s stupid. It’s also scary.

5

I have never been entirely comfortable with change. It’s hard, because even if the place you occupy after the change is comfortable, it’s not the place you were occupying before it occurred.

But it’s been a year and it’s beginning to sink in that this place is rather nicer than the one last occupied. If it lacks friends-so-close-they-live-in-your-head, it compensates quite adequately by supplying those who are unquestioningly accepting. A conspicuous lack of enemies is also rather nice. And the old place has changed too much for me to fit in any more.

I abhor change, but it’s good sometimes.

6

Class starts tomorrow, and, this, at least, is definitely going to be a good change. I’ve had nearly two months of vacation, and, while it was definitely welcome, given how nose-to-the-grindstone I was the last two months of term, after about a month, it began to get boring. The entirety of June went by in various levels of boredom.

So tomorrow is going to be great. The whole group will be there, for one thing. So will the newly-admitted juniors. And, sadly, so will the course that most of us are rather terrified of.

All the same, can’t hardly wait.

7

Today was bitter-sweet, nothing like the horrible watery coffee available on campus.

Ze loonybuns are back, yes, but these swarms of juniors have swamped the place and I’d grown used to knowing the faces, if not the names, of everyone in my department. They’ve taken over all our hang-outs, too. And our classroom, which, we are resolved, will be only temporary, because it’s our classroom.

But, ze loonybuns are back, and they are going to have lots of fun and sit in on each other’s classes when schedules don’t clash.

Oh, and study really hard. But that’s hardly the point.

Zer Facebook Book Tag.

2008-07-04T18:03:00.003+05:30

Science Fiction, Fantasy or Horror?
Fantasy, I guess. High Fantasy, Tolkien ishtyle. Also ‘low’ fantasy, Pratchett ishtyle

Hitchhiker or Discworld?
Haven’t read Hitchhiker. Reading and loving Discworld.

Bookmark or Dog ear?
Bookmark with whatever’s at hand or just close it and go off. I’m a champion page-finder.

Asimov’s Science Fiction or Fantasy & Science Fiction?
Haven’t read any Asimov.

Alphabetize by author, Alphabetize by title, or random?
Random.

Keep, Throw Away or Sell?
Keep. Or return. Or save the file and stash it in two places.

Keep, dust-jacket or toss it?
Keep.

Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?
Harry Potter. Haven’t read Lemony Snicket. But still.

Stop reading when tired or at chapter breaks?
Get tired. Then read to the end of the chapter (instead of the book).

"It was a dark and stormy night" or "Once upon a time"?
Either.

Buy or Borrow?
Borrow. Never buy until you’re sure you want to own.

Buying choice: Book Reviews, Recommendation or Browse?
Recommendation. So I can harm whoever it is if I dislike the book.

Lewis or Tolkien?
Tolkien. Hands down.

Morning reading, Afternoon reading or Nighttime reading?
All-the-time reading.

Standalone or Series?
Either.

Favorite book of which nobody else has heard?
Mary Renault’s Alexandriad. Except people now know about it because I told everyone.

Top 5 favorite genre books of all time?
Count of Monte Cristo. Lord of the Rings. Iliad. Gone with the Wind (does that count?). Fire from Heaven.

Favorite genre series?
Nothing as such. Harry Potter slacked off after a while. Haven’t finished Discworld.

Currently Reading?
Working my way through Discworld. Just finished Feet of Clay.

Films 2

2008-06-18T17:57:00.008+05:30

All films I've liked, though other than one or two, haven't watched any recently:

The *different* rom-coms:

The blockbusters/biopics:

The Classic:

And, the one y'all already know I can go on about for hours:

Films 1

2008-06-18T17:55:00.001+05:30

Two films I wanna see:

Important Question

2008-06-18T14:07:00.002+05:30

ei, tell me what you think of my new layout. I absolutely love it!!!
:)

Do tell.

Homecoming

2008-06-18T11:44:00.004+05:30

First day in college. Admissions day, really. Turned up, Dad and I, not late but definitely in the nick of time and there was Princess' dad, under the giant shamiana in front of the lobby where all the parents were sheltered (it was raining, or had rained), gesturing at his watch and looking rather disapproving. And, inside, on the coldmarble seats, among half a hundred complete unknowns, Princess herself, proceeding to scold me for being late and not listening to the fact that I really wasn't. She'd been worried, poor kid. And Somdev, somewhre in the periphery. Mandy walking in, a while afterwards, colourful and seemingly-confident while I tried very hard to conceal my nerves. Don't know why, already got in, but that day was scarier than the exams. Prolly because anonymity was lost. And then, inside the Anita Banerjee Hall, a little intimidated by Brinda, who had apparently written a poem in her paper, mechanically filling in an gathering the requisite papers. Pokinh Abhijan while standing in the long line winding from table to table ("How's Bhuto?" "You must be Jaya Mashi's daughter." "Yeah." "Yeah. Talk later."), filling in the fee-book, Princess thankfully within arm's reach. Explaining to Paromita-di, who prolly didn't recognise me, though we'd been introduced less than a month ago, that I didn't have change, would she please wait for a minute, rushing out, not finding Dad, rushing back in and being very grateful that she procrured the change.

Being shunted upstairs by a far-too-bouncy Sreemoyee, bundling in to sit with Sohini, trying to choose e.d's, she on the phone with her mum; shoving over to the other end of the class, where the sign-up sheet had migrated, introducing Sohini and Abhijan, being introduced to Arindam, Tintinda snatching away the sheet before the boys signed up and wandering off.

A. Lal warning us about slacking off; Rimidi, very very blue and larger than life; P.B. guarding his AquaGuard.

Insiya coming in to help break the ice, Anway being older than his contemporaries...

Don't knowhow much I'm leaving out, prolly a lot, but that was a perfect homecoming.

Let's see what happens this 9th July...

Cards

2008-06-18T08:34:00.003+05:30

Folly to trust in a house of cards,
It tumbled so fast,
That even the ones I caught
Crumpled in my hands.
Folly, and worse, to trust in you.

Brokeback Moutain

2008-06-15T17:55:00.005+05:30

It's prolly ridiculous to be this truly-madly-in-love with a movie, any movie; but, gods, I love it so much and partly, yeah, I'm shallow and Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhall are incredibly pretty and incredibly beautiful in some of the scenes (esp. the kiss when they meet after four years) but also it's the fact that the story appeals so very much to me, because though it was the great love of their lives it never got to be more than a sad-pathetic-not-even-properly-tragic adoloscent sneaking around and half the time, reading it, it's hard to know who to feel sorrier for-- Ennis who's in love and can't deal with it cause it's wrongwrongwrong to desire a man and can't even gift his lover any endearments but the one he also gives both his horses and his daughters (and isn't that farcical in and of itself?) and is a dry, hollowed-out-nothing-left-inside shell; or Jack who's actually not-too-confused about his sexuality orabout his love but keeps on getting rejected and can't possibly manage on "a couple high-altitude fucks a year" and neither of them can end it, quit, and in it all, mixed in it all, the great love that turns to bitterness and leaves one man dead and the other devastated and the reader/viewer more than a little shaken.

Sirius Black...Brief History

2008-06-12T10:47:00.002+05:30

Found this on Facebook. (No, I have no life.)

Blah

2008-06-10T17:54:00.002+05:30

Drowning in drear boredom, listless and restless and utterly unable to change it, to get up, to summon the energy or will to do something, though the lethargy is killing you like a creeping, incurable disease and this is why I knew how being drunk would feel before drinking a drop because this is how it felt, I can see but can't tell you what, know that I can't but don't know why I can't walk the line and I'm tired of being too tired to do anthing.

Tag the first

2008-06-09T20:33:00.000+05:30

Jobs I’ve had (in chronological order):

What job?

4 Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:

Brokeback Mountain. Anything with Richard Gere. Almost anything with Johnny Depp. Most things with Julia Roberts.

4 Places I’ve lived (in order):

Nursing Home.
Santoshpur.
Tollygunj.
Does school count?

4 TV Shows I Like:

Friends.
Bones.
Smallville.
Grey’s Anatomy (kinda sorta)

4 Favorite Foods:

Anything that’s not ucchhe. Or begun.

4 Places I’d rather be:

Greece.
The Dreaming.
Lolegaon.
Araku.

4 People I’m Tagging:

Cyber Monkey.
Rimi.
Racoon Lord.
Rukmini.

Lucifer Leige Luc Viatour

2008-06-09T19:03:00.002+05:30

Luncheon

2008-06-08T16:56:00.012+05:30

I'm supposed to be typing an article, but must post about yesterday.

Yesterday was lunch at Rukmini's:

There were sixteen of us, including Ruki:

It was a pot-luck lunch (with far more food, most of us thought, than could be consumed; fair bit more than you can see in the pic, actually):

Lav Kanoi dropped in after lunch, but no one could get a snap and this is an also-bad one from another day (and place):

Afterwards, we sat around talking:

And playing dumb-charades:

And watching a film Sandy had brought:

Well, erm...technically:

And then there was cold coffee and cake and ice-cream and complete inability to have dinner. :)

(All pics courtesy Rukmini and Tuna)

Project97 pic

2008-06-04T19:10:00.001+05:30

This is as far as I've got with Fiona. Hair and clothes are too hard :(

Blah!

2008-06-03T22:51:00.002+05:30

Dude, we are important. Like revolutionising. Dude, LOLcats isn't just cute. Or so this bloke thinks. Yeah, whatever.

UnPhotoed

2008-06-03T22:27:00.003+05:30

The non-Photoshopped versions of the Project97 pics I posted ages ago. Yes, I have no life. None.

So, Ron Weasley:

Narcissa Malfoy (young)

Percy Weasley,

Fleur Delacour,

And Remus Lupin.

Animagi Circle:

2008-06-03T10:40:00.002+05:30

Preparations

“We can’t.”

“You didn’t think we could pull off the last prank.”

“It isn’t the same. This’ll take years.”

“Scared, Potter?”

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you? Failing’s hardly the worst that could happen. You remember Boreas Amyntoros.”

“We’re smarter than old horse-face.” He stops, sighs. “He’s our friend, James. Our best friend, and he needs us.”

“And this is the only…” he nods. “Fine. But neither of us can try anything without the other around and if you’re hurt I’m telling McGonagall. And Mum.”

“When did you become Remus Lupin?” James glares. “Fine, fine. But you’re the one telling Peter.”

Taste

A certain desire is often noticed in the newly-turned Animagus to devour, even in human form, those foods which would be natural for the animal whose form he/ she takes. Thus, a witch/ wizard taking the form of a horse may find himself/ herself inexplicably attracted to hay and oats. This desire must obviously be restrained. It may initially prove difficult to accomplish, but all conducted studies show that it grows easier over time. However, celebrated Animagus Hippolyta le Fay (1671-1749) was of the opinion that the desire itself waned.
— Felicia le Fay, Animus, (Hogsmeade: Wandlit Publications, 1845), Pg 207

Smell

Somewhere in the sixth year dorms, someone (he suspects Andy Brunswick, who is Muggle-born) is smoking pot. Peter’s socks have not been washed for two days. Remus has been reading the illustrated manuscripts about Medieval Magic for his History of Magic paper and the smell of the coloured inks lingers on the neat pages of his notebook. And James, perched on the nearest bed, eyes eager, smells of grassy Quidditch pitches and dusty hidden passages and safety. He shakes his head briskly, coming out of the near-trance.

“Well?”

He nods, once, decisively. “Could be better, but it’ll do for now.”

Sound
“What happened, Sirius?” It’s a whisper. They’re in class and Remus is sitting beside him and whispering. But the whisper is louder than most yells.

Nothing, he writes, on a corner of his parchment. The scratch of the quill, though loud enough to be heard, is much softer than the sound of his voice would be. His own fault, really, for trying to spy on the Slytherins at the other end of the class.

But it comes in handy later in the day, when he sidesteps a trap. Evans, who falls into it, promptly deducts points from Slytherin. Many points.

Sight

This is the hardest yet, though he knows changing form will be harder still. It takes some time, the books say, to shift back into human sight, and he has volunteered to go first. But the change itself is surprisingly easy, as easy as opening his eyes though they are already wide open, and he is beginning to think that the books have exaggerated, when the colourlessness of everything overcomes him, drives him to his knees in shock. Strong arms come around him, grey skin and lighter grey shirt and iron hair falling on his forehead. He closes his eyes.

Shapes

He has been practising for months. But now, looking at the stag his best friend has become, he grows afraid for the first time, though he has known the risks from the very beginning. He had known them, but only now do they become real. And in an ecstasy of terror, he lets himself think like the creature that he’s been nurturing all these days, lets all the newly-found senses come into being, all at the same time, and surrenders himself to their commands, lets himself be twisted into the shape they wish to attain. Sheds Sirius Black, becomes Padfoot.

Touch

His parents didn’t believe in physical demonstration of affection, even when, presumably, they felt any for him. His memories of being hugged, carried, rough-housed with, as a child, centre on Charlus Potter and Lucius Malfoy. Not James. James, despite all evidence to the contrary, has inherited the Black dislike of casual touching. (Even Meda, who is pretty much a non-Black, hates touching.) Hugs from James, or indeed, anything beyond a manly pat on the back/ shoulder, are rare and significant.

But the dislike, he finds, is limited to humans. Padfoot is cheerfully patted and stroked and scratched behind the ears.

Triangle

“Nox.”

“You cannot possibly expect…Sirius, what’s going on? Ugh. What?”

“Lumos.”

“Where did you get the dog from? Where’s Sirius? James...oh, Merlin, Sirius? Is that you? Sirius?”

He pushes, carefully; distancing himself, crawling back into the shape of Sirius Black.

Remus stares at him, eyes wild and disbelieving. “Sirius, you… for me? You… do you even know how dangerous…you became an Animagus for me?”

“All of us,” he says, uncomfortable with so much gratitude.

“All his idea,” James puts in quietly.

“Thank you. Thank you both. Gods.”

He is suddenly fiercely glad of James and as inexplicably possessive of Remus.

Roses

2008-05-31T21:56:00.001+05:30

I waken into reality,
Rose-tinted glasses crushed
Into bloody dust in my hands.
How many times
Have you almost killed me,
That I'm this strong?

snippet

2008-05-30T10:15:00.000+05:30

James is with him, in him, tangled in his arms and buried in his flesh. And this gaping crevice that fills him has no place here, with his lover held so close that there are two heartbeats thudding in asynchronous melody against his skin, but logic has never had much place in his life and he aches in anticipation, because the clock ticks over to “too late” and James will pull out, pull away, pull on his clothes and leave for the wife he can’t hate and the son he loves as his own and he will lie here alone.

Randomness

2008-05-23T22:30:00.005+05:30

I am being nice and doing my baby sister's projects. Also, reading other people's blogs instead of typing out stuff for her. Incidentally, I can now make omlettes. *is jubilant*. Made baby sister eggs Wednesday evening. Felt so cool to be able to feed her instead of stuffing biscuits down her throat.

Achchha, did anyone watch this film? Fucking brilliant. Also, some of the visuals are startlingly like those in Chak De *cough, rip off, cough*.

Speaking of rip-offs, Bhootnath, which I hear, and read, is not too bad, has the exact same plot as Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost". Really. Willing to lend out the copy if anyone wants to read it.

Buh-bye. Must write about Indian monsoons. :(

To Errant Knights

2008-05-21T22:29:00.000+05:30

Why did you believe this lie,
No different from all the others,
And leave, and leave me,
Mouth twisted in a snarl
To hold back sobs,
My back against the wall,
Facing, again, the world alone?

Surely you know me well enough,
Why didn't you laugh in my face
And fold me in your arms,
And let me spend all my anger,
Till I faded and let it turn to tears.
You've done it often enough.
Were you tired of being my shield?

Poor double-sided shield,
Battered at from inside and out.
I shan't blame you for growing impatient,
And leaving to find those
Who are content to be solely
Damsels in distress and
Never try on your armour for size.

Yahweh's Bloodline

2008-05-16T16:00:00.002+05:30

The First Family (and no, I don't mean Adam and Eve etc.)

Yahweh's Bloodline

2008-05-16T15:53:00.004+05:30

The First Family: (And no, I don't mean Adam & Eve.)

Aren't they all so very pretty?

Yahweh's Sons

2008-05-14T16:51:00.005+05:30

Read all 75 issues of Lucifer. I love:

1. Lucifer (duh!)

2. Michael

Of course, I really liked a lot of the others too, Mazikeen and Elaine to begin with, but guh, these two. OMG! They have such a cool, snarky "yes I know he's s'posed to be my greatest enemy but he's my brother so please, well-wishers and hangers-on, fuck off and leave us be" vibe. Also, 'tis loverly. No, dudes, really. Lucifer is THE Prodigal Son and Michael is the ultimate "brother's keeper".

Oh, and Jesus? Jesus Who? *smirks*

Greek Geneologies

2008-05-12T16:42:00.003+05:30

Now that my brain has accepted that the exams are over and it doesn't have to stay on a war footing, I've decided to bring out a small piece of information: the makers of 'Troy' (yes, I know all of you know how much I hate the film) weren't entirely wrong when they made Akhillos and his Patroklos cousins. I've prolly mentioned this in conversation before, but I forgot the tangled and scary family tree. Here it is, though, or the most reader-friendy version I could find. And while you're there take a look at her King Arthur fic as well, if you're that way inclined. :)

Sandman2

2008-05-10T10:10:00.002+05:30

Meet the in-laws. Poor Eurydice!

Sandman1

2008-05-10T10:00:00.002+05:30

Random Sandman prettyness.

Biblical Bits 2

2008-05-10T09:54:00.001+05:30

Though I should probably have posted this first, I don't have the whole series, so it's just one pic...

Biblical Bits 1

2008-05-10T09:43:00.003+05:30

Cain & Abel: Sandman style. :D

Men, Boys and not-quite Tomboys

2008-05-07T22:46:00.007+05:30

So I was talking to Cyber Monkey and The Soliloquist, and we were discussing the fact that I refuse to write younger gen. fic in the HP fandom. I like some of them though not usually Harry, but they're kids, y'know? We've seen them as eleven-year olds. 'Course, I write about older gen. as kids too to begin with, but they're grown-up, I can see them, some more than others, as sexual beings. But, honestly, for me, Ron/Hermione, or Harry/Ginny = EWWW!

Not that it's not very well written by some, I'm sure, I just... I can't read it. It's like hobbitsex, for me. Despite the groan-inducing "romance" that J.K.R worked into Deathly Hallows, for me the kids are somehow asexual. Which is rather ridiculous. But, that's how I feel.

Same about the hobbits. I know they must have sex, I mean, Sam has lots of kids, but I definitely do not want to read about it. Almost the same thing with Legolas. Or, rather, Orlando Bloom, 'cause all the LotR characters are asexual in the novels, really. But Aragorn or Boromir or even the-slightly-less-chest-beating Faramir feel like men while Legolas feels like a boy-band pin-up.

Though I s'pose fate's been unkind to Orlando Bloom, a bit. He keeps getting put in films with people like Viggo Mortensen and Johnny Depp; which means he looks effeminate in the first instance and asexual in the second. Honestly. CM said she was shocked when Kightley picked Bloom over Depp. I was shocked when Bloom picked Knightley over Depp.

Of course, this leads us nicely to that other apparently-sexy-but-really-pre-pubertally-cute 'celebrity'--Keira Knightley. Gah! Why the woman keeps getting cast in roles clearly far-too-big for her boots I dunno. I mean, Guinevere? (Ruined a perfectly good film with Clive Owen and Ioan Griffud and action and subtext) Elizabeth Bennet? (I will not say anything, because that would actually require that I think about the film.)

Just, dear Hollywood Blockbuster directors, can Keira Knightley go away and come back when she's grown up? And in the mean time, please find somebody, anybody, else to cast for tomboy-warrior-but-actually-cute-little-princess roles? Please? Pretty please? Thank you.

P.S. Or y'know, let the next couple of boy's-own films be female-less. Doesn't really hurt. LotR did pretty well. So did Star Wars. And Jurassic Park. And Gladiator. And *gasp, shudder, groan* Troy and even Alexander. Oh, wait, thoe had lots of cleavage. Sorry. But, well, not to be rude, but Miss Knightley really truly doesn't. :P

HP Blog

2008-05-07T21:28:00.003+05:30

New blog, for HP AU, here. Thought might as well, given have locked self out of lj. *shrugs*

Flowers for Persephone

2008-05-06T20:05:00.000+05:30

Criticism

2008-05-06T18:55:00.003+05:30

The Misanthrope "made up" a music critic for his Lit and the Other Arts end sem. paper. The name of the man is Bill Wyman:)

Death and the Devil

2008-05-02T18:58:00.003+05:30

Sappho

2008-04-28T22:28:00.002+05:30

Sappho rules. Ladies, I point you to this:

Some an army of horsemen, some an army on foot
and some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest sight
on this dark earth; but I say it is what-
ever you desire:

and this:

Come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,
You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.
There hovers forever around you delight:
A beauty desired.

Even your garment plunders my eyes.
I am enchanted: I who once
Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,
Whom I now beseech

Never to let this lose me grace
But rather bring you back to me:
Amongst all mortal women the one
I most wish to see.

*Goes away to try and hunt up more verses*

Has one:

The night is half done,
The moon and Pleiadis have risen,
And I lie in my bed,
Alone...

*is in deep adoration of the woman*

Separation Anxiety

2008-04-28T17:16:00.003+05:30

I want to go back, please, please, to the embryonic safety where I knew, oh, perhaps not everyone's name, but who/what everyone was/represented. I want a place where I meet, can meet, nobody new, never be attacked by the all-consuming awkwardness of reaching out. A place where I am part of a whole, part of a pair that is accepted without question, without need of question. Never talked of, never denied, never found strange...I want to have everyone know and be indifferent. I miss the days when my name told everyone everything they needed to know. Gods below, how I hate being separated, fragmented, broken, reflected in strange new mirrors and the eyes of well-meaning new friends who need me to speak entire sentences. I am tired, tired, so very very tired of being liked, being accepted, being listened to as an individual. I don't want to be an individual, damn it all to eternal hell. I want to be part of a pack. I don't want to be alone. It's tedious. And annoying. And scary. Please, take me back. But you cannot, neither of you, none of you, can. You've moved on, and so, I suppose, have I. But it is so hard to part from you, m'dear, and for all my blustering words, I have always been bad at bidding farewell.

Artists

2008-04-28T14:29:00.003+05:30

I should be studying. I was trying to study. But this must be shared:

"Artists are a different sub-species of human."--A. Lal, on, well, what an artist is.

Misanthropy

2008-04-26T09:02:00.002+05:30

The Misanthrope, before the Rhetoric & Composition test: Shon, tui jodi, by any chance amar pashe boshish.

RS: No way.

TM: Shon na. If you do, tahole mone rakhbi, you're my best friend.

RS: Fuck off.

TM: (to The Soliloquist) Tui jodi amar pashe boshish...

TS: Ami RS-er pashe boshchhi.

TM: Jodi teenjon pashapashi boshte dey...

TS: Tahole ami, RS ar rukmini boshbo.

TM: Tao, jodi boshish, mone rakhbi, tui amar best friend.

TS: Hain, hain.

TM (undaunted, to rukmini): Chiku, tui amar chhotobelar bondhu...

That's all folks.

Misanthropy

2008-04-26T09:02:00.000+05:30

Pome.

2008-04-26T08:46:00.002+05:30

I am not here to ruin you.
I am already in you.
I am the work you don't do.
I am what you understand best and wordless.
I am with you in your chair and your song.
I am what you avoid and what you stop avoiding.
I am what's left when there's nothing left.
Love me hard, pilgrim.
--Sarah Manguso.

This was the poem we had to write a critical appreciation of in our Rhetoric & Composition exam. yesterday. Dunno whether what I wrote was remotely the right thing, but I love the poem. Thank you, Rimidi.

Of Lav

2008-04-23T10:37:00.002+05:30

So, our beloved fifths have left. The farewell went off rather well, though a tray and probably a bigger knife would have helped. And getting the office door opened.

But I digress. As the fifths are gone *sigh* we shall no longer be getting long lists of professorial quotes and various mishaps from Rimi to giggle at. I think we should start a tradition of posting quotes. For now, though, I give you: The Antics of Lav Kanoi:

Lav Kanoi (on the phone):CCB marks came out.

Rhea Silvia (yes, I shall refer to myself in the third person): Yeah, Rukmini messaged me. These are the ones that were up in our class, right?

LK: Yes. They're up on the notice-board in the corridor now. *pauses* Guess what, there was no heading for the course. *lowers voice* Secret. * at normal volume* And there were two/three names heading the list that don't belong to our class.

RS: Uh. *mildly amused* You do know there are people from Comp. Lit. who have this as an E.D. right?

LK: *ominous silence* Oh, shit. Oh, crap.

RS: *beginning to panic* You didn't, by any chance, scratch them out, did you?

LK: Uh. Um.

RS: OMG. You're dead. You're so screwed.

LK: Uhm, well...How about we don't inform anybody?

RS: Go apologise to Amlanda immediately.

LK: I think I'll call Rukmini first. She was present at the scene of the crime.

The next day, I sms him, asking how the apology went.

LK: (again on the phone): I didn't call Amlanda. I wrote out a note, apologising and stuck it below the notice.

RS: Weren't you at home when you called me?

LK: Yes. I went back to Uni. afterwards.

RS: Oh. Well, your level of dead-ness is less then.

LK: Well, actually, Amlanda might be annoyed because I stuck it on the notice itself. It's not covering anything, but...Or Supriyadi might be annoyed and then Amlanda would be annoyed. Not that I'm saying Amlanda does everything Supriyadi tells him to...

******

All this, btw, a day after he flopped down on the field behind KMR at high noon and then gathered about half-a-dozen engineering boys in a circle around him, all asking him to first sit up, and then move into the shade. Which, being Lav Kanoi, he refused to do.

Hello, Darkness, my old friend...

2008-04-22T22:28:00.001+05:30

Al'skandar & co

2008-04-22T20:32:00.003+05:30

Right. So I've been gone for two weeks. Not that anyone's noticed. But I come bearing pics. This is for those who are on Project97, or at least know about it.

In order, Al'skandar, Dana, Daniel, Deborah, Indrasish. Haven't found a good 'Fiona' pic yet.

All the pics are photoshopped from artwork by Lisa M. Rourke who is a goddess.

Imaginary Friends

2008-04-15T11:26:00.000+05:30

“Hey.”

“Yes, you.”

“Hey, look here.”

“Closer. Under the mask.”

“Tchah, not that one, dumbkomf.”

“Well, yes, that one, but not just that one. Keep going.”

“You’re not there yet.”

“What d’you mean, that’s the last one? There’s at least three more beneath it.”

“Yes, the craftsmanship is exquisite, isn’t it?”

“Has to be. I wear these all the time.”

“Quite long, almost…gods, very long, never mind the exact number.”

“There. That’s much better.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“I’m not in the least offended, m’dear. There’s a reason I wear those.”

“No, I suppose not, but who isn’t at least a little vain?”

“It’s as hard to convince people you are interesting as more than a show-piece when you are grotesque as it is when you are exquisite.”

“No, that’s an entirely different issue.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“No, not quite.”

“What I mean…”

“Why tell you then, if you’ll interpret it in your own way, no matter what I tell you?”

“No. No. In fact, why tell you anything at all, gossamer figment of a fevered brain? Reality is blowing you to pieces as I speak.”

“Come, I’ll not have you tortured, even by yourself. You needn’t strain to hear my ravings while you perish.”

“Go now.”

“No, never fear, I won’t tell another what you couldn’t hear.”

“Hush, it’s alright.”

“I trust you to keep my secrets, that’s not it at all.”

“It’s just that the wind blows too strong, mellon nin, and you are gone already.”

Me Bitch, You Retard

2008-04-15T11:24:00.003+05:30

We talk a lot about stereotypes and labels. We decry their use. And, well, a large part of that is the individual being labelled has no control— OTHERS label you, put you in a box with a lot of other people you have nothing in common with, save birth-place, or religion or the colour of your skin. Or sexual orientation, or maybe something else, something you get to choose—like a favourite sport, or a favourite author. Doesn’t matter. A label’s a label’s a label. You get typecast cause you’re white/black/yellow/brown/red; man/woman/other; Indian/American/Chinese/Pakistani/Italian; straight/queer/bi; sci-fi freak/fashionista; religious/pantheist/agnostic/atheist. Stupid limiting little boxes that, even in totality, can never be you.

But I think inviting labels is easy— easier, at any rate, than letting everyone, or anyone, see ‘you’ all the time, which, I assume, would be rather inconvenient. I mean, who wants their parents to know what they’re like around their friends, or their friends to know how deep your emotions run. Much easier to be a sadistic bitch who thinks politeness is a waste of time. After all, it’s hardly as though you’re lying (save, perhaps, by omission), because the one is as much part of you as any of the half-a-dozen others. Those tiny boxes chop you into pieces, sure, but they’re nicely padded and rather comfortable.

So what if they’re also somewhat claustrophobic?

Fannishness

2008-04-11T11:34:00.002+05:30

I was really planning on never writing fanfic ever again. Really. Didn’t work. Isn’t that strange? *snorts* Anyway, there’s this thing on lj which gives you 100 topics to write on. I’m going to try to write 100 drabbles. So, if I can go through with the whole thing, which is highly doubtful, I’ll have written 10000 words on HP and my sadly-thin Snapshots Universe will be a bit more padded-out. This is the first lot, not at all chronologically arranged. Do read. Pliss. And comment.

001
Beginnings

James was a week old, the first time they met, and, at four months, he wasn’t much older himself. Their mothers, Dorea, really, because he can’t imagine asking his mother anything, would insist that he had looked at James and smiled a pink, toothless smile. Lucius, who had been four and not overly interested in the petty concerns of tiny infants, would say that they’d behaved like the blobs of flesh they were and done exactly nothing. He thinks the latter is more likely. But he doesn’t remember a world where he hadn’t known James. Neither does he want to.

003
Ends

He dies in the stupidest way possible, baiting Bella.

He steps in through the front door of 12, Grimmauld Place, to the accompaniment of his mother’s shrieks.

He wades the last yard and collapses on the coarse sand.

His laughter changes into hysteria changes into sobs change into screams, the first day in his cell.

He gets there too late to see even their corpses.

He drinks himself into a stupor, but cannot stop hearing Regulus’ unuttered screams.

He is sorted into Gryffindor.

He curls closer into the curve of Lucius’ body, heedless of the pained hiss that escapes him.

011
Red

He hurts, blood-red threads woven everywhere they touched— jaw, throat, ribs, hips, thighs. He’s huddled on the floor, beribboned clothes scattered among blood, drying on the dust, gleaming dully in the twilight of his cage. It dries on him too, rust-coloured flakes parting, reluctantly, from the bruised flesh of his arms and legs; seeping, slowly, from inside him. He had been afraid of the Dementors, but they seem almost friendly, beckoning him from the gates of his cell, promising to lead him into grief and oblivion and madness and memories of Bella, sharp and subtle and always, always, blessedly alone.

012
Orange

“Have you told James yet?” He walked in unannounced and saw her sitting still, hand carefully folded over the not-yet bump on a still-flat stomach.

She looks up, eyes wide-open in fake-innocence. “Tell him what?” He stares until she drops her eyes to the orange she’s peeling. “Not yet. I wanted to be sure.”

“Be sure,” he says, voice harsh, feeling her nod, though his eyes are fixed on the half-peeled, misshapen fruit cradled in her fingers, and, on the table, not quite-touching her hand, a single spiral of glistening orange contrasting with her white hands and the dark wood.

014
Green

Twelve years since he’s seen a human face that didn’t belong to a torturer. Or a careless stranger, sparing a minute to pet a stray dog. And now, crouching in the soft darkness of the narrow alley, scented with strange, near-metallic smells, he feels his scarred heart breaking. The child before him, warily hunting for the invisible eyes devouring him, has a face he has not seen twenty years, has longed for twelve years. And he is happy, in his sorrow, that he cannot see in colour, because the green of the boy’s eyes, Lily’s eyes, would break him again.

018
Black

Pain and blood and lust and despair and a madman’s shrill laughter. And somewhere, in the next ward or the one below, the chill not-sound of some pathetic creature’s life disappearing down the gaping maw of one of these sightless monsters whose other self drifts across his vision, stops, the fifth time that night, to lean in, flesh-less face bowed against the bars, clamp cold claws ’round his emaciated wrists, flesh to rotting flesh, and devour, slow and savouring, more of his shattered sanity, as he wonders wildly how it would feel to steal a kiss from this most-relentless lover.

020
Colourless

The memories that came to him on the waves he swam to freedom were tinged with so many sorrows that he nearly drowned in them. They cut deep after the numbness of his cage, memories of all he had forgotten and now remembered, because, over all, overwhelming all, was the realisation that these memories that told him so much, were of things he could never regain. That had made him stop welcoming the deluge, and he wonders now, as Remus asks him a question he cannot answer, whether he is to blame for the blank, colourless patches in his memory.

021
Friends

He’s quite prepared to dislike her. She’s extremely pretty in a petite, elfin way that’s very different from the regal women he’s used to — something James clearly finds very attractive. She hasn’t the shared memories that make everything so much easier. She says the things and asks the questions nobody else would dream of. She expects them to make space for her in what has been a closely-guarded, and exclusively male, circle. She tries to bully him. She used to be friends with Snape. She’s James’ girlfriend.

So, naturally, within weeks of her engagement to James, he falls for her.

022
Enemies

He had been eight, the first time. Eight and broken— used in a way he, even precocious, had never thought possible. But what he remembers best about that night, and the ones that followed, are the arms, themselves shaking, that held him, and the voice, itself hoarse with held-in cries, that comforted him. Lucius kept him sane, though not safe. And he can see, behind the anonymous mask, the eyes of the man who kissed him, slow and sad and careful, two nights ago. He aims, instead, at a different man. One Death-Eater is, after all, as good as another.

023
Lovers

She’s young. Younger than he had been, in that other life. Young enough that he lets himself be needed by her— lets her bring him out of his almost-entirely-mad stupor. Young enough, poor half-broken child, to cry in wracking sobs, every night, for the lover who betrayed her, the judge who sentenced her, the violated innocence that gets chipped away, every night, a little more. Trusting enough, still, damn her naïveté, that she tells all her stories to a cracked, disembodied voice that offers hoarse words of empathy. Young enough, unattainable enough, that he falls helplessly in love with her.

024
Family

His parents are both Blacks. His father’s mother was a McMillan; his mother’s mother a Crabbe. He has an aunt who is a Rosier, an uncle who is a Prewett. His cousins’ marriages have left him connected to the Lestranges and Malfoys. His connections to the Crouches and Longbottoms have suffered over time, unlike that with the Potters. A bit more distant are the Blacks’ connections to other pureblood families, most notably the Bulstrodes and the Yaxleys. No mention is made of the Weasleys or, gods forbid, Andromeda and Alphard Black. They are all his blood, his clan, his enemies.

025
Strangers

Remus John Lupin was born on 7th March 1960. Moony was born six years later. Remus likes (liked) pranks as much as they did; he just needed to be wheedled first. Every full moon left Remus with gouges down his left side and a growing apprehension that one day Moony would prove too strong for Padfoot and Prongs to control. Remus had lied about having a steady job, the first year out of Hogwarts, because he hates anyone looking after him.

He knows half-a-thousand trivial things about Remus, which nobody else does. But he doesn’t know the man embracing him.

026
Teammates

He hates sitting still, safe, hidden, while others risk their lives. But… if he were out there, he’d be working with those others. And he knows that the part of him that revels in solitude while the rest of him rebels against it, the part that kept him alive and almost-sane through twelve years of Azkaban, would never buckle down and work in tandem with someone. He’s had family and friends and lovers and enemies, all with easily-interchangeable masks, but never a teammate, never anyone he worked with because the higher-ups ordered it, no ties between them. He never will.

027
Parents

He is thirty-four years old. He has never been in love with a woman. He has never been married. At seventeen, he had decided to never father a child — had not wanted to find out whether he was as bad a parent as his own. He had expected to feel affection for the boy, nothing more. This pull that feels more animal than human in its terrifyingly bloodthirsty possessiveness leaves him more winded than a punch to the gut. Leaves him scrambling for words. He has stumbled upon fatherhood, seventeen years after deciding against it. And that changes everything else.

028
Children

Molly wants Bill to cut his hair. She wants Charlie to come back to England. She wishes Percy would patch up things with Arthur. She is disappointed in the twins because they waste their brains on pranks instead of studying. She is scared because Ron does everything Harry does, and that, inevitably, leads to trouble. Ginny…he’s not quite sure what she wants from her only daughter, really. They all chafe against her maternal restraints, the younger ones, closest bound, most. He finds himself occasionally wishing to tell them how lucky they are to be thought of as children, not pawns.

029
Birth

Harry is born at midnight, on the last day of July, born as the seventh month dies. Another hour, is all he can think when they hear the baby cry, another minute and the prophecy wouldn’t have applied to him — it would have been August and they would all have been safe. The Healers allow them into the room they’ve been waiting outside for hours, the entire day, and all he can think, as Lily smiles up at James, as James holds his son, as they give him the boy, is that this child will spell death for his parents.

030
Death

His brother died sixteen years ago. Perhaps this very moment, sixteen years ago, his brother was breathing his last. And he had not known. Sixteen years ago, in November, he had been drowning in cheap alcohol and cheaper skin. Perhaps his brother had died while he was fucking a nameless whore in a filthy alley. Regulus had died, eighteen and vulnerable, at Bellatrix’s practised hands, for a cause he did not support and a brother who had abandoned him. And he does not know, even now, when or how the boy they all called weak met his mutely valiant death.

Lilies

2008-04-06T19:48:00.002+05:30

Because PoCo is a bitch. Because I needed a break. Because I love these flowers. Just because.

On Sex and Slashers

2008-04-06T15:30:00.007+05:30

The Misanthrope hypothesised, in an internal assessment, that Robinson Crusoe was gay. One of his pet theories is that Feluda is gay.

Given The Misanthrope's other theories, this should just have been worth a bit of a laugh. But the fact remains that a not-too-small number of people, mostly women, mostly straight women, also subscribe to these theories. Oh, not neccessarily about Crusoe or Feluda, but several male charcters spread across fandoms. Just Google James/Sirius if you don't believe me. Or Qui-Gon-Jinn/Obi-Wan-Kenobi.

Part of the reason for this fad is that the authors of fanfic, who are, after all, basically setting up 'what-if' situations in the worlds created by TPTB, like experimenting with sexual 'what-if' situations as much and/or more than other situations. Another reason women (sorry, Sam) write slash is the same as men watching lesbian porn.

Of course, these reasons mean that all characters are equally vulnerable, but handsome ones are more so. And, of course, it is true that you will find Gone with the Wind slash, which I refuse to read on principle, as well as Little Women...hmm, haven't actually found Little Women slash. Fic, sure, slash, no, or even R or NC-17 fic, for that matter. Thank all the gods.

To come back from that digression, despite the fact that there's slash about everyone, the 'best', and by this I mean stories which have actual plots and well-fleshed characters, slash is usually about characters whose sexuality is never definitely stated.

Let's take the HP fandom, which all of us are familiar with. Almost all the major male characters have been slashed. However, writing slash about someone who, in the novels, is married, or in a heterosexual relationship, may provide entertainment, but not a long, structured story. A pwp about Lucius may work, but longer (slash) stories about him are rare. The same with Severus Snape. James Potter proves an odd exception, but only, as a rule, in Sirius/James stories. Dunno why, though I write 'em. Lily is usually not side-lined, and even then these are hardly long, chaptered, stories. Remus/Sirius, on the other hand, was taken up as the primary slash pairing in the HP fandom. It was not too hard to imagine, neither man had other romantic interests even hinted at, Alan Rickman called them 'an old married couple' in the PoA fim, they finished each others sentences in the OotP novel, etc. It's possible Ms. Rowling got wind of it. Why else the awkward, contrived Remus/Tonks angle, slapped on at the end of HBP? *grumbles* I've read Remus/Tonks fic that is much better written. Here, go read it. It's not at all that I dislike the idea. It just felt like such a cover-up. Whatever. The best Sirius/Remus fic I've ever read is by the same author, who, btw, is a man, which is an oddity in the fandom. The story is AU, but none of the characters are unrecognisable. It's a WiP, and will perhaps always remain so, but three novel length fics are available, starting here.

Okay, now that I have fangirled about Sam, I'll try to get back to the point. Sirius Black can be slashed so well because we never see him with anyone, female or male, in a romantic situation. Of course, there's a lot of het. fic as well, including gross inter-generational stuff (which is there in slash too, but less) which we will entirely avoid. All the others in the age-group of 16-46 are obviously heterosexual. Well, not Charlie Weasley...

The same applies to other fandoms. Anakin Skywalker has a wife and kids. Not really slashable. Luke Skywalker- somewhat slashable. Qui-Gon-Jinn and Obi-Wan-Kenobi, eminently slashable.

Of course, it's mostly sci-fi whose charcters are kidnapped. And older, 'moral' novels. The only reason Crusoe can be called gay is that he never, in nearly thirty years, mentions a woman. Ever. And, well, Friday's the only human arounds. *shrugs*

Somewhat the same thing happens to comic-book superheroes. Batman, despite the Robin theories, and the Harvey Dent theory, does have sexual interests, in Talia Head and Selene Kyle.

Superman, on the other hand. Yeah, there is Lois Lane, but, c'mon, how many years have they been engaged/unengaged/re-engaged? So, slashers, encouraged by 'Smallville', started in on the Clark/Lex fic. Brilliantly written , some of it. They have a son together, after all, who appears here, as the Superboy we know, and here , in a slightly different avatar. Another, lovely, chaptered novel is about them, during the 'Smallville' years, when Clark is 16 and Lex 21, found here.

So. The point I'm trying, and very possibly failing, to make, is that where TPTB have left the sexual orientation of the characters absolutely blank, slashers work mayhem. Not that a wedding ring wards them off entirely. But people writing for 'kids', and/or writing sexless stories often don't even include a spouse in the back-ground, which, honestly, is odd. Not saying that every character must be married off, but creating a Sirius Black, or a Obi Wan Kenobi and leaving their sexual histories either completely or mostly blank is really just asking for trouble.

Right, that's the rant for now. Hope the links work.

Blah-di-Blah-di-Blah

2008-04-06T15:25:00.000+05:30

The boredom lives, and grows.

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Definitions

2008-04-06T14:59:00.000+05:30

Rhea Silvia --

[noun]:

A person who is constantly high

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Rhea Silvia --

[adjective]:

Visually addictive

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Recycling

2008-04-06T11:57:00.000+05:30

The last of the lot.

Recycling

Tonnes of paper,
Blank, written on, scratched out,
Leaves of some literary autumn,
Letters of business and love,
Notes passed in class,
Pages torn from a diary,
Ripped from a pirated novel,
Shredded ribbons of flawed numbers,
A riot of colours spilling over margins,
Folded and cut and pasted,
Enfolding warm telebhaja.

Regurgitation

2008-04-06T11:56:00.001+05:30

Still bored. This is all stuff I've written over the last week.

Regurgitation

Macabre clash of sword and skin,
Rose-petal fragility of carved marble,
Swirl of ethereal, beautiful chemical loccha,
Eternal perfection of a “Eureka” moment,
Blood and sweat and a life spent
Hunched over a microscope,
Chasing a dream,
Building a civilisation,
Piping with Pan
And singing with Apollo,
Drawing life into art
More human than life,
Watching blood stain the sands
At a soft-spoken word,
Millennia of effort on hundreds of pages.
“Julius Caesar invaded India in 344 B.C.”,
“Akbar built the Red Fort”,
“Leonardo di Caprio painted the Mona Lisa”,
43/100 on a History test.

Reflections

2008-04-06T11:55:00.000+05:30

Like I said, bored.

Reflections

Gilt-edged mirrors
And broken shards,
A hundred lives
In inky words.
If the mirror pleases
And the shards wound,
Must they be swept away
Into stinking garbage bins,
And half-a-hundred lives forgotten?

Reinvention

2008-04-06T11:51:00.002+05:30

I'm bored. And exhausted. The latter more than the former. Bear with me.

Reinvention

Uneven, weaving lines
Of hastily-scribbled letters—
Large and overly small;
Disconnected ‘e’s, ‘g’s with dangling tails;
An ink-blot drowning half-a-word;
The paper torn by the violent scratching out
Of some unsatisfactory phrase;
Faces in the margins,
Bulging eyes and bee-stung lips;
Flourishing signature at the bottom of the page.
Taken, read and typed out—
Neat and orderly,
So many soldiers marching together;
Coolly impersonal,
Artistry strangled for the sake of art.

Jesus: The eldest son

2008-04-06T11:26:00.003+05:30

Remember Da Vinci Code?

Remember all the shit about Jesus' brother's coffin being found?

Remember the controversies?

'Cause, htf could Jesus have a brother? *gasp,shudder,gasp*

This is a direct quote from Matthew 13, King James' Version of the Bible.
[54] And when he was come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue, insomuch that they were astonished, and said, Whence hath this man this wisdom, and these mighty works?
[55] Is not this the carpenter's son? is not his mother called Mary? and his brethren, James, and Joses, and Simon, and Judas?

Y'know, if the sods had just read the damned book...

Of Term Papers and Tests

2008-04-04T17:43:00.003+05:30

*looks around blog* This is nice, innit? Fits better than the last one, I think. What d'you all say?

My Lit. and the other Arts Term Paper is effing huge. But I really like my topic and everyone else's. Mandy is doing it on mythology in graphic novels; Moplah is doing it on the film 'The Graduate' and its songs; Sucheta is doing it on, what else, a Ray film, mostly, I think, because she's in luurve with the protagonist. Princess is doing it on the hero/anti-hero in Marjane Satrapi's character in 'Persepolis'. Nilanjana is doing her paper on racial stereotypes in Disney, 'Alladin' as focus. Neelu is doing it on Iron Maiden. Not sure what Tumpa's is about, or Tumpi's. Lav... the less said the better.

We're an interesting bunch of people. Or not.

P.S. Anway wanted to do it on compression of time in the comic book, but I believe he has been discouraged. I'm sad. I wanted to know his theories about why Bruce Wayne never grows old, thiugh the Robins grow up.

Speaking of Bruce Wayne, Rimidi gave a killer test. Which I will fail in, but that's not the point. We had to footnote/ prepare bibliographies of books written by Bruce Wayne and Lucy S. Diamond, among other, equally bizarre authors.

Dead Carion Eaters

2008-04-03T20:52:00.002+05:30

I saw a crow today. A dead crow. In a plasic packet. Dumped beside a pile of rubble. Near the kerb, where the pavement meets the road. Felt like it should mean something deep and possibly morbid about the world and urban life and decadence, or maybe just hygiene and the lack thereof, exhibited in the city's habit of blatantly displaying waste products and dead animals on the streets. Something. Anything. But in the end, it was just a dead, not-yet-decomposing bird. Would have made a creepy-yet-cool snap though.

DDMP (deep, dark, morbid poetry)

2008-03-31T18:38:00.001+05:30

A thousand twisting desires trap me in their tangling coils,
Fill the soft darknesses of my soul with hope and hatred,
Love and despair, till I cannot think, cannot act,
Cannot stand, can barely breathe, past the tight twists
That choke my throat, crush my ribs,
And yet I must stiffen my crippled spine,
Torture my jaw into the semblance of a smile,
And do the hundred munadane duties
Of an oh-so-normal life.

Photographic Evidence

2008-03-29T22:49:00.003+05:30

This is a pic post of all the men on the alphabets list.
In order, Alexander, Lex Luthor, Jack Twist, Qui Gon Jinn and Jack O'Neill.

Supermakers

2008-03-29T22:33:00.003+05:30

Right, took a break from studying (not that I was getting anywhere *sigh*), and decided to watch
, which is something I do on occassion, mostly because of the sheer prettyness of Lex Luthor actor, Michael Rosenbaum (Tom Welling doesn't hurt the eyes either). So, the credits said, among other things, SUPERMAN created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster. I don't read comics, so all I've been reading about Jerry and Joe has seemed just academic till now (and rather hard to remember). But seeing that made it seem real.

ABC-s

2008-03-26T22:36:00.004+05:30

Was tagged by Reeti. Just realised.

A is for Alexander.

B is for Baba, the world’s nuttiest man.

C is for chocolate.

D is for the dogs I’m not allowed to own.

E is for Epimetheus. Because sometimes it’s okay to not know things before they happen.

F is for friends. And foes.

G is for G.M.G.S., beloved alma mater. And Greece, but of course.

H is for heroes, and their loves. Hephaistion comes to mind.

I is for intellect and the independence to use it. And individuality.

J is for James P. and James S. And Jack Twist.

K is for K-serials.

L is for Lex Luthor, lavender and lust.

M is for memories, bitter-sweet and heart breaking.

N is for night, chaotic and ancient.

O is for O’Neill, Jack. And Orientalism, drat the PoCo course.

P is for pentacles and perils and Persephone, Queen of the Dead.

Q is for Qui Gon Jinn.

R is for roses in heaps on plastic sheets, petals glowing under orange street-lights.

S is for sarcasm and sardonic smiles.

T is for tea, brewed perfectly by Dida.

U is for umbrellas like over-sized, multi-coloured flowers, lining a concrete corridor.

V is for the villains, like Voldemort, who make everything interesting.

W is for wizardry. And wolves, grey against white mountains.

X is for Xanadu, the place that isn’t.

Y is for ‘Yay!’ and ‘Yippee!’

Z is for the 'zzzzzz'-s that I begin to feel the need for.

...

2008-03-26T21:54:00.001+05:30

When does lying grow to be such a part of your life that you lie, not just to others, but to yourself; that you start believing the lie because it is unbearable to remember to remember the truth; that you no longer remember the truth, that your are shattered when you realise that the lie is a lie, because you've forgotten what the truth was and it cuts you open with a hundred-edged knives and you piece together the bleeding fragments with the filaments of stronger lies because you no longer remember how not to lie?

Leave me be; let me turn my face to the wall and cry invisible tears that will not soak my cheeks, because I've forgotten how to cry, how not to show the world a smiling face when I'm hollow and rubbed raw, how not to hide behind larger walls of lies.

PoCo Project: Execution thereof

2008-03-19T18:31:00.001+05:30

It's done. Done, I say. :D
Went pretty well, I think. There was a technological glitch near the beginning, courtesy yours' truly, but the rest went smoothly. N.G idn't look at her arm like she's seeing separate cells, so I'm counting it as a win. YAY!

Blah (new and improved)

2008-03-18T22:21:00.002+05:30

PoCo presentation's tomorrow. Got together at Cyber Monkey's house today and practised for an hour. Gods above and below only know how we'll fare. Will ritually sacrifice The Misanthrope, no matter what. :¬)

Luna

2008-03-18T08:15:00.001+05:30

Don't think I've posted these before. Sorry if I have.

Moon

I
A ghostly apparition
Wrapped in grey rags,
Flitting soundlessly
In the flickering shadows.
Wan and forlorn,
Sickly and pock-marked,
Beggar-lady of the night,
On a broken throne, the Moon.

II
Cheshire cat smile of the moon,
A ruddy sickle against a charcoal sky
Shabby in the city lights,
Robbed of regal black,
Some malevolent deity’s gleeful grin,
Cruelly amused by the shambles
Of her newly broken playground.

Disaster

2008-03-16T20:40:00.001+05:30

I sank into a pile of I don't exactly know what. but dung was probably a major component. To my knees. To quote Mahadyuti, "my jeans".

Blah! (again)

2008-03-11T18:11:00.001+05:30

Having too much information is as frustrating as having almost none. I suck at editing. Bah! :(

Kolkata korcha

2008-03-10T18:38:00.002+05:30

Going nuts! More than usual. However, love Wikipedia. It's a life-saver, as always. History of Kolkata, I bless who-ever wrote and/or contributed to the article. Swear. You, dude/dudette are a god(dess). It is a true. Thank you. That is all for now. Bye. :(