tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-198889992024-03-07T12:14:59.946-08:00Chronicus Skepticusoh i believe you.Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-19312717454413289162012-02-08T02:26:00.000-08:002012-02-08T20:35:44.196-08:00In which alternate careers are explored<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">So yesterday, someone on my timeline (why, yes! <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/chronicskeptic">I am on Twitter</a> now!) asked one of those questions that are guaranteed to mess up your head.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><i> “Are you what you’ve always wanted to be?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">The reason this kind of question throws me into a tizzy is because I’ve never been one of those people, who, since the age of five, have known, with dazzling certainty, what they wanted to grow up and be. Hell, I don’t think that thought (or any thought really; I was not a very bright child) crossed my mind until I hit eighteen and was forced to, y’know decide on a <i>career</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">Like most daydream-prone, reality-divorced people, my professional (for want of a better word) ambitions were usually based on something I’d recently read about / seen / heard. This, for someone who grew up in a household full of genre-defying cultural stimuli, proved to be, as you can imagine, a bit of an issue. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">At some point or the other, some of the professions (and I use the term loosely) on my list were: Maria von Trapp (or Julie Andrews), astronaut, fairy, singer (I haven’t given up on this one yet), doctor, vet, theatre actress (more on this later), rich heiress, item dancer (someday, when my body catches up with my mind) and, umm, hooker.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">It was some time after our third-year exams, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; ">when the prospect of another whole year*<sup> </sup>of doing the same bloody things loomed large and depressing,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; "> that </span><a href="http://greensaysgo.blogspot.in/2005/12/old-friends_28.html" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; ">N</a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; "> and I decided we would become hookers. There was, it seemed, such a thing as too much painting. And too much drawing. And too many goddamn girls wearing black nail-polish and too many boys wearing their hair long and too much of being surrounded by people who were so much like you that you want to throw up at the very <i>sameness</i> of it all. And of course, this being Delhi in the late 90s, the concept of part-time jobs to supplement your meagre pocket money did not come into the picture and GOD were you sick of asking your parents for money.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">And because a not-quite-graduate from art school is a gloriously, magnificently unemployable creature, 'hooker' was the only career option we had the er, assets for. But we weren't just going to be ANY hookers, mind you, we we’re going to be hookers from BROOKLYN, bay-bee! Because that’s where all the awesome-est hookers went (or came from). I don’t know where we got the idea that Brooklyn was the pinnacle of hookerdom - probably from the same place we got the idea that getting paid for sex was like, the coolest job *ever* – but there you have it. (Considering that we had never been to the States, nor had any previous hookering (hooking?) experience, I’d say the place was called Really Stupid Central.)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">Ah, youth and all its accompanying idiocy!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">So according to our plan, were going to quit college, somehow reach the states, proceed to sleep with different guys every night and get paid for it. Except, and therein lay the rub, neither of us had lost the curse yet**<sup> </sup>and sex was a little like Kandivali, i.e. unexplored and possibly hostile territory. And because the market for Brooklyn hookers was kinda difficult to break into – being the seat of higher hookerdom and all – we decided that we needed some sort of specialisation that didn’t involve any actual, well...<i>sex</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">The plan was shelved back then because it seemed no-one wanted to <i>pay</i> to have baffling conversation – which is the best we could offer at that point – with cute-but-clueless girls (oh cruel world!). But as the noughties rolled around, the internet’s orgy with language and capacity for instant gratification led to the birth of instant messaging, which has unearthed in me a surprising talent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">I might be socially inept and magnificently awkward in real life, but I give <i>great</i> IM.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><span>Kind of like a 21<sup>st</sup>-century <a href="http://waitalia.tripod.com/short-uk.html">whore of mensa</a>. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><br /><span>*<span>I don’t know if this is a case with a lot of other undergrad courses – with the exception of engineering and medicine – but ours, the Bachelor of Fine Arts from the Delhi College of Art was four years long. And in this I was informed, we were lucky because earlier it was a five-year course and before that a SEVEN-year course. Though what on earth you could possibly do in art school for SEVEN YEARS is a bit of a mystery to me. What you can do after seven years of a liberal arts education, is an even bigger mystery.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; "><span>**<span>Yes, yes, we were slow starters okay? Although it *was* more a matter of venue than virtue. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; ">Did YOU guys ever get any that wasn’t a furtive grope in the back of somebody’s car? I mean, where, if you were in college and yes, still living with your parents DID you make out?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height: 115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-58116362113455613472010-04-14T01:55:00.000-07:002010-04-14T04:09:12.517-07:00Firsts<span style="font-family:arial;">So, over the weekend, I attended my first ever post-funeral prayer meeting and discovered the following:<br /><br />1. My wardrobe is hideously ill-equipped to deal with family gatherings of the more serious kind. I’d been asked to dress ‘sober’, which apparently meant 'wear a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">salwar</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">kameez</span>, preferably in white or pastels', and not ‘please, <em>please</em> don’t show up like drunken <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">skank</span>’ as I’d first assumed. BUT, since I had only ever attended Sindhi functions which typically call for COLOUR! And DIAMONDS! And SPARKLY THINGS! I had nothing. Not ONE measly outfit in anything remotely pastel-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ly</span>. Then, after much rummaging around in suitcases of clothes-that-no-longer-fit-you-but-you’re-living-in-denial-about, I found the white <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">kurta</span> I’d worn to my graduation (along with other stuff, pervs). It was a little snug around the hips but wearable, so some small part of me (obviously not the hips, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">shuddup</span>) sat through that POST-FUNERAL prayer meeting being delighted about fitting into my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pre</span>-30s clothes. Really, It's a wonder I'm allowed into civilised society at all.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />2. Man, these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sindhis</span> co-opt *everything*! When the priest started reciting I was all “oh prayers in Sindhi, okay I’ll just sit here in this corner and look serious”. Then he ended a paragraph with the words “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Satnam</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">shri</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">wahe</span> guru!” and I was all, ‘What the…?!’ For a few puzzled minutes I wondered if the SB was secretly half-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">sikh</span> and for reasons unknown, had chosen to hide it from me*. Found out later that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sindhis</span> just take a bit of everything they like from the great celestial buffet in the sky. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Bataao</span>.<br /><br />3. Was stopped by grim old lady in a white sari who asked me, <em>“Tu Mala <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ki</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">bahu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">hai</span>?”</em> For about three seconds I was all, ‘Who? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Wha...</span>? NO!!’ until it sunk in that wait a minute, I *am*! Was so startled by the realisation that I could only manage a weak smile and a sheepish, <em>“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Ji</span>”</em>. See the thing is, I hardly ever hear anyone addressing the MIL by name, and I have never, never been called anybody’s '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">bahu</span>'. Freaked me out for a minute, is all. Have since then been fighting the urge to go around asking people “Whose <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">bahu</span> are YOU, bitch?”<br /><br />4. Despite my tendency to look like a chicken-that’s-seen-pictures-of-a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">tandoor</span> when faced with the prospect of attending ‘family functions’, I managed and towards the end, actually got quite comfortable. You know that saying, the fear is often greater than the danger itself? That shit is TRUE, y’all.<br /><br />So, er. That happened. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">* <span style="font-size:85%;">Which would be very twisted because I am one of the few women I know who find <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Sardars</span> VERY hot. (I blame Rabbi <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Shergill</span> for this).</span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-50157799515599103792010-03-08T02:36:00.000-08:002010-03-08T03:17:26.071-08:0010 ways...<span style="font-family:arial;">...to drive your friendly neighbourhood editor mad as a loon.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>1.</strong> When you send in your first ever enquiry mail, make sure your mail features a large variety of fonts in different point sizes, in every colour of the rainbow and then some. No really, nothing warms the cockles of our little editorial hearts than enquiry emails that sear our retinas. Eyesight? Pah! Who needs it?!<br /><br /><strong>2.</strong> Pitch your editor story ideas on the lines of, ‘I went to this fabulous place that every single travel magazine has covered about fifty thousand times before! I have no new insights on it at all but hey! This is me! The fabulous-est writer in all of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">writerdom</span>! Surely you would not deny yourself the privilege of publishing something *I* have authored? I may even let you pay me for it! At higher-than-standard market rates, of course! And yes, you may now weep with gratefulness.’<br /><br /><strong>3.</strong> Pepper your pitch with misspellings, atrocious grammar and cryptic acronyms. A generous sprinkling of ellipses is always appreciated. And don’t forget children, commas are the new confetti!<br /><br /><strong>4.</strong> Before submitting your story, send your editor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">angsty</span> pieces about your troubled relationship with your father. (You should preferably be of the male persuasion for this to have maximum worry effect). Then, pointedly ask the bewildered, flustered soul what she thinks of them. You may also accost her on chat and show her pictures of your houseplant / dog / ex. Ask for her honest opinions on these as well.<br /><br /><strong>5.</strong> Miss your deadline, preferably by three to five days and make sure you are absolutely unreachable in that time. The window should be just enough so that your editor starts tearing her hair out with worry, but is not quite sure whether it’s worth commissioning another writer because it would mean briefing them, and then begging them to give you the piece by the now-even-tighter deadline.<br /><br /><strong>6.</strong> Plagiarise, plagiarise, plagiarise. To do this with style, leave in the hyperlinks to the websites you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span> brazenly lifted from. When confronted by said editor, be absolutely unapologetic. Say things like, “But an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Onam</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Sadya</span> is the same wherever you eat it! I can’t write THAT differently.” When informed by the editor that she will not be carrying your story because it is not, in effect, YOUR story, get all huffy. Send her an angry, indignant mail telling her that she should have TOLD you about the Wiki links so that you could rework it! And that if she’s NOT carrying the story, the loss is HERS. So there!<br /><br />(This will probably cause your editor to cry big splashy tears into her keyboards, but really, she is stupid and had it coming. What can you do?)<br /><br /><strong>7.</strong> Once you have sent in the story, ask her repeatedly what she thinks of it, expecting of course, nothing less than effusive praise. If she has the temerity to suggest changes, get all huffy. Hey, YOU’RE the writer. If she was one, would she be editing??<br /><br /><strong>8.</strong> Once your story has been printed and you have received your payment and your magazine copy, mail your editor accusing her of being unprofessional and unethical for editing your story TO HER MAGAZINE’S STANDARDS. The nerve of her!<br /><br /><strong>9.</strong> Coldly inform her that you are no longer interested in writing for her magazine ever again. Then, after a month or so, send her an alleged email exchange between you and a friend, which has absolutely nothing to do anything on god’s earth as she knows it. And now that you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> broken the ice with the aforementioned email, tell her that you’d like to get to know her better. And that you’d like to continue writing for her. Because lame attempts to flirt, especially with a person who is thoroughly spooked out by you, will get you EVERYWHERE. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Ah! And it turns out there are only nine.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> So far*.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">*<span style="font-size:85%;">Oh great proofreader in the sky! I am not trying to tempt fate or anything. I have witnessed thy wrath! Please do not send me any more of the crazies!</span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-6777383609821197472010-01-13T01:44:00.000-08:002010-01-13T01:49:33.750-08:00Greed<span style="font-family:arial;">I'm not a big one for jewellery, but there's a pair of earrings I want. I can't show you pictures of them (I saw them four years ago), I can't tell you where to pick them up (they were hanging from a friend's earlobes) and I can't tell you exactly what they're worth (not much in money, but because I can't have them, effectively priceless).<br /><br />I can tell you what they were like though. Think dark hair falling in soft waves. Black metal. Not shiny, just, very black. Think art nouveau wrought iron, winding, curling, looping. Distilling the waves from her hair into a dark lattice. Then, hanging from different points in the framework, garnets. Not real ones; just cut glass. But a deep, deep red. Like the arils of ripe pomegranates.<br /><br />And every time she moved her head, the facets would catch the light, somehow turn it inwards, and glow. Like embers in a dying fire.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-36812538168868335102009-12-01T00:07:00.000-08:002009-12-01T00:25:53.574-08:00No longer skirting issues<span style="font-family:arial;">So, last week, I went and bought myself a skirt. Which, if you know me at all, is just mind-boggling because my legs haven’t actually seen the light of day since, oh about 1995 which was my last year in a school uniform.<br /><br />I don’t know whether this is a result of spending all those years in rape-capital Delhi, but the Skepticus sisters have always been modest (and I’m being kind here – the correct description would be ‘severely retarded’) dressers. If you have ever caught a glimpse of above-the-ankle Skepticus-girl-leg, it is almost certain that you are either a spouse, a sibling, or a parent of the sisters (and we shall not mention the boyfriends of the youngest Skepticus girl (aka, yours truly) because even in those cases, as LONG as her clothing stayed on, it was perfectly modest, thankyouverymuch).<br /><br />Now while this bizarre sense of fashion would've had the sternest Taliban elder brushing away proud tears from his rheumy eyes, it rather confounded everyone else. The Skepticus parents had never imposed a dress-code on their daughters, so this concerted effort to drape themselves in shamiana-size attire was quite a mystery. They consistently wore shirts three sizes too large, skirts that routinely swept the floors and salwar-kameezes that would have sent maternity-wear-designers rushing for their sketchbooks.<br /><br />”Show some forearm, woman!” was the kind of exhortation a Skepticus girl got from friends, when she was worrying about boys not noticing her.<br /><br />This extreme modesty also parented the invention of the Emergency Skirts that prevailed in the Skepticus household through every summer through the ‘90s. The thing was, Delhi summers were non-conducive to the sisters’ Victorian ideas about dressing; sweltering limbs do not a comfortable Skepticus girl make. Now there was no choice as far as public appearances went (because the world couldn’t EVER know they had legs!), but within the confines of their home, they felt liberated enough to don shorts and t-shirts, provided there were no non-family people around. But this created a curious problem, for if all the sisters were thusly attired and the doorbell rang, how would they answer it? So the girls procured a bunch of ankle-length, elastic-waisted skirts in various patterns, with the single common feature that they were all uniformly ugly. Their only redeeming feature was that you could slip them on in half a second over whatever you were currently wearing.<br /><br />Now the Skepticus mom, being the Skepticus mom, found this fervent modesty hilarious, and proceeded to tell all her friends all about it. Which might’ve been okay, if said friend-list had not included Mrs Chauhan – a lady with the lung power of a particularly accomplished Wagnerian valkyrie (with a pucca UP accent, that too) and a complete and utter lack of tact.<br /><br />The aforementioned Mrs Chauhan one day decided to call upon the Skepticus household. Finding the door locked (unusual for the Skepticus home), she stood at the doorstep armed with her iron lungs and yelled, <em>“Arre kapde pehenne ki zaroorat nahiiin! Main hi hooooon!” </em>simultaneously scandalising and deafening all of F-block, the sisters and particularly poor, grey-haired Mr Satija (their neighbour downstairs) who forever after looked at the sisters with suspicion and a wee bit of wonder. (The man had four sons – enough to worry about without the disturbing revelation that the house upstairs was home to wanton nudists.)<br /><br />But age, perspective and the absence of loudmouthed neighbours are slowly bringing about a change in this attitude and it is no longer so unusual to catch a glimpse of Skepticus-girl calf (as in, part of leg, not baby bovine) or even inch-above-the-knee leg. You might even run into a Skepticus girl who is actually wearing a top which leaves no ambiguity (!) as far as her gender is concerned.<br /><br />And then yesterday, I went and bought myself a halterneck top, effectively laying to rest the ghosts of Delhi in the '90s, four completely daft sisters and the very loud voice of one Mrs Chauhan.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Say hello to the world, shoulders (and legs)! You're going be seeing a whole lot more of it.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-81439218071955440022009-10-09T05:34:00.000-07:002009-10-09T05:59:27.330-07:00Mapmaker, mapmaker, go find another cause, ok?<span style="font-family:arial;">It seems that people will still insist on giving me directions even after I tell them I'm navigation impaired. Even after I tell them that I'm just nodding intelligently to make them feel better and nothing they say is actually making sense to me. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm wondering if there's something I should do to deal with this. Sticking my fingers in my ears and going lalaalalalaa! is likely to be ineffective, as is an honest admission, so I'm thinking, the next time someone attempts to tell me how to get someplace (despite my cries for mercy), here's what I'm going to do:<br /><br />1. Listen very attentively. Like, super attentively. Focus my eyes right on their mouths and follow the movements of their tongues. And then frown, like I don't understand why their tongues are moving that way.<br /><br />2. Lean in, look deep into their eyes and in my huskiest, I-want-you-NOW* voice, say, "Did you mean 'left from Senapati Bapat Marg'?"<br /><br />3. Smile brightly. Then look away, hurt. Then giggle. Rinse and repeat.<br /><br />Okay, that's all I've got.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Although anyone who knows me well knows I will have to work REALLY hard at this. Wanting someone usually just reduces me to a goggle-eyed, incoherent, gawkward mess.</span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-67608996948947597392009-10-09T00:23:00.000-07:002009-10-09T05:55:16.000-07:00Fascinating insights into the working of my brain.<em><span style="font-family:arial;">OR, why people like me ought to have restricted access to the Internet.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I opened a wiki page to research something, and then forgot what the thing was. I have the attention span of a gnat. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><br />I only know of gnats as vaguely insect-like creatures. I have never actually encountered one.<br /><br />(Not that that stops me from passing judgement on their limited attention spans)<br /><br />Hey, how do I know I haven't encountered one if I don't know what one LOOKS like?<br /><br />Wait! I have a wiki page open! I will now find out what a gnat looks like, and consequentially, whether or not I have ever encountered one.<br /><br />Wiki has no gnat pictures! Now I will never know!<br /><br />Oh wait, there's google images. Googlingooglingoogling...the hell? Gnats look just like mosquitoes!<br /><br />Ah! And wordweb implies 'gnat' is a generic term for 'various small biting flies'. Unless you're British, in which case gnats ARE mosquitoes.<br /><br />So it turns out I HAVE encountered a gnat before. Only, I always thought of them as small, black, shiny, and vaguely beetle-oid. It's strange to find out they're just mosquitoes.<br /><br />It reminds of my 5th birthday when half the presents I received were in my real name, and the other half were addressed to 'Aparajita'. Because that was supposed to be my 'official' name, though for some mysterious reason, it never quite took.<br /><br />Now I know how you felt, gnats.<br /><br />Ah shuddup, you'll live.<br /><br />Though not for very long.<br /><br />But I guess that's okay. You're gnats, what the hell do YOU have to acheive in life??<br /><br />Not that I've done much on the acheiving front.<br /><br />(Dammit! I can never spell 'achieve' right!)<br /><br />Which is appalling, considering I edit stuff for a <em>living</em>.<br /><br />But I DID spell 'appalling' right.<br /><br />Fuck you, gnats, I bet YOU can't spell 'appalling'.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">(I just gloated over one-upping gnats. This has got to be a new low.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Not that you'd ever need to. I mean, where would you possibly use 'appalling' in a sentence?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">"Your haemoglobin levels are appalling, human!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">(But if you can't spell appalling, you sure as hell can't spell haemoglobin.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And then the human in question would cringe and feel all inadequate about being yelled at by a mosquito.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Though <em>I</em> feel adequate enough; I can spell appalling <em>and</em> haemoglobin <em>and </em>I bet I have enough of it (haemoglobin) in MY blood to feed a large army of gnats. Ha!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I should probably stop typing now.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-25700944480961799022009-08-31T06:24:00.000-07:002009-08-31T06:33:46.609-07:00Ripping off the band aid<span style="font-family:arial;">The problem with discovering you’re an introvert late in life, is dealing with all the people who remember you as someone who wasn’t.<br /><br />Is there an easy, gentle way of telling someone that you’ve outgrown them?<br /><br />I didn’t think so. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I'm sorry A, I really am. But I don't have the bandwidth for this friendship anymore.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-86106672518855488102009-08-17T04:43:00.000-07:002009-08-17T04:58:27.608-07:00What I did in Goa*<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>1. Got tanned.</strong> No, not voluntarily. I never tan voluntarily and frankly, I completely fail to understand this new fascination for us pre-browned Injun types to get <em>even</em> browner. I don’t like being browner, hell it’s taken me a long time to get comfortable with being the colour I am. You can go blame it on the little Kashmiri girl I was friends with when I was five. Her name was Payal and she had light eyes and porcelain skin and when in she came in from the sun, her cheeks and nose would be this adorable bright pink that mine never, *ever* turned. Oh how I longed to have cheeks that turned pink! And then because I hated raw tomatoes and my mum is evil, she told me that if I ate one ripe, red tomato everyday for the next I-don’t-remember-how-many years, I’d have rosy cheeks too. Guess who has yet another grudge to hold against their mommies? Meeeeee!!<br /><br /><strong>2. Bumped into friend</strong> from PG who is now officially out of the closet. Way to go G! On an aside, gay men are the best huggers. No seriously, there’s none of that awkward arms and legs and bumping-heads confusion. G just grabbed me in a big bear hug and did not let go until I did. Which was nice because I’m one of those horribly clumsy huggers who are so self-conscious about <strong>a) </strong>displays of affection and <strong>b)</strong> any sort of physical contact that is not make-out-related that I’m always worrying about how close, how long and get-out-of-the-way-damned-boobs. Yes I know. Shut up.<br /><br /><strong>3. Was air-kissed by cute French guy</strong> and discovered that I’m a sucker for old-world chivalry. Not the pulling-chairs-out, the being paid-for or the hold-open-doors-for-me variety (though I think the last is rather sweet), but show me a guy who leans in to air-kiss you, thus giving you a whiff of sexy cologne and brushing a stubbly cheek against your soft one and I’ll show you a girl who’s fast melting into a puddle of mush. Oh and offer me your arm, or gently switch sides with me so that I’m away from the traffic and I will be your slave. Not sexually, but you know, I can get you coffee and stuff.<br /><br /><strong>4. Consumed more than half of Goa's piscine population.</strong> I’m almost convinced I have fully developed gills behind my ears. And I’m sorry fishies, but it was you or my taste buds; I picked my taste buds. And shark xacuti? Mmmmmm!<br /><br /><strong>5. Walked along the beach </strong>and watched the raindrops stipple the sand around me. Hypnotic, almost.<br /><br /><strong>6. Had the wind in my hair</strong> and the sun in my shades as we rode through miles and miles of chlorophyll-sheltered lanes. Chlorophyll makes me haappyyyy!<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Next up, What I did in Bangkok. (And no, S, not <em>who</em>, what. Smartypants)<br /><br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Goa is now officially the place where I bump into ghosts from my past. Last year it was A, the guitarist ex who I spotted at Thivim station. And then because I’m the queen of awkward and socially inept, I hid behind a pillar. I’m not proud of it, but not terribly ashamed either. Hey, some us are introverts okay?</span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-52643733533779094882009-04-08T04:18:00.000-07:002009-04-08T04:35:54.713-07:00The body as a temple*<span style="font-family:arial;">She wants to get a tattoo too, but she wants it in Mandarin script**. Why? Because in Arabic, it sounds too...'obvious'. I ask her what she wants it to say – her answer, "The divine is." In Arabic, that would be <em>Allah hu</em>.<br /><br />Of late, I've become increasingly wary of religious people. This isn't religion-specific – almost all of them spook me out now. There's a certain I-am-right-and-you-are-wrong-ness that apparently comes with the territory.<br /><br />But I can't help feeling a little sad for her. She has faith, but she cannot declare it in the language of that faith. Because it would be too 'obvious'.<br /><br />The world is a weird, sad place.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">*Or denomination-specific house of worship of your choice***.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>**<span style="font-size:85%;">Does anyone know the name of this script? Does it have one?</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">***A question to the believers; have any of you actually <em>chosen</em> your religion? Have you <em>ever</em> thought of switching?</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-44517281071817364212009-03-22T22:40:00.000-07:002009-03-22T22:55:57.352-07:00Happy birthday to me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoakbAZZ5d_8H5BeYO5EgGvUP34lOaA4lwwwsqoDmesr2p2S8mYh7eZ8j_U8xpPdV0Zz4yaJyBYBJnDi59wAB6bzsFKCh5uMJUWZqNjm5n8ShV7fIaSgW9z8tnDS1fQWgzLOl6/s1600-h/tattoo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316256439026884354" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoakbAZZ5d_8H5BeYO5EgGvUP34lOaA4lwwwsqoDmesr2p2S8mYh7eZ8j_U8xpPdV0Zz4yaJyBYBJnDi59wAB6bzsFKCh5uMJUWZqNjm5n8ShV7fIaSgW9z8tnDS1fQWgzLOl6/s320/tattoo.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The full poem <a href="http://junejordan.com/byjune.html">here</a>*.</span><br /><br /><br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Although somehow, I liked the last line more than the entire thing.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-88811106987168380242009-02-19T07:00:00.000-08:002009-02-19T07:04:53.490-08:00Cabbies and conversations<span style="font-family:arial;">He says he loves philosophical cabbies. He recounts this one time when he'd hurt himself and was walking around with a bandaged forehead. He'd got into a cab and had just settled into the seat when the cabbie asked him,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>: Sahab, aapke sar pe kya hua?<br />: Chot lag gayi.<br />: Sahab, dil pe lagne vaali cheez chot hoti hai. Jo sharir pe lage usko 'maar' kehte hain.<br /></em><br />He's laughing so hard as he tells me this, that I begin to love the cabbie too. Not for being philosophical, though there's that too, but for making him laugh this way.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-6584144387487043482009-02-18T21:45:00.000-08:002009-02-18T21:49:57.401-08:00Disillusioned<span style="font-family:arial;">He's a complete and utter sweetheart. Only....<em>somehow</em>, he was a lot more *interesting* inside my head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You know what I mean?</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-17910317531024122202009-02-18T21:20:00.000-08:002009-02-19T07:05:24.164-08:00The stuff of dreams - Part II<span style="font-family:arial;">In other news, I dreamt of Amitav Ghosh last night. Yes, THE Amitav Ghosh. In the dream, I’m in some Singapore-like country (and I know this because I have veg hakka noodles for lunch. Ha! How elementary is THAT, Watson) and we bump into each other and, get this, it turns out, he wants to <em>revive </em>our affair and I’m all, no no, I can’t do this, I’m married now! And then he gives me all these accusing-alternating-with-beseeching looks and while on the outside, I’m being all morally-high(ly?)-grounded, there is this one moment, one, when he takes my hand and holds it to his chest and people, I <em>melt </em>(this on the inside, of course).<br /><br />(On an aside, I am now seeing him in this completely different light. <em>Completely.</em> Not that any actual seeing happens, since he’s Amitav Ghosh and half way across the world and I am, well, me. But you know what I mean)<br /><br />And then the dream turned into one of those trippy meta dreams where you sort of know you’re dreaming and all I could think of was, thank god this dream-affair didn’t happen <em>before</em> I interviewed him because, well, we all know how composed I am <a href="http://greensaysgo.blogspot.com/2008/04/2008-year-of-nerd.html">when faced with people who’ve featured in my dreams.<br /></a><br />So did I tell you about that interview? Because it was my first interview ever, I was determined to be all professional and non-fan-girly. I researched like crazy, did all my homework, stayed up late and finished the book and drew up a list of questions. The interview went off well-enough (except that I lapsed into ultra-sonic mode a couple of times. I do that when I’m nervous. Charming, I know). <em>He</em> was an absolute darling; all soft-spoken and sad-but-intelligent-sounding and then it came to an end and I wanted to get my book signed and then chaos (of a sort) happened. For some mysterious reason, in the moments leading up to the signing, I was thinking about that one Friends episode in which Monica gets to hang out with Hootie and the Blowfish and one of them signs her bra (no wait, that was the one in which one of the blowfish gave her a hickey. Which was the autographed-bra episode?). And then I started to worry about which bra I was wearing and whether or not it was even remotely autograph-worthy* and of course, I couldn’t remember, so I had the bright idea of somehow subtly trying to figure it out by feeling the straps through my shirt. Well, for those of who are trying this out right now, YOU CANNOT TELL FROM THE STRAPS. So then I figured, well he’s still looking for a pen so maybe I can sneak a quick peek down my shirt; it won’t take more than a second! So I did and when I looked up there was this worried look on his face. I don’t know if it was because he saw me looking inquisitively down my own shirt or because he <em>still </em>couldn’t find a pen.<br /><br />His autograph says, ‘For CS, with my best wishes, Amitav Ghosh’. The ‘F’ in ‘for’ starts out a little wobbly but is fine by the time he reaches the ‘r’. I think I got away with it. Don’t you?<br /><br />* <span style="font-size:85%;">Not that I *planned* to ask him to autograph it, but it would’ve been nice to know that I had the <em>option.</em></span><em> </em></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-3460893079268269692009-02-13T23:31:00.000-08:002009-02-13T23:33:57.019-08:00Restless<span style="font-family:arial;">again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Holy fuck, what is *wrong* with me?</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-46288578110603801382009-02-13T02:52:00.000-08:002009-02-13T03:06:08.163-08:00Worth their weight in gold*<span style="font-family:arial;">In conversation with girlfriends who also have 'weight issues':</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><strong>CS:</strong> I don't really care about getting fit, all *I* want is to be thin!<br /><strong>Girlfriends in chorus:</strong> Oh gosh! Me too!<br /><br /><strong>Conclusion:</strong> Growing old doesn't make us any wiser; it just makes us more honest about – and oddly, more accepting of – how shallow we are.</span><br /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">*<span style="font-size:85%;">Friends who have the same amount depth (or the lack of it) as you. :)</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-76702777670714359392009-02-13T02:13:00.000-08:002009-02-13T02:18:28.043-08:00Limerick<span style="font-family:arial;">Dedicated to the gentleman who comes to the gym in RSS-style khakhi shorts.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">If you want a body like Zeus's</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">We do recommend that you use</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">This thing called deodorant</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">About which we're militant</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Because you don't smell like a rose. </span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-42171096899594541172009-02-03T22:44:00.000-08:002009-02-03T22:58:04.800-08:00Hell hath no fury…<span style="font-family:arial;">…like an insomniac awoken. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Dear friends, family and other assorted nincompoops who call me past 10:00 p.m.,<br /><br />I love you all, dearly, and I would lay down my life for you (not <em>you</em>, assorted nincompoops) in a hot second, but seriously, WTF? Why do all of you persist in calling me only after 10:00 p.m.? Why is the thought of conversing with me appealing only AFTER the clock strikes 10? Do I sound better when I’m groggy with sleep? Does the disorientation in my voice make me more endearing? What is it? WhatwhatWHAT??<br /><br />I don’t know if you know this about me, but roundabout in 2004, my one-time-good-buddy Morpheus deserted me big time. We were close once, yes, but our 14-hour long trysts are now a thing of the happy somnific past. Dude has walked and left me a raving insomniac. Which means sleep now is something that happens infrequently and with great difficulty.<br /><br />Where earlier my bedtime was a simple two-step process:<br />1. Place head on pillow<br />2. Crash into deep, Kumbhakarna-like slumber from which the devil and his horses cannot rouse me.<br /><br />Now, it is the following:<br />1. Place head on pillow<br />2. Shift pillow around, punch it into shape, shift it around some more<br />3. Kick off bedclothes, then pull them on, then kick them off again. (repeat one hundred times)<br />4. Clamber out of bed, adjust fan speed, climb back into bed. Climb out again, adjust fan speed again. (Repeat three times)<br />5. Toss, turn, toss, turn, toss, turn (repeat till you have pretty much butter-churned yourself into exhaustion and fitful sleep).<br /><br />And when finally, finally I get to the point where I’m about to drop of the precipice of consciousness and float down on a fluffy cloud of sleep, one of you calls me, the shrill ring cruelly jerking me back to that state where I will have to go through steps 1 to 5 ALL. OVER. AGAIN.<br /><br />Why folks? What the hell have I ever done to you?<br /><br />You just called to wish me a happy birthday? Well, that is thoughtful of you, and now I feel like a bitch for telling you this, but this how happy you’ve made me.<br /><br /><strong>CS:</strong> Slowly, after many hours of tossing and turning, drifts off to sleep.<br /><strong>Phone:</strong> TRRIINNGG!! TRIINNGGGG!! TRIINNNGGG!!!<br /><strong>CS:</strong> Shoots out of bed, wild-eyed, crazy haired and disoriented as fuck.<br />“What the…?! Who the @#$%^&* is calling me at this time of night?! Bloody @@#$%!! Couldn’t it have waited until @#$% morning??“<br /><br />So yes, happy? I DON’T THINK SO.<br /><br />See the thing is, I’m not anal about the dates. You can wish me happy a YEAR after the event and I won’t hold it against you. I know remembering dates can be a pain and I forget them myself very frequently (which might explain also why I’m so willing to forgive, but that’s neither here nor there). Birthdays, anniversaries, New Years, Christmas, Diwali, dude, they are all just dates. They do NOT matter. What does matter is being able to have a decent, non-groggy, non-murderous conversation with you under circumstances that we are BOTH comfortable with. Have I ever called you post 10:00 p.m.? Is it ever MY phone calls that rouse you out of bed on sleepy Sundays? No, right? Then why, <em>why </em>this sadistic urge to yank me from my hard-earned sleep and as a consequence, ensure that I spend the next day walking around like bear with a sore head?? WhywhyWHY??<br /><br />*sobs brokenly*<br /><br />I understand that some of you live in different time zones which somehow make you forget that your afternoon is my midnight, but it’s not that hard to do, really! So here’s the deal. The next time you’re taken by the urge to hear the melodious sound of my voice, take a moment and think it through. Then stop and think again. Also, for your convenience, I have made out a little checklist of circumstances under which you <em>can </em>and <em>cannot </em>call me after 10:00 p.m.<br /><br /><strong>1.</strong> You are dead. Or very close to it. Or someone in our <strong>immediate family</strong> is in grievous danger. (Yes, call. No, second cousin twice removed does NOT count)<br /><strong>2.</strong> There is a terrorist attack in a random part of the world that I have no connection with and more importantly, cannot do anything about. (No. It can jolly well wait till morning)<br /><strong>3.</strong> It is my birthday / anniversary / random festival (No. Remember morning? Yeah, WAIT FOR IT).<br /><strong>4.</strong> You want to hear the melodious sound of my voice. (No. Call me post 10 and what you get to hear will be nothing even remotely melodious. Trust me on that)<br /><strong>5.</strong> There have been blasts close to where I live and you’re worried about me. (No. Unless you hear of blasts specifically<em> </em>inside *my* building. Trust me, I’ll be home safe. If I’m not, I’LL call YOU and tell you so.)<br /><br />And now that we're clear on that, I would like you to know that if any of you now call me<em> </em>post-10:00 p.m., I am striking you vehemently off my will...<em>vehemently!<br /></em><br />With all my love (except to the nincompoops),<br /><br />CS.<br /></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-14970324075011816892009-02-02T02:41:00.000-08:002009-02-02T02:53:54.912-08:00So much for my coffee shop in Coorg<span style="font-family:arial;">In the words of Calvin (the six-year-old, not the stoic), "</span><a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2132576/"><span style="font-family:arial;">Reality</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> continues to ruin my life."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Dammitall.</span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-90251043731817057302009-01-28T23:17:00.000-08:002009-01-29T05:22:40.938-08:00Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, serves 1*<span style="font-family:arial;">Take ginormous coffee mug, one in number.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">From coffee machine, add two small cups of coffee and two cups of hot water. (Yes, in the same mug. No, don’t argue).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">From your secret stash of emergency caffeine supplies, measure out two heaped tablespoons of instant coffee (It’s repulsive, I know, but the secret stash has no room for a coffee machine and coffee grounds. Although wouldn’t that be great?).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Purchase packet of hide and seek from crazy canteen lady (Meena).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Into the ginormous mug with the coffee-water-coffee mixture, crumble three hide-and-seeks. Make sure you crumble only the biscuit part and leave the chocolate chips intact (trust me, you’ll thank me for it later).<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Stir and sip, stir and sip, stir and sip.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When you’ve finished all the liquid (and got a mother of a sugar-and-caffeine high), spoon out the cookie-sludge from the bottom of the cup. Enjoy the coffee-tinged-cerelac flavour until you come across a chocolate chip (or two). Feel them dissolve on your tongue and send delicious cocoa-and-sugar messages via your neurons to your brain. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Be thrilled**</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">.<br /></span><br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">*Or, How to completely gross out <a href="http://2x3x7.blogspot.com/">the coffee purists. </a></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">**At least until the high wears off. <em>Then</em> you’ll be yawning like the dickens.</span> </span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-82573676599807560472008-12-30T02:25:00.000-08:002008-12-31T01:00:51.586-08:00All I want for Christmas<span style="font-family:arial;">Dear <a href="http://greensaysgo.blogspot.com/2007/03/hot-chocolate-and-friends.html">M</a>,<br /><br />Stop. Just effing stop. Stop messaging me. Stop wishing me a very happy birthday. Stop sending me occasion-specific greetings and STOP calling me ‘girl’ (I am not a girl, I am most certainly not YOUR girl). Just stop.<br /><br />I suppose it is partly my fault. I shouldn’t avoid confrontation. I should’ve told you a long time ago that I did not want to be in touch. I should’ve told you to just please, <em>please</em> leave me alone. See the thing is, I kind of assumed that if I didn’t reply to your texts or take your calls, you would, eventually, get the message (it’s been, what, two years?). Now I know you’re not *dumb* (you may be a slimy bastard occasionally, but you’re not dumb) and it can’t be that you don’t get it. So you know I don’t want to stay in touch, you know that I‘d rather have a root-canal without anaesthesia than meet you, but for reasons known only to <em>you,</em> you persist.<br /><br />By the way, what kind of reply are you expecting to yesterday’s “Hey whassup” message? (On an aside, have you heard of this sweet little thing called punctuation?) What’s up? I’m avoiding you like the plague, is what’s up. And have been doing so for the past two years is what’s up. And <em>stop </em>effing acting like you’re catching up with a buddy with whom you haven’t spoken in ‘absolutely *ages*’. We are not buddies, we never were. We were two people filling in for two <em>other</em> people. We were the two-month equivalent of a one-night stand for each other and for the love of god, M, who keeps in touch with one-night-standers??<br /><br />And now that I’m done with foaming in the mouth, M, here’s what’s <em>really</em> up. We met when I was at possibly the lowest phase of my life (Maybe I should add a ‘so far’ to that phrase. Not tempt fate and all). Think about it, I was willing to *sleep* my way to a higher sense of self esteem. *Head-lice* do better than that. And you remind me of that time. Is that fair? No, I’ll be the first to admit it isn’t. But come <em>on</em> M, since when have<em> we</em> done fair?<br /><br />So you can understand why I’m completely baffled by this strange let’s-get-in-touch-with-CS mission.<br /><br />I don’t resent you, I <em>don’t</em>. Most times, I forget you exist. In the few times that I have heard about you from friends, my reactions can be largely described as lukewarm. Except maybe when S told me about your wedding. She showed me your wedding card, in fact. It’s odd, possibly a sign of my advancing years, that my first thought when I saw it was almost disgustingly maternal. “Awww…M’s getting married!” I believe, was the phrase that flashed in my head.<br /><br />Excuse me while I throw up.<br /><br />I’d be lying if I said I wished you happiness. The truth is, I don’t wish you anything. It’s hard to wish someone well (or ill) when you’re actively avoiding thinking about them. So, apart from the occasional bout of nausea (at my behaviour, not yours), all I really really want, is for you to leave me the hell alone.<br /><br />Do you think you could do that? For old times’ (as they were) sake? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Best,<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;">C.S. </span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-67025202321565284882008-11-16T11:58:00.000-08:002008-11-16T22:34:39.754-08:00In which we do some fugging of our own*<span style="font-family:arial;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmxj74kcQRCvQpicv4sDQEK4N2SeBNxwIvuZjvNwSvOmSD4D5Kq9fl1RVvnz1gr1sogBj4p67y-Z_vqSmRHN5TsD52xUMpold6Wngh0upcKQUZP5Lw-dIAf6ggOroocIVEJr9/s1600-h/NareshGoyalS.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269501847839996354" style="WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 206px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmxj74kcQRCvQpicv4sDQEK4N2SeBNxwIvuZjvNwSvOmSD4D5Kq9fl1RVvnz1gr1sogBj4p67y-Z_vqSmRHN5TsD52xUMpold6Wngh0upcKQUZP5Lw-dIAf6ggOroocIVEJr9/s320/NareshGoyalS.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Naresh Goyal:</strong> (Maybe if I just sit here and smile impishly people will be too charmed to remember that little firing-re-hiring episode.)<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>NG:</strong> Look at me smile! All impish and all! GOD I'm cute! Smile with me! <em>At</em> me! Come on people you can do it. It was all my management guys! Honest! Would this face lie to you?</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2t0zqKAMgprD28zAENaBXW5mw2XwGRyO0daMHT1ABVkAdGyVKAUvxPdYcvGw9Me4y-oho_c0UH_6ZbNkal3LG28GM1Q1NSrXlzPwXiBBBhajvcYOqoOC82zSEv54JYhxp20/s1600-h/dr-vijay-mallya.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269501461324346098" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2t0zqKAMgprD28zAENaBXW5mw2XwGRyO0daMHT1ABVkAdGyVKAUvxPdYcvGw9Me4y-oho_c0UH_6ZbNkal3LG28GM1Q1NSrXlzPwXiBBBhajvcYOqoOC82zSEv54JYhxp20/s320/dr-vijay-mallya.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>NG:</strong> Oh no! It’s that <strike>Virgin</strike> <strike>Heffner</strike> Kingfisher boy again! Look at him, all cocky just because HE didn’t fire anyone. Golly, he *does* look confident doesn’t he? There’s a certain…something about him….I can’t quite put my finger on it. Could it be that suit? It is rather…shiny?<br /></div></span><strong></strong><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Vijay Mallya:</strong> BEHOLD, the magnificence that is me!<br /><br /><strong>Lackey:</strong> (in worried whispers) Sir! This is the press conference! We’re not <strike>in your bedroom</strike> on the yacht anymore!<br /><br /><strong>VM:</strong> We’re not? But how does it matter? BEHOLD the magnificence that is ME! </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div><br /><strong>VM:</strong> (Man, this suit is so sharp, I could cut myself to ribbons!). Look at me radiating confidence like a supernova. I didn’t have to fire any of my <strike>virgins</strike> <strike>wenches</strike> flying models! </div><div></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>VM:</strong> <strike>Virgins!</strike> <strike>Wenches!</strike> Flying models! Come to me! Surround me with your adulation! And in return, you can bask in the sunshine reflecting off my suit! Come, let's snuggle!</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Lackey:</strong> Mr. Mallya? Sir? This is to do with the alliance with Jet Airways. You’re supposed to be <em>friends</em> now.</span></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>VM:</strong> WHAT?! ME, <strike>Richard Branson</strike> <strike>Hugh</strike>…dammit VIJAY MALLYA get into an alliance with THEM?! But they’re so…staid! And boring and none of HIS <strike>wenches</strike> crew wear tight, short, red skirts! Where’s the fun in that??<br /><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Lackey:</strong> Sir? We talked about this remember? We’re doing this because…? </span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></div></span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitb2NXMMmoTIP7GnrtA9OQTiOxwTD-dZwrGuU_QOTbdzLYFPmR1v7T5wElA1iO-HyG1hvJd6Km1ky6nMd_e1ZZ4DdAEYh76a_YqQB-nWh3qSAzdQqGbEatIUn4jtBWYrXJLYIF/s1600-h/dr-vijay-mallya+1.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269504503396910338" style="WIDTH: 139px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitb2NXMMmoTIP7GnrtA9OQTiOxwTD-dZwrGuU_QOTbdzLYFPmR1v7T5wElA1iO-HyG1hvJd6Km1ky6nMd_e1ZZ4DdAEYh76a_YqQB-nWh3qSAzdQqGbEatIUn4jtBWYrXJLYIF/s320/dr-vijay-mallya+1.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></div></span><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>VM:</strong> ? </span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div><br /><strong>Lackey:</strong> …because…? </div><div><br /><strong>Lackey:</strong> …we’re suffering…losses?<br /></div><strong></strong></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>VM:</strong> YOU SAID THE L WORD! Off with his head! <strike>Virgins!</strike> !<strike>Whores!!</strike> Flying models! Take this…<em>creature</em> away from me!<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></div></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>NG:</strong> Yes, I think it’s the suit…it has to be the suit. Maybe if I just sidle up to him a little, he won’t notice…some of it might even rub off. It’s all a matter of projection. Projection! That’s it!<br /><br /></div></span><p></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQNp4wUuPd1ss5VoaHzSz7TgrsY98xykoG2jDXhrTB446B-K3oc00VltVlbhR-QGVCG2Y8WgDThXxFg4yeU0ur3jG4JQR-86NeSsh49JoUl951Dcq93UgPVgBvnSg2Nq3JaYZ/s1600-h/mallya+goyal+3.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269506058389882722" style="WIDTH: 260px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQNp4wUuPd1ss5VoaHzSz7TgrsY98xykoG2jDXhrTB446B-K3oc00VltVlbhR-QGVCG2Y8WgDThXxFg4yeU0ur3jG4JQR-86NeSsh49JoUl951Dcq93UgPVgBvnSg2Nq3JaYZ/s320/mallya+goyal+3.jpg" border="0" /></span></a></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>VM:</strong> Lackey, there is a MUNCHKIN on my lapel.<br /><br /><strong>VM:</strong> Maybe if I ignore it it’ll go away.<br /><br /><strong>VM:</strong> (Gotta keep smiling, that’s the key. Pretend it isn’t there….OR I could pretend it’s an accessory! Yes! That’s it!) Look, lowly paparazzi! There is a...small stylish...unique little...I have a munchkin brooch! But I can carry it off because I AM ME.<br /><br /><strong>VM:</strong> Betcha thought I couldn’t do it, didn’tcha? Well HA! to you.<br /><br /></span></div>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-13892607045353547182008-06-09T01:00:00.000-07:002008-06-09T01:08:42.803-07:00Why I am not religious*<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">: There is this girl I know.<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: Yes?<br /></span></em>: from TIS. (or she was at TIS, she quit before I did)<br />: She annoys the *hell* out of me!<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: And that's a bad thing?</span></em><br />: Oh don't YOU start now!<br />: She's a Brahmakumari<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: I notice your respectful capitalisation.</span></em><br />: Oh shut up!<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: So why does she annoy you, this Brahmakumari (see? I'm playing along)?</em></span><br />: I don't know if it's annoyance, as much as disappointment.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Explain.</em></span><br />: Well initially, I thought she was rather intelligent. As in, we'd had a couple of conversations and she seemed…well, I don't know, like a sane religious person!<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: And you fell for that.</span></em><br />: But she DID sound sane! She actually said stuff like, "The reason most religions fail is because most of them insist on restricted brain-usage"<br />: Well, not exactly in those words, but that was the gist of it.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: And you fell for it.</em></span><br />: Would you stop saying that?<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: My poor, gullible peanut, didn't you notice her clever use of the word 'most'?</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: (which obviously implied all religions EXCEPTING her own?)</span></em><br />: No, I did NOT. And *must* you rub it in?<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: Yes. (evil grin)</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: Look, how many times do you have to have this conversation before you realise it's pointless? You're flogging a dead horse.</span></em><br />: :(<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: And DON'T use that face with me.</span></em><br />: I can't help it, that's my default disappointed-in-people face.<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: You mean your disappointed-in-RELIGIOUS-people face. People, in general, aren't too bad.<br />: There's room for improvement, but then, there always is.<br />: So what (specifically) did she do to annoy you?<br /></span></em>: She said I was 'oversexed'.<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: HAHAHAHAAAA!</span></em><br />: (glares)<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: HAHAHAHHAHAAA!!<br /></em></span>: Oh shut up!<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: No, I'm sorry, this is hilarious!<br />: (muffled guffaws)<br /></em></span>: Don't make me come over there. (rolls up sleeves)<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Okay wait. (puts on straight face)<br />: NOW tell me.<br />: So how did this girl arrive at this remarkably perspicacious conclusion?<br />: (You didn't get drunk and hit on her did you?!)<br /></em></span>: I did NOT.<br />: I had a conversation with her wrt (a lot of) religions' warped attitude towards sex.<br />: Like bramhakumari-ism's. As in, they're anti sex.<br />: I'd asked her what they had against it and she gave me the crappiest reason I'd ever heard!<br />: And I've heard a LOT of those.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Being of hyper-vaishnav stock. Yes, I know.<br /></em></span>: Tsk! Not hyper-vaishnav stock. Vaishnavism happened to the family later. Just hyper-religious stock.<br />: (and vaishnavism isn’t really anti-sex. Mostly they just pretend it doesn’t exist.)<br />: (unless of course, it’s baby-making sex)<br />: (which is understandably legitimate)<br />: (the patter of little vaishnav feet and all)<br />: (which mean greater attendance at little vaishnav temples)<br />: (and more money in the BIG vaishnav temple-coffers)<br />: But yes, do you know what her reasoning was??<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Do tell.<br /></em></span>: She said, and I quote "We are all the children of one cosmic soul. Which makes us all brothers and sisters, and you wouldn't have sex with your siblings, would you?"<br /><em><span style="color:#333399;">: You're kidding me.<br /></span></em>: Nope!<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: And you managed to resist the urge to slap her silly?<br /></em></span>: I did.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Pity. You know, sometimes, you should just follow your instincts.<br />: Especially when faced with such high calibre idiots.<br /></em></span>: I know. I'm regretting it now.<br />: But I also asked her, "So by that logic, your parents committed incest as well?"<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: I am pleasantly surprised. YOU followed up a (potentially) confrontational line of questioning? Not bad at all.</em></span><br />: "And EVEN if they did, considering that you are a product of that incestuous coupling, is it necessarily bad?"<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Bravo!<br /></em></span>: She was NOT pleased! :D<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: I shouldn't think so. :D</em></span><br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: So what did she have to say to that?<br /></em></span>: She gave me the standard religious-person's-cop-out speech.<br />: "You won't understand this now. <em>Tum is raaste pe chalogi, to tumhe samajh mein aayega.</em> Spritually, you're still a child. "<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Ah, THAT old chestnut.<br /></em></span>: That only.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: So you're a sex-fiend because you asked her why her religion is anti-sex?<br /></em></span>: Apparently.<br />: (although I also asked her what they had against eating meat)<br />: (but THAT, she chose to ignore! Hmmph!)<br />: Also, there was a copy of Summer of '42 on my desk.<br />: And the blurb said something about Hermie being, 'sixteen, confused and obsessed with sex'.<br />: And she picked it up, read the blurb and said, <em>"arre! ye to bilkul tere jaisa hai!"<br /></em>: Dumb bitch.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: Ooh! Invective! She really got to you, didn't she?<br /></em></span><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: But I can't get over the idea of YOU as a sex-fiend. HAHAHAHAHAAA!<br /></em></span>: I know! It's the most idiotic thing ever!<br />: It's weird you know.<br />: I don't *want* to be an atheist fundamentalist.<br />: I don't *want* to think that all religious people are touched in the head.<br />: But every time I start giving them the benefit of doubt, thinking that maybe they're not all delusional, I meet another moron like this.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: So these people put you off religion.<br /></em></span>: Yes.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: And essentially, stop you from becoming a moron</em></span>.<br />: I don't like where you're going with this.<br /><span style="color:#333399;"><em>: (smug grin)<br />: You know I'm right.<br /></em></span>: I know no such thing.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* And also, why I need friends who are less smug.</span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-78497680581027461632008-05-12T10:30:00.000-07:002008-05-11T22:12:10.313-07:00Thanks for all the fish<span style="font-family:arial;">My mother was schooled at a convent run by Bengali nuns. From what she remembers, the nuns were a nice (if slightly batty) bunch of women with a particular aversion to make-up which in those days consisted of, uh…kajal. One of her most vivid memories is of the nuns telling off a serial-kajal-wearer with a vehement, <em>“Chokher GOO bhore daao!!” <sup>[1]</sup></em><br /><br />This probably explains why my mother never really took to kajal, but not why she developed the inexplicable fascination for all things Bong<sup>[2]</sup>. She can read, write and speak the language fluently, has been to Kalighat about fifty-million times, and has assiduously, over a period of seven years, acquired a collection of Bengali sons-in-law that would put your average <em>laal-paar</em>-sari-clad-<em>shashuri </em><sup>[3]</sup> to shame. Lately, she has even taken to wearing the <em>shaka-pola</em> <sup>[4]</sup> bangles despite being of, and married into 100% Bihari stock (It is apparently (culturally) fluid stock).<br /><br />Fortunately for us, she kept this fascination largely to herself, except for one distressing episode involving a certain Mr. Pannalal Bhattacharya, who found his way into the Skepticus household in the form of five audio cassettes of</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shyama_Sangeet"><span style="font-family:arial;"> Shyama sangeet</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">. The man had a good voice — I’ll give him that — but what my mother did not realise, was that her brood did not want to wake up to the sound of it every sunrise. You know that state when you’re just drifting out of sleep and halfway between dreaming and wakefulness? It was surreal enough on its own, but when you added to it a deep and mournful voice singing in a foreign language, the disorientation reached new heights. Come early morning and instead of the twittering of birds, we would wake up to Mr. Bhattacharya’s sad baritone filling the house and our ears.<br /><br />As we sat around the breakfast table, groggy and barely sentient, she would translate the songs for us, bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘captive audience’.<br /><br />And then of course, Art School happened, where 80% of the population (student and teacher) was as Bengali as they come. Robi Thakur was the presiding deity — spoken of in tones of breathless reverence — and Calcutta (if you had grown up there, or Raisina School, if you were Bong but grew up in Delhi), was Byzantium.<br /><br />So by the time I graduated, I had had it up to *here* with <em>Bangaliyat</em>, and made up my mind to stay away from anything even remotely related to the state for at least a decade. And I managed, to a certain extent, to be Bong-free until about a month ago, when the menu from Meals on Wheels was dropped into our postbox and <em>Oh Calcutta!</em> was on the list of restaurants they had tie-ups with.<br /><br />Now I've always had a deep and passionate love for that fish-in-mustard-paste dish that Bongs make (yes, even through the height of my stay-away-from-the-state-phase). To the extent that despite being incredibly queasy about handling raw fish or meat (it looks alive okay?!), I tried to make it at home. Many, many times. But there are some dishes that should come with the ‘Do not attempt to replicate at home*’ warning and mustard fish is one of them. Why, you ask? I’ll tell you why. Because if you screw up the proportion of mustard-paste to fish, you’re going to feel like you’ve swallowed fire. I kid you not. And if you attempt to brush your teeth after THAT, people, there is <em>pain</em>. Real, honest-to-goodness *pain* (in your mouth, of course. The next morning might be a completely different story, but for then, the pain is in your mouth). And for those who have never had to deal with a palate and tongue that actually <em>hurt</em>, let me tell you, it is NOT fun...not fun at all.<br /><br />So now that <em>Oh Calcutta!</em> delivers to my house, I am a joyous little hausfrau (except for the hausfrau bit). I wake up on Saturdays humming happy songs because I know what we’re having for dinner. I smile at my monitor at work** while I dream about the glorious, glorious fish in that heavenly curry. I might drink dishwater-coffee all day long, but my taste buds tingle in happy anticipation of dinner.<br /><br />I don’t know about Robi Thakur***, but just for the Shorshaay Bata Maach<sup>[5]</sup>, I’ll put up with any number of Bengalis you throw at me <sup>[6].</sup> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">[1] Fill your eyes with poop, why don't you!? (Is the essence of it, I think.)</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">[2] THAT would be the Stockholm syndrome.</span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">[3] Umm...Bengali mother-in-law who wears the traditional Bengali white sari with a red border.<br /></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">[4] Red and white bangles worn by married Bengali women. Equal to a wedding ring.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">[5] Which is what it is called in Bangla. </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">[6] Theoretically, that is. If you <em>really</em> threw Bengalis at me, I would probably go hide behind my mommy. Not that she's any good at catching either, but at least she handles them better than I do. Also, YOU should consider an alternate career as a bouncer. Or a Khali competitor.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*Unless you are (at least partially) Bengali. </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">**Yes, NEW Bawa company has a five-and-a-half-day work week. Yes, I appear to be going through a Bawa phase.<br /><br />***Okay, I do, but that’s another post altogether. </span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19888999.post-39051197878063917492008-04-23T10:12:00.000-07:002008-04-22T21:43:50.016-07:002008 - The Year of the Nerd<span style="font-family:arial;">So, the Boss-crush. Like most workplace crushes, it was awkward, embarrassing and very, <em>very</em> inconvenient. There was perfect coherence as long as we were discussing work but anything else - anything at all, the weather, travel plans, hell, a simple 'hello' - and I was back to being thirteen, tongue-tied and incapable of constructing complete sentences. He just had to pass by me in a corridor and I'd be reduced to a fiercely blushing mass of utter stupidity.<br /><br />And I don't get it, I just don't <em>get </em>it! The man was (is, actually, but I don't work there anymore) a complete and utter nerd. He had the standard issue nerd-glasses, the weird, high-pitched voice, the lanky, disjointed Pinocchio-walk, but all he had to do was smile and I'd be marvelling at the way his eyes went all twinkly and how his teeth were *just* like 'thirty-two hand-picked chiclets' (Summer of '42 anyone?). And OH when he rolled up his shirtsleeves* and got to work...*dreamy sigh*<br /><br />And he had the most efficient mental-rolodex I've <em>ever </em>come across. You could walk up to him with any sort of question - tech, content, graphics, code - and you could almost see the cards flipping in fast-forward (and totally making that <em>'vrrrroooossh!' </em>sound) as he came up with the exact, <em>perfect,</em> without-a-single-superfluous-detail answer to your question. Not the kind of guy you want to look like an idiot in front of, but that's what I did. Inevitably. Every single time he walked past.<br /><br />THEN there were the highly inappropriate dreams. (No. Not 'fun' inappropriate, just...weird). In one of them, S (colleague, female, motherly), Boss and I are sitting in a hotel lobby. I’m wearing some sort of a halter-neck-y top, which has officially put imagination out of a job. Somehow, all three of us realise just HOW skimpy it is at exactly the same time, and while S subtly whispers in my ears about how maybe I should try and fix the fabric shortage, Boss, absolutely unfazed, actually *points* and said, "Yeah, you know you need to cover up a little. I can see real spillage happening THERE."<br /><br />So in addition to the crush-induced-embarrassment, every time he walked past my cubicle I'd relive the stupid dream and get even <em>more</em> flustered. The poor chap must've wondered whether beet-red-and-stammering was default-CS**.<br /><br />It’s all making me wonder if this drastic shift in type is a result of my err…advancing years. See, my teens were spent in the pursuit of surly, sulky boys, my twenties, the artists — singers, guitarists and the odd poet (Not, not odd as in ‘one-off’. <em>Really</em> odd). The thirties are showing worrying signs of being declared as the decade of the nerds.<br /><br />That, or as Billy Joel said, ‘I've reached the age where competence is a turn-on.’<br /><br />(Also, apparently, the age at which you start quoting Billy Joel.)<br /><br /><br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Yes, I have a thing for rolled up shirtsleeves. No, I can't explain it.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;">** <span style="font-size:85%;">If he ever noticed my existence, that is…damn him. </span></span>Chronicus Skepticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01645237234279809951noreply@blogger.com18