Oh, well. The last two days have been spent under house-arrest. And, no. That is not to be taken to mean literally. My life is not that exciting. Sad!
This one time I am being sensible about it all. That is the difference. The gubernatorial elections were held on Saturday. What amazes me, nay baffles me, is the sheer gazzel-like swiftness with which the results were declared. On Sunday! See, I am from India where we use Electronic Voting Machines. Even those take about twice as much time to pronounce the verdict - the calculations are checked, re-checked, and then checked a few times more just to be absolutely sure. And here they could manage to hand count the paper ballots in a jiffy. Fast, like George Bush in the Lincoln bedroom.
Forty-eight hours of confinement makes a man think. He starts to wonder about the existential theories of treadmills that clock a lot of mileage without getting anywhere, of the futility of intelligent conversations that have the power to enthral but leave you with that sense of longing, and of the brilliance of Baywatch. In short, he starts to question all that is of no consequence whatsover. With the exception of Baywatch. That show started a whole new debate on the importance of floatation devices, sun tan oils, and skin cancer. Well, the first two anyway.
Either I have a sense of appreciation for a varied spread or I have no opinion of my own and choose to be moulded by the elements. The other day I watched Dirty Dancing and Blood Diamond in quick succession, and the day before that I went for 300. Loved them all. 300 left me with goose-pimples, Blood Diamond filled me with a sense of speechless frustrating despair, and Dirty Dancing gave me that glow of a pregnant woman. Sometimes, I am not certain if I am coming or going. At others, I am in a conundrum over sugar and cream. And occasionally, I talk sense.
Like today. I opted for Indomie with egg over Khichidi. Okay, not many would label that sense. But they would not have the complete context of there being no Ghee and Dahi at home. Khichidi without Dahi, Papad, Ghee and Achar is like having sex without a condom. The pleasure is not considerably greater but the thought of potentially contracting STDs means you spend many a night tossing and turning. Just not worth it.
Instead, I will tell you what is worth it. Nothing. Nothing is worth anything other than itself. We all pay for the consequences of our actions. There is no escaping karma. But there is escaping mediocrity. And with that thought, I shut up.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Vodka, Rum or Me?
Those who know me, and I mean really really know me, are aware that I am usually one for making tall claims. It is a different matter completely that I, more often than not, live up to those claims. But when I make a claim to the only woman who I have never had anything but platonic thoughts about, and I do something completely to the contrary, then that is something to be reckoned with. In fact, it is more a force to reckon with than Naomi Campbell bending over in that oh-so-hot pic in German HQ.
The claim is not important. Well, it is. But I am not up for discussing it on this day in time. Or night, depending on which side of the international date line you are on. But the fact remains that I am in serious danger of becoming one of those I despise. They are the ofay people. Put simply, they are those who behave like Simi Garewal does in that schtick of a show of hers called Rendezvous. Sample this. Whenever I can blow my trumpet, I do. It is either the house I live in is fabulous or, wait, I just got the bedrooms carpeted. Look at me. I am so cool, types. Wouldn't you love to kill me? Or if you are kinky enough, make love to me!
That said, let us not walk down the road of making love. I have been bloody celibate the last few months, and much of it is of my own volition. Basically, I am in love. Yes, yes. I have already dedicated enough disk space to proclaiming it to the whole wide world, or at least that part of the world that happens to chance upon these pages. But the thing is this. I am at a place where I am happy with the way things are, even if she has made it more than clear that I am standing against on-coming traffic. And, though I have said it before on this space, didn't The Architect say, 'Hope. It is the quintessential of all human emotions consequently the source of your greatest strength, and greatest weakness.'?
At any rate, when you have had as much Vodka and Rum as could otherwise have taken care of the needs of a small country, even if that country happens to be Vatican City, then it is completely pardonable if your fingers choose to type against the grain of your thoughts. Seriously, are there any thoughts once an alcohol-induced mindfreeze sets in? Then again there is no mindfreeze as of this moment, provided I am not held accountable for whatever has been said so far or will be said from this point on.
Pity that I have to resort to old theories to fill up pages these days. Or what is that stupid song? Nikamma kiya is dil ne... Now I know how.
The claim is not important. Well, it is. But I am not up for discussing it on this day in time. Or night, depending on which side of the international date line you are on. But the fact remains that I am in serious danger of becoming one of those I despise. They are the ofay people. Put simply, they are those who behave like Simi Garewal does in that schtick of a show of hers called Rendezvous. Sample this. Whenever I can blow my trumpet, I do. It is either the house I live in is fabulous or, wait, I just got the bedrooms carpeted. Look at me. I am so cool, types. Wouldn't you love to kill me? Or if you are kinky enough, make love to me!
That said, let us not walk down the road of making love. I have been bloody celibate the last few months, and much of it is of my own volition. Basically, I am in love. Yes, yes. I have already dedicated enough disk space to proclaiming it to the whole wide world, or at least that part of the world that happens to chance upon these pages. But the thing is this. I am at a place where I am happy with the way things are, even if she has made it more than clear that I am standing against on-coming traffic. And, though I have said it before on this space, didn't The Architect say, 'Hope. It is the quintessential of all human emotions consequently the source of your greatest strength, and greatest weakness.'?
At any rate, when you have had as much Vodka and Rum as could otherwise have taken care of the needs of a small country, even if that country happens to be Vatican City, then it is completely pardonable if your fingers choose to type against the grain of your thoughts. Seriously, are there any thoughts once an alcohol-induced mindfreeze sets in? Then again there is no mindfreeze as of this moment, provided I am not held accountable for whatever has been said so far or will be said from this point on.
Pity that I have to resort to old theories to fill up pages these days. Or what is that stupid song? Nikamma kiya is dil ne... Now I know how.
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