Thinker Me and Other Awardees

All right then creatures of the world wide web [girls, boys and the rest of us].

It’s that time of the season when I announce yet another bloodbath, featuring Right-Brain-of-H and Left-Brain-of-H.

You see, Prom bwoy just told me two days ago [and I hope he didn’t do so out of sympathy, thinking that I was ready to jump off some mattress and end my brain] that he thought I was one of the top five thinking bloggers on his list.

[______________________ ]

Two minutes – tick-tick 1 tick-tick 2... tick-tick 120 – of silence to take this gargantuan thought in.

Now Right-Brain-of-H, being smaller, faster, lighter has risen from the molasses to claim all ‘right’s [she has this way of getting ever so slightly tiresome with this constant cheap wordplay] to this award. The Left, pissy as she always is, ruler of my personality and root cause of my consequent and perennial pissiness has decided to kick Right-Brain-of-H’s arse, being larger, lumpier, denser, because she feels ‘left’ out [gaaaaaaaawwwrrrrrsh, will someone shut Right-Brain up for a bit?]

The ache [not H] on the whole is truly excruciating as it leaves me little energy and space to think. Which, as you will point out, defeats the purpose.

Anyhow, let me not whinge on about my personal little hellhole. I’ll let you marvel at my brain and blog a little later, for now, allow me to lead you through my magnificent speech of gratitude, acknowledging one and all generously in my Oscar moment.

***

The rules of the game are:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
2. Link to the original post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

The truth is that I find myself thinking about EVERY blog that I come across; unless of course it’s one of those, get a free porche, laptop and bigger penis sites that offer you a sunny holiday with your favourite playmate on the side for that extra throw-in [and, why are ALL of them directed only at men?] Of course this proves one thing that all of us already know by now – that I am an incredibly thinking person; but, it would be unfair to say that only five of the several blogs I visit are worthy. Because truly, ALL the blogs I visit are wonderful windows to a wider world [what an alliteration!] – one that I would never get to see, if it weren’t for the existence of Blog. Heck I don’t even know what goes on in my mother’s mind, but I can tell you exactly the kind of girl who’d be suitable for my little Ben. [A much much younger H, if you’re asking – Ben, next life, okay?]

However. Since the rules say 5 and this is my first set-of-rules-to-follow, I will behave. [When I have twenty-one such plaques on my side-banner, I shall haughtily and fashionably boycott awards.]

But for now, here goes:

1.) Ads Of The World – A site that is run by Ivan who posts all sorts of ads from around the world. Ivan, through the blog, forum and painstakingly collected archive on his site, exudes the kind of love for advertising that only a true believer could. His humility, even temper, commitment and passion for the medium are truly inspiring because he’s the sort of person who gives advertising a glowingly haloed name.

2.) India Uncut – Which offers a completely irreverent and often fascinatingly relevant look at odd [and sometimes not-so-odd] bits of news in India and the rest of the world. Amit Verma, the very prolific writer of this blog [now recently shifted to its very own and proper dotcom site (for lack of a more appropriate and technical term)] has a keen wit which he employs with ruthless and delicious wickedness in all his posts.

3.) Old Spice Is Nice – where do I begin with this one? I’ve written out the rest of the post to come back to Ben. His spellings can sometimes cause heartburn, but this boy has a mind of gold. Whether it’s his posts about the arsey little gnome Hafrank or his stories and poems or just simply his posts about something that’s outraged his senses, Ben expresses an understanding of the world that is both beautifully naïve and gentle in its hope for humankind and interestingly mature for his age. And none of this emerges in pretentiously ‘thoughtful’ words strung together in ponderous posts, but through his wonderful talent for the bizarre. I really like reading this writer. He makes me believe that there’s hope for all of us.

4.) What Am I – Pricky, who has a very odd penname for a sensitive and promising young man, is a student of journalism in London. Originally from Bangalore [I think] his blog is as much about his experiences as an Indian abroad as it is about his views on current events across the world. What I really like about him is that though he does express views that concur generally with a more tolerant and ‘correct’ perspective on world politics as a journalist, his concerns don’t stop there. He expresses a very genuine and pertinent kind of angst that seems to lead him towards seeking positive and affirmative solutions, relentlessly. He hasn’t found them yet, but I know that if he continues in this vein and refuses to let this part of his mind get dulled by the act of surviving in the real world, he’s going to be brilliant. He’s the sort of ‘pesky’ reporter who isn’t just going to stop at asking the questions, he’s going to find the bloody answers as well.

5.) What’s Up Delhi – for the kind of things they choose to write about and what they link it all to, eventually [which is never one thing, in case you’re wondering]. Written by a bunch of intrepid adventurers with the funkiest (in a good way) names who bring out the best magazine there is in all of Delhi, they can tell you anything [I mean anything] you want to know about this city. But what really fascinates me about them is that they are actually able to find things to love about Delhi, and express it convincingly. [Wow.] Well this is their informal space where they choose to be irreverent about spelling, grammar and narrative as an act of defiance towards the very anal world of publishing; and yet, through this blog, it’s evident that even in their spare time they don’t seem to get enough of writing.

***
But now that I’ve told you about the official list of five, here’s my other, equally, if not more exciting list of everyday blog-diet that I just can’t do without. It’s the sort of hunger that makes me go all dull-eyed and listless if it isn’t appeased. These are the blogs that feel like home to my very scatty head [Bravo! Now blow your nose, wipe your eyes and get on with it H]

I Am Woman, See Me Blog – Lizza is the humblest, most generous, warm-funny-thoughtful sashaying-down-blog-red-carpet blogger I’ve had the fortune of coming across because from the moment I read her [a very very scandalous post about greying hair – we won’t reveal where] I’ve been hooked to her blog. It’s like meeting a more-at-ease version of the person you think you are [or at least hope for others to perceive you as] who says the things you want to say, just the way you’d like to say them, about the things you’d like to talk about; even when she’s responding to memes! Now that is an accomplishment. She’s not on my list because she’s already taken. [I mean listed.]

Prometheus writer of the formidable Moving [Middle] Finger that Writes; oh what a mighty pen he has! But enough. No more withering puns will you find here [I almost promise]. Prometheus, you would’ve been one of the chosen 5, but for that you’re the one who chose me [which in itself is an honour fattened on ghee]. But, as The Sibling says “Prometheus is seriously witty”, which is the most genuine, glowing, gargantuan compliment anyone can give anyone in my book. And to add honey to the pudding [or shakkar to the ghee, as Prometheus will undoubtedly appreciate] I, H, agree wholeheartedly.

Entropy - Design of Decadence [which was once, more charmingly called Kalyug Chronicles] – because it is my first blog [which is a nauseous pun on ‘first love’ in case you didn’t get]. It has the fine distinction of being the first blog I ever read, followed and admired. It’s special to me in the way that one’s first diary is. In fact its writer N.G. happens to be the one who inspired me to blog, and will always have his own special little corner in my head, despite all arsey-slappable arguments about the popularity and saleability of Shah Rukh Khan.

My life with D (The Houseband Chronicles) – A warm wistful-hopeful blog about an extra-large-&-warm-with-a-honey-topping-hug-sized, dimpled Super-Parent, who saves the world and cooks great dinners for his nine year old son D during the day; builds and designs houses for a living in his civilian life; and blogs about love, life and music in his spare time. It’s here that he comes to unwind and reveal his more vulnerable side, once he’s put aside his Super-Dad Cape and Lycra Super-Undies [Wait. This sounded a little… inappropriate? But you do know what I mean, right?]

Pinay in Barnsley – Who is the sassiest, mouthiest, funniest Barnsleyian I’ve read on the net. Well ok, all right. She’s the only one. But. That doesn’t take away from the fact that I love going over to her site to read about the latest in Barnsleyian fine dining and such.

AussiesNan – who seems to have disappeared, but is still a topper on my list for her endless good cheer, her ability to see the silver lining in just about any situation, and her bottomless well of patience with, and encouragement to all imbeciles aged anywhere between 5 and 80 [a sufficiently misleading bracket to protect me for a long time to come].

RazorBlade Dreams – the writer of which could’ve been my twin, because A – he’s as scatological as someone we know & B – he’s a home soul & conqueror, just like someone we know. I love reading his mouthy, impertinent, sarcastic and often darkly poetic posts on just about anything. He reminds me of someone when he rates his midnight chai-suttas [tea & cigarettes for the uninitiated] as the best thing in the whole wide world. Sigh. Little boys.

And finally, I must mention the most recently discovered, astonishingly absorbing, numbingly beautiful and seductively lyrical writing of Migs in his absolutely delicious blog – Witness Lane that I chanced upon through Lizza’s list of 5 [because of which I can’t cite his blog on my list, where he’d have definitely featured.]

***

So, after thanking my Ma, my Pa and The Sibling on your behalves for bringing me into this world and nurturing me with only the most excellent ingredients that constitute human endeavour, I shall now plunge right back into my super-exciting, arse-busting existence in the real world where I fight demons and their daddies with my easy wit, fine good looks, and oozy charm.

Kisses and hugs.
Love me [it’s an order].

Go With The Flow

She wrote, The darling Sibling, in what has now gone down in history as the most magnificently adorable card I’ve ever received.

H, swinging with the flow.

The flow.

The sibling.

To Jump or Not

Life can sometimes suck like a leech at the arse polyps of an emaciated vampire [serves him right, you’ll say now, cynically].

Three nights ago I found myself at exactly such a vacuous crossroad, drained of every bit of faith.

As I lay sobbing in my bed, contemplating the edge of my mattress with suicidal gloom, it occurred to me that I was the most tragic person I knew in the Whole Wide World. I decided right then that if God was my Witness, I would receive a message from Her directing me on the course of my impending life-altering decision, “just about any moment now…”

Resolving to act by Her Will, whatever It be with dignity and fortitude, I set about lying back in bed, ready to receive my Instruction reposed in sorrowful resplendence.

THUNK.

I hit my head against the headrest. Hard. It hurt.

I wavered.

Shall I:
1.) Shriek away the welling rage at this final indignity?
2.) Change gears from sob to wail mode?
3.) Shut up and contemplate the meaning of what had just happened.

Chronically given to irrational responses, I shut up. And, I thought.

A knock to the head.

Can.

Only.

Mean.

One.

Thing.

[Contrarily (having pre-empted your objection) this is not poor grammar. It is in fact a blow by blow account of the thunderous drama, as it unfolded, in my head].

The Sibling was right, yet again.

[Sagacious Siblings, when they strike with sound judgement, can be such wet blankets at pity-parties, na?]

“Pull your head out of your arse H, and wipe the shit off your eyes. Your eyes. Eyes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

As her words rippled through my brain, I firmed my resolution.

That night I did not jump off my bed. I chose to sleep instead.

Gripped

Just outside my window, bathed in the magical flush of a very European sort of [it’s always European-bordering-on-English-fantasy, isn’t it? Enid Blyton was an imagination-grabbing fascist, I’ve decided] eternal-sunshine-of-the-spotless-spring-but-with-autumnal-trees, a gay bunch of butterflies floated about dreamily. For some reason they were all disguised as something else. Bits of flaking window sill, shavings of bark and leaves mostly, of every colour.

A filmmaker friend was droning on about his sabotaged project at my elbow, as I leaned out of the window taking in the sight and light, feeling very blithe and ethereal like a dreamy princess. For the first time since I’ve known him, I turned to him to say “look I’m not interested in listening to you. I’ve had enough of your whine. Let’s hear the story you want to tell”.

Instantly, we were plunged into a very edgy thriller. There were five of us. Two young women and three men, two of whom were young and handsome and the third, a middle-aged loner. Everybody was shadowy [except, of course, for me] and we were running, trying to escape… from something.

Like with most high-intrigue-spy-vs-spy dramas that are set against larger murky political webs of deceit wherein the plot is singularly unrelenting, I was a bit muddled. Somebody very desperate and very very dangerous was chasing us, presumably to bump us off; is all I was capable of assimilating in this wrought-with-tension situation. Of course I could’ve argued that I had absolutely no clue of what I was being hunted down for; I had missed the plot entirely and there was really no need to get aggressive and adamant about killing me, because I was quite innocent and deplorably stupid even, if you’d [nebulously they’d] insist. But, when you’re running for your life, you don’t really think of motives, arguments and counter-arguments. You just bloody run. And so we did.

At some point we arrived at a deserted beach house. By this time, there were only two of us [obviously handsome young man no. 1 and I]. We’d got separated from the rest of the group for some inexplicable reason. Now, put deserted house, beach, handsome young man [even if shadowy] and young woman [blithe, ethereal and princess-like] together, and what do you get? Not an ordinary romance. A kind that’s absolutely pulsating with drama and passion because you don’t know if you’re just about to shove your tongue down the killer’s throat. But just as we were getting to the good part, we sensed lurking danger [which is always very ominous, especially when in italics].

The killer was on the prowl and had followed us; by which time we had also deduced that the killer had to be one of us five, but now obviously not shadowy lover and I. [Logic can be so simple and beautiful, na?] So off we went, with a non-kiss hanging in the air, galloping towards the sea, which isn’t the smartest thing to do while attempting to outrun a killer, because there’s only so far you can go on a pair of wobbly-with-unrequited-passion legs on a limited strip of beach.

Many twists and turns later, once again, we found ourselves running towards the sea.

*Digression begins* An unconscious [as differentiated from 'subconscious'] leitmotif is the unmistakable sign of good story-telling [however headless], I’m told. *Digression ends*

This time we were on a tar road, headed towards a docked luxury cruise-liner where we were supposed to meet with the others. There was very little time. We kept running. Or trying to; our legs had become leaden and very heavy; it felt like we were running through molasses. The killer was fast closing in on us. An overbearing sense of doom was settling.

Just as I was ready to give up and start crying, a bunch of cheerful street children appeared and whispered something in our ears; which cheered us up immensely because the next thing I know is we grew arms like baboons and aided our run to the ship with powerful forward thrusts on all fours.

The feeling was euphoric! It’s like flying on your own wings – a revelation of power that you wonder why you haven’t explored before in your waking life, because it’s so extraordinarily simple to grow baboon arms.

One swing. We were on board.

And then, we discovered who the real killer was.

***

“So that’s the story, huh?” I tried to sound unshaken, bored even, as a bird twittered cheerfully on a nearby tree.

“And what was that unexplored bit between the young woman and the handsome young man? I mean what happens to them afterwards? Did they, didn’t they?” But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t feel like letting him know that I thought his story had a glimmer of a chance, even if not as a thriller.

But then seeing him all withered up in a corner, the unrestrainable churning kindness in my bosom flowed over. I took his arm in mine and dragged him along for a walk, by the seaside.

Waitaminute. Seaside?

Damn. This was beginning to get spooky. Not without some sense of foreboding, I stepped out on a narrow path that led to the sea, which turned out to be a riverbed that was heavily silted over. I picked my way through slimy stones. By now, my friend had disappeared. Inexplicably, as usual.

After walking for a bit, propelled by fear and that thing that drives all scantily clad sexy starlets on 70mm into exploring things-that-one-would-shudder-to-explore-in-a-group-on-a-sunny-bright-morning in the dead of the night, all alone with a flickering torch that’s about to die, I arrived at an abandoned old temple surrounded by more slimy silt covered rocks. The floor was dusty, like it hadn’t been swept in centuries.

As I walked down the main corridor, I experienced [to say ‘heard’ wouldn’t be entirely accurate] the faint thrum of some sort of chant. Following it, I reached a room at the far end, where two men in white dhotis [a single piece of cloth that’s wrapped deftly around legs and crotch to form a tentative pair of roomy, airy breeches] were praying to an ancient image of Her.

I stood there gaping [perhaps even stupidly], as they turned to look up at me with wild eyes that seemed to say that they’d been expecting me. That’s when I noticed, through their unkempt beards, two sets of glistening fangs.

He didn’t smile, the younger of the two, though it seemed like he had.

At that moment, a familiar feeling flooded my head. I felt like I had come home.

The Poet

A depressed being on the verge of suicide once wrote a poem about its life and discovered it had penned a masterpiece. It decided to sell the poem to a wandering poet on the internet, before pulling the plug on itself. So with its last ten rupees it went to a cybercafé and trawled the net for an hour. Unfortunately after one soul searing hour it chanced upon Shout. It was tempted to kill itself right then for this final failure. But then seeing as it was that Fate had rebuffed even this last attempt at a dignified exit, its curiosity overtook it and it decided to pursue this mad, last fling of a thought.

It thought to itself in an elaborately constructed ponder, “It really isn’t tough to find a poet these days, given high speed broadband connectivity and billions of eager minds across the globe that are absolutely straining to express their unique creative outpourings. And yet in my final hour this is what I chance upon? Seeing as I have found something that so defiantly and vehemently refuses to adhere to any remote connotation of ‘poetry’ or ‘prose’, there must be something in this singularly distressing misuse of free web publishing. Perhaps this is my chance to improve the quality of something in this world. The Lord be praised! I have found a purpose!!!” And with this last thought resounding like twenty million gongs in the Tibetan valley, it approached me, not without some disdain.

To cut the long of it much shorter it convinced me to publish its poem.

So here it is. It by IT. I, humbly, am just the instrument, one post richer for a sorry It’s pointless poetic ponderings within self conscious walls. [this last illustrious phrase was penned by It, as a befitting foreword].

And now, Shout Presents…

Question.

***

Question
Am I a blackhole?


This silence sucks.

***


You are
a poet
my arse
apt as a flaming verb stuck in the sphincter
Nowhere to go but an endless fucking shit hole, up or down.

[this last is for the author of this site, as thanks – for the space & the perspective] – signed, It.