I can’t remember now, from this morning, how I wanted to start this post.
There’s always THE phrase that begins it, na?
I had it, the moment I shook off the shattered glass from the shoot out. At the Ashram flyover. They were chasing Manmohan Singh’s envoy off the road, while guerrilla snipers [they might’ve been Mayawati’s commandos] from distant peripheries shot sleek bullets through tense air.
And where was I going, during curfew hour amid political turmoil? I think either to attend a sanity defying 11-part film at the festival, or a swim. [Don’t we have such an acute sense of juxtaposition, irony and drama? The Greeks really knew their shit.]
Somewhere, an official, high in the ranks plotted with cold precision. They had amputated his conscience gland decades ago. Apparently, it is a compulsory drill when you enrol. Those who don’t survive the operation are, naturally, considered martyred to patriotic duty. And I recollect thinking: so this is why… Why didn’t they tell us before?
Daylight, I’ve decided, creates confusion.
So Manmohan was whizzed away; his quiet, turbaned dignity bundled off in a dark screened, red-light-flashing blur.
A circus set up camp, just off the flyover. They had sharp shooting snipers and fire juggling politicians, bicycle balancing actors and lion taming heroines. A million sycophants thronged the gay canopied gates, and a raging stampede was born. Barkha captured the frenzy with valiant persistence while Renuka Chaudhury juggled offal-shaped slippery words with an experienced glove. Pranoy wielded a joystick in a remote OB van on Lodhi road. And then I saw, the road was crawling with an epidemic of cockroach winged OB vans.
Meanwhile, a sad eyed, blue turbaned fugitive snuck into the laundry room of a crumbling government bungalow in Moti Bagh. Nimbu pani was served and no one spoke. Least of all a shell shocked girl rudely stopped short of a sanity defying 11-part cinematic experience. [Or was it a swim?]
I awoke with the guilt of his downfall on my conscience. The Bhopalis had their best chance with him. Na?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Fated
And how.
Just heard from someone I’d crushed on, after 8 years. Someone whose 500cc Enfield coloured the sound of Enfields for me, forever after.
Just heard that 8 years ago he had fallen in love, over an incident I’d forgotten involving Band-Aid and “the pleasure of your healing touch”.
Just heard he got married this January.
Just heard he had to, because “I couldn’t find myself a girl, so my aunt did that and got me married”.
Just heard he sold his studly bike.
Just heard he wished he had taken me on a longer ride way back then, and was kicking himself that he hadn’t.
Just realised, that three and a half years ago, his interview in a magazine on the woman of his dreams, which I’d read with envy and wistfulness, was probably about...
Just wondered, yet again, how fate works.
Just realised, I’m grateful. Else I wouldn’t be here.
***
Such a much better place to be in, blogging about the non-incidence of it, na?
Just heard from someone I’d crushed on, after 8 years. Someone whose 500cc Enfield coloured the sound of Enfields for me, forever after.
Just heard that 8 years ago he had fallen in love, over an incident I’d forgotten involving Band-Aid and “the pleasure of your healing touch”.
Just heard he got married this January.
Just heard he had to, because “I couldn’t find myself a girl, so my aunt did that and got me married”.
Just heard he sold his studly bike.
Just heard he wished he had taken me on a longer ride way back then, and was kicking himself that he hadn’t.
Just realised, that three and a half years ago, his interview in a magazine on the woman of his dreams, which I’d read with envy and wistfulness, was probably about...
Just wondered, yet again, how fate works.
Just realised, I’m grateful. Else I wouldn’t be here.
***
Such a much better place to be in, blogging about the non-incidence of it, na?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Famous last words OR Another one bites the dust, though not without a few words akin to clawing at the walls on a hellish descent
I thought I was inured to the insidious lure of facebook. I thought I could hold off against burgeoning peer pressure. I thought I was the stuff restraint was made of [and titanium]. I thought a lot, basically.
But as with all things I’ve thought through to a pulp, to emerge on the righteous side of opinion with something solidly unshakeable akin to a titanium fortified belief system, mostly not flattering and always well published from giddy heights; things which have somehow subsequently unfailingly managed to arrange themselves in the Larger Scheme of Things such that I’ve been forced into hugely embarrassing, no, rephrase: prodigiously humiliating instances of volte-face-ing which is an aggressively [often maliciously] active verb in these parts, so that I’m left nekkid and cold and defenceless amid the finely crumbled debris of my belief-stroke-dignity-stroke-senseofself [which is too perverse to be even mildly sensual] kissing the arse of fate in a karmic turd-fest: facebook has proven yet again, how treacherous [and overrated] it is – this business of thinking. And opining. In these parts.
Do I learn?
No. But thanks for asking.
In my lifetime, which has notched up quite a few years comprising phases and counter phases, I’ve made many resolute statements. Publicly. Not least about how I’d rather die than EVER like boys. About how I’d rather die than be all girlie and wear lipstick and care about my figure. About how I’d rather die than go to an all-girls’ college. About how I’d rather die than work on a mainstream Bollywood film. About how I’d rather die than go out with a Punjabi boy [or three]. About how I’d rather die than have anything to do with advertising or people in advertising. About how I’d rather die than reconsider my absolute and utterly illogical disgust toward a certain RJ. About how I’d rather die than patronise Malls. About how I’d rather die than apply for a visa to America*. About how I’d rather die than be on facebook. Etc.
What must be said for my head [which I clearly share a strained relationship with, involving occasional third-person grammar] is that it truly did die a bit each time. I did.
But back to facebook.
I have been known to state my position on it. Severally:
I said: In response to a friend who sent me an invite…
“My sister told me yesterday that she's just signed up on facebook. Somehow the world seems to be conspiring to get me to sign up. Yet there's this very strong throbbing pulse in the anus of my moral steed that's telling me to resist. Why? I don't know. Don't blame me if I sound fishguts. There's this voice in my head – the same direct line from the high horse's arse. But, give me a good reason, and I might.”
[Evidently I was so smug (and deeply in sync with that throbbing pulse) that only an elaborately constructed logic driven canon of reason could’ve penetrated the fortress. Imagine having this misapprehension about your head over and over again. I should join Indian politics. They could use my head. Variously.]
I also said: In the course of an interview with a much admired writer, who asked…
IS: Are you on the facebook thing? A friend told me to start an account and now I am in touch with people from the distant past and have friends I've never heard of.
H: No. I've this strange sort of snobbery about being on facebook. But now that it's out [this is the first time I've admitted to it] I'm sure I'm going to end up on it. Someday.
IS: I would leave it except my two sons are there.
[Note how he acknowledged the undeniable advantage of her position. And note how she slipped in a clever disclaimer about an inevitable someday. Move over, Manmohan.]
I have also been known to forward this link, demanding the public and moral denouncement of facebook and its vile covert capitalist agenda, mass ether-mailed to countless friends and colleagues.
I have been known for a lot that should teach me by now to keep my gob under surveillance and my head in a dungeon before I step out.
So what changed then? What caused the universe to shift and the fortress to crumble? Hanh?
Something very basic.
Something that has shaken the very foundation of my existence in a Descartes-esque way.
Earlier, as you will no doubt appreciate, I barely made it past the “I think therefore I am” criterion: however confusing and unreliable, the proof was undeniable.
But now, not being facebook-able, ie traceable on facebook [as in google-able], it is slowly dawning on me that my existence has been challenged in ways that I am utterly unable to question or combat.
There is this whole other universe of interaction from which I am excluded – a gargantuan time-space vortex that is oblivious to my existence; a universe populated by friends and family who increasingly, even when they meet in the here and now, conduct their conversations in mysterious allusions to their facebook lives. “So ‘ryou going for the Teddy Boy Kill gig tonight?” Who? What? When? “Sorry! Forgot, you’re not on facebook, it’s on my events listing. Remind me to email you”.
Remind me to throw you a hieroglyphics-imprinted rock, freakshow from the nineties.
I used to be really proud of my memory: I’m the sort of calendar whore who has birthdays and anniversaries rolling involuntarily off the tips of her extremities. I used to be respected, envied even, for it. Once. But now, thanks to f***book, I’m like the lady-with-the-mile-long-moustache at the local mela – mildly amusing with an utterly redundant talent. Who needs a memory when f***book tinkles in your arse every time it’s a friend’s birthday?
I also truly believed that email and text had explored the final intrusion of virtual messaging in our daily lives, stretching the limit of impersonal interaction in the absence of voice and handwriting. I truly believed that social utility networks were glorified dating-sites infested with the sort of flotsam jetsam that scavenge along the periphery of normal social interaction, teeming with nefarious activity. Surely nobody respects them?
But I was wrong. There is facebook now. And it’s here to stay and threaten the fact of my existence.
As a copywriting friend recently wrote, in response to my facebook volte-face, as a befitting open-armed welcome of sorts:
“I will add that if you join Facebook, the sooner the better, you will know the tidbits that Ali and Sue are exchanging, how Sid doesn't fit into Chinese MRI machines, what I'm trying to cook and at least one event that Phish will be attending in the coming week. Also you'll see pictures of Mangu put up by various people, be alerted when someone changes their status from "in a relationship" to "it's complicated" and meet a bunch of people who you didn't know you gave a flying hoot about until you joined.”
And so…
I feel this great urge to announce it – this ceremonial deflowering of my social utility website virginity. [I'm lying, I have my profile up on another, no two other such site, but under the innocuous title of Etch, and I don't ever check these, because I am so ashamed of them. So then why did I register, you ask? Because there was a time in my life I was even more net un-savvy than I am now. There was a time I clicked on links sent by friends and discovered too late that I had found myself a spanking new spot under the virtual sun. There was a time I could legitimately blame it on ignorance.].
There I said it.
I’m signing up. Wittingly.
I’m selling my soul.
I’m getting me a life. An identity. An existence.
I’m on facebook. Officially.
***
So.
Those of you who know me in the here and now, beyond the single letterness of my blog-existence, please, rush over and say hello. On facebook. Disregard snide comments, allusions to inverted snobbery, and any loose talk about abstinence… Please. Don’t ignore me. God knows that if I don’t have enough frendz on facebook, I’m going to be so devastated.
***
Something also tells me I might start saying ‘anyways’… soon.
***
*Ben was decent enough to email me about it. He was thoughtful enough not to flame me on comments, demanding an explanation for my distasteful display of such xenophobia. He just said, and most sweetly: "Not really offended, but why would you have rather died than apply for a visa to America?"
And so, because I love him so much, and because I had no business being such a judgmental arse without an explanation, here's my reason for saying this: I should've realised that it had offence potential... But with the kind of humiliating checking procedures that friends and acquaintances [particularly those who are Muslim and male] have been put through at airports etc., the kind of blind suspicion post 9/11, coupled with the senseless visa denials that some of my friends have faced, it just seems like there's no point in applying for permission to be allowed into a country that wants to tell you, repeatedly, how unwelcome you are.
But as with all things I’ve thought through to a pulp, to emerge on the righteous side of opinion with something solidly unshakeable akin to a titanium fortified belief system, mostly not flattering and always well published from giddy heights; things which have somehow subsequently unfailingly managed to arrange themselves in the Larger Scheme of Things such that I’ve been forced into hugely embarrassing, no, rephrase: prodigiously humiliating instances of volte-face-ing which is an aggressively [often maliciously] active verb in these parts, so that I’m left nekkid and cold and defenceless amid the finely crumbled debris of my belief-stroke-dignity-stroke-senseofself [which is too perverse to be even mildly sensual] kissing the arse of fate in a karmic turd-fest: facebook has proven yet again, how treacherous [and overrated] it is – this business of thinking. And opining. In these parts.
Do I learn?
No. But thanks for asking.
In my lifetime, which has notched up quite a few years comprising phases and counter phases, I’ve made many resolute statements. Publicly. Not least about how I’d rather die than EVER like boys. About how I’d rather die than be all girlie and wear lipstick and care about my figure. About how I’d rather die than go to an all-girls’ college. About how I’d rather die than work on a mainstream Bollywood film. About how I’d rather die than go out with a Punjabi boy [or three]. About how I’d rather die than have anything to do with advertising or people in advertising. About how I’d rather die than reconsider my absolute and utterly illogical disgust toward a certain RJ. About how I’d rather die than patronise Malls. About how I’d rather die than apply for a visa to America*. About how I’d rather die than be on facebook. Etc.
What must be said for my head [which I clearly share a strained relationship with, involving occasional third-person grammar] is that it truly did die a bit each time. I did.
But back to facebook.
I have been known to state my position on it. Severally:
I said: In response to a friend who sent me an invite…
“My sister told me yesterday that she's just signed up on facebook. Somehow the world seems to be conspiring to get me to sign up. Yet there's this very strong throbbing pulse in the anus of my moral steed that's telling me to resist. Why? I don't know. Don't blame me if I sound fishguts. There's this voice in my head – the same direct line from the high horse's arse. But, give me a good reason, and I might.”
[Evidently I was so smug (and deeply in sync with that throbbing pulse) that only an elaborately constructed logic driven canon of reason could’ve penetrated the fortress. Imagine having this misapprehension about your head over and over again. I should join Indian politics. They could use my head. Variously.]
I also said: In the course of an interview with a much admired writer, who asked…
IS: Are you on the facebook thing? A friend told me to start an account and now I am in touch with people from the distant past and have friends I've never heard of.
H: No. I've this strange sort of snobbery about being on facebook. But now that it's out [this is the first time I've admitted to it] I'm sure I'm going to end up on it. Someday.
IS: I would leave it except my two sons are there.
[Note how he acknowledged the undeniable advantage of her position. And note how she slipped in a clever disclaimer about an inevitable someday. Move over, Manmohan.]
I have also been known to forward this link, demanding the public and moral denouncement of facebook and its vile covert capitalist agenda, mass ether-mailed to countless friends and colleagues.
I have been known for a lot that should teach me by now to keep my gob under surveillance and my head in a dungeon before I step out.
So what changed then? What caused the universe to shift and the fortress to crumble? Hanh?
Something very basic.
Something that has shaken the very foundation of my existence in a Descartes-esque way.
Earlier, as you will no doubt appreciate, I barely made it past the “I think therefore I am” criterion: however confusing and unreliable, the proof was undeniable.
But now, not being facebook-able, ie traceable on facebook [as in google-able], it is slowly dawning on me that my existence has been challenged in ways that I am utterly unable to question or combat.
There is this whole other universe of interaction from which I am excluded – a gargantuan time-space vortex that is oblivious to my existence; a universe populated by friends and family who increasingly, even when they meet in the here and now, conduct their conversations in mysterious allusions to their facebook lives. “So ‘ryou going for the Teddy Boy Kill gig tonight?” Who? What? When? “Sorry! Forgot, you’re not on facebook, it’s on my events listing. Remind me to email you”.
Remind me to throw you a hieroglyphics-imprinted rock, freakshow from the nineties.
I used to be really proud of my memory: I’m the sort of calendar whore who has birthdays and anniversaries rolling involuntarily off the tips of her extremities. I used to be respected, envied even, for it. Once. But now, thanks to f***book, I’m like the lady-with-the-mile-long-moustache at the local mela – mildly amusing with an utterly redundant talent. Who needs a memory when f***book tinkles in your arse every time it’s a friend’s birthday?
I also truly believed that email and text had explored the final intrusion of virtual messaging in our daily lives, stretching the limit of impersonal interaction in the absence of voice and handwriting. I truly believed that social utility networks were glorified dating-sites infested with the sort of flotsam jetsam that scavenge along the periphery of normal social interaction, teeming with nefarious activity. Surely nobody respects them?
But I was wrong. There is facebook now. And it’s here to stay and threaten the fact of my existence.
As a copywriting friend recently wrote, in response to my facebook volte-face, as a befitting open-armed welcome of sorts:
“I will add that if you join Facebook, the sooner the better, you will know the tidbits that Ali and Sue are exchanging, how Sid doesn't fit into Chinese MRI machines, what I'm trying to cook and at least one event that Phish will be attending in the coming week. Also you'll see pictures of Mangu put up by various people, be alerted when someone changes their status from "in a relationship" to "it's complicated" and meet a bunch of people who you didn't know you gave a flying hoot about until you joined.”
And so…
I feel this great urge to announce it – this ceremonial deflowering of my social utility website virginity. [I'm lying, I have my profile up on another, no two other such site, but under the innocuous title of Etch, and I don't ever check these, because I am so ashamed of them. So then why did I register, you ask? Because there was a time in my life I was even more net un-savvy than I am now. There was a time I clicked on links sent by friends and discovered too late that I had found myself a spanking new spot under the virtual sun. There was a time I could legitimately blame it on ignorance.].
There I said it.
I’m signing up. Wittingly.
I’m selling my soul.
I’m getting me a life. An identity. An existence.
I’m on facebook. Officially.
***
So.
Those of you who know me in the here and now, beyond the single letterness of my blog-existence, please, rush over and say hello. On facebook. Disregard snide comments, allusions to inverted snobbery, and any loose talk about abstinence… Please. Don’t ignore me. God knows that if I don’t have enough frendz on facebook, I’m going to be so devastated.
***
Something also tells me I might start saying ‘anyways’… soon.
***
*Ben was decent enough to email me about it. He was thoughtful enough not to flame me on comments, demanding an explanation for my distasteful display of such xenophobia. He just said, and most sweetly: "Not really offended, but why would you have rather died than apply for a visa to America?"
And so, because I love him so much, and because I had no business being such a judgmental arse without an explanation, here's my reason for saying this: I should've realised that it had offence potential... But with the kind of humiliating checking procedures that friends and acquaintances [particularly those who are Muslim and male] have been put through at airports etc., the kind of blind suspicion post 9/11, coupled with the senseless visa denials that some of my friends have faced, it just seems like there's no point in applying for permission to be allowed into a country that wants to tell you, repeatedly, how unwelcome you are.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Writer [English]
I've been looking for a writer for us. There comes a time in everyone's life, when they must stop their depraved pursuit of renegade punctuation in the verbiage of people who went to B-school and forgot what Ms. Chanda taught them in English class.
Well, there comes such a time in my life.
Sick of exclamation marks in excess, misplaced apostrophes and sms spelling in offishall dokumentz, I'm just about ready to savagely uproot the eyebrows of the next idiot who dares show me an ill-composed piece of writing.
And so, burning with zeal and purpose, I carefully composed an ad and R, the client-managing stalwart of our workshop posted it on a dotcom of inspiring repute, thinking one ad, and we're going to be swamped with CVs from wordsmiths of admirable calibre; because after all we are who we are, small, but cutting edge and all.
They did come. The CVs; describing wonders I hadn't ever thought could exist.
One hot stud of a creative director, down from unnameable country for 'personal reasons', came along for an interview ensconced in a viscous cloud of expensive cologne and a crisp white shirt. He had the sort of Grecian good looks that immortalise urns. But pretty faces with fat salary expectations don't run a firm. He was clearly given to spending the amount I earn in a month on a week's ration of parfum pour homme. It was apparent that we weren't suited for one another quite early into the meeting, but he insisted on taking us through ALL his work, explaining every clever turn of phrase with patronising patience. At some point, his leg brushed past mine, and when I looked up to apologise, unsure of whose fault it was, he dimpled a deeply meaningful smile, allowed his gaze to linger just a moment too long, and then continued nonchalantly with his monologue. Bumfarkin'confoundedness! Do people think they can get away with anything, just because they're terribly awfully bloody good looking and their diction's perfect? [um, something tells me, the answer to that could easily be yes.] I mean, I should've been the one, if at all, being lewd. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he on MY TURF? I hate being cheated of my rights, especially when it involves becoming flustered, looking an ace idiot and not being able to smell properly for half a day.
Another fellow shimmied in, telling us he "would write, of course! But I wouldn't like to edit copy, as I'd rather spend my time envisioning things of greater importance for the company". Thank you very much, mister, we HAVE a business development team, and rather a lot more vision than we'd care to outsource. It would be nice, perhaps, if you'd evince an interest in the job we've advertised for. Later it emerged that he also planned, between his writings and visions to squeeze in a few plump freelance assignments. His parting shot was "Umm, even if you don't hire me, could I moonlight with you?"
The most priceless so far, though, has been this little toad, a fledgling junior writer at some arse-hammered nondescript agency, I had the pleasure of calling.
H [in my crispest telephone voice]: "Hi, am I speaking with X?"
Toad: "Ya?"
YA? What is farkin' YA?
H [maintaining telephone charm]: "I'm calling about your CV which you posted in response to our ad for a writer?"
Toad [disinterested to the degree of almost suggesting that I was calling about a tax poll]: "Ya?"
H [ignoring the urge to pop a vein, giving nonchalance a good name]: "Er, did you or did you not?"
Toad: "Ya ya."
H [losing control of vein and nonchalance]: "Er, X, you seem to be responding only in 'Ya's, Sounds like you're very busy?"
Toad: "Ha ha. Ya."
***
Oh. And. If another copy-cowboy even utters the word "anyways" I'm going to do a serious arse-razing [MS Word insisted it should be raising] earth shattering Rumpelstiltskin.
What's with 'anyways'? Hanh? What IS 'anyways', anyway?
In my very limited and archaic view of the world, it sounds suspiciously like something that calls for the careful de-hirsuting of eyebrows AND some, with a single-hair-pinch-and-pluck epilator with a jerky battery and rusty pincers.
But, this is just my opinion.
I'm exhausted now; 'tis bad for my nerves – such raw excitement.
Well, there comes such a time in my life.
Sick of exclamation marks in excess, misplaced apostrophes and sms spelling in offishall dokumentz, I'm just about ready to savagely uproot the eyebrows of the next idiot who dares show me an ill-composed piece of writing.
And so, burning with zeal and purpose, I carefully composed an ad and R, the client-managing stalwart of our workshop posted it on a dotcom of inspiring repute, thinking one ad, and we're going to be swamped with CVs from wordsmiths of admirable calibre; because after all we are who we are, small, but cutting edge and all.
They did come. The CVs; describing wonders I hadn't ever thought could exist.
One hot stud of a creative director, down from unnameable country for 'personal reasons', came along for an interview ensconced in a viscous cloud of expensive cologne and a crisp white shirt. He had the sort of Grecian good looks that immortalise urns. But pretty faces with fat salary expectations don't run a firm. He was clearly given to spending the amount I earn in a month on a week's ration of parfum pour homme. It was apparent that we weren't suited for one another quite early into the meeting, but he insisted on taking us through ALL his work, explaining every clever turn of phrase with patronising patience. At some point, his leg brushed past mine, and when I looked up to apologise, unsure of whose fault it was, he dimpled a deeply meaningful smile, allowed his gaze to linger just a moment too long, and then continued nonchalantly with his monologue. Bumfarkin'confoundedness! Do people think they can get away with anything, just because they're terribly awfully bloody good looking and their diction's perfect? [um, something tells me, the answer to that could easily be yes.] I mean, I should've been the one, if at all, being lewd. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he on MY TURF? I hate being cheated of my rights, especially when it involves becoming flustered, looking an ace idiot and not being able to smell properly for half a day.
Another fellow shimmied in, telling us he "would write, of course! But I wouldn't like to edit copy, as I'd rather spend my time envisioning things of greater importance for the company". Thank you very much, mister, we HAVE a business development team, and rather a lot more vision than we'd care to outsource. It would be nice, perhaps, if you'd evince an interest in the job we've advertised for. Later it emerged that he also planned, between his writings and visions to squeeze in a few plump freelance assignments. His parting shot was "Umm, even if you don't hire me, could I moonlight with you?"
The most priceless so far, though, has been this little toad, a fledgling junior writer at some arse-hammered nondescript agency, I had the pleasure of calling.
H [in my crispest telephone voice]: "Hi, am I speaking with X?"
Toad: "Ya?"
YA? What is farkin' YA?
H [maintaining telephone charm]: "I'm calling about your CV which you posted in response to our ad for a writer?"
Toad [disinterested to the degree of almost suggesting that I was calling about a tax poll]: "Ya?"
H [ignoring the urge to pop a vein, giving nonchalance a good name]: "Er, did you or did you not?"
Toad: "Ya ya."
H [losing control of vein and nonchalance]: "Er, X, you seem to be responding only in 'Ya's, Sounds like you're very busy?"
Toad: "Ha ha. Ya."
***
Oh. And. If another copy-cowboy even utters the word "anyways" I'm going to do a serious arse-razing [MS Word insisted it should be raising] earth shattering Rumpelstiltskin.
What's with 'anyways'? Hanh? What IS 'anyways', anyway?
In my very limited and archaic view of the world, it sounds suspiciously like something that calls for the careful de-hirsuting of eyebrows AND some, with a single-hair-pinch-and-pluck epilator with a jerky battery and rusty pincers.
But, this is just my opinion.
I'm exhausted now; 'tis bad for my nerves – such raw excitement.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Oh to be a Liar: the autobiography of a failed Liar
Enchanting Migs, can make one’s heart twist in French knots with his turn of phrase. Often have I swooned at his commas and stops. So you can imagine what it means when he says, nonchalantly, ‘H darling, you are it’. You don’t get arsey about it even if tagging in your worldview is akin to flatulence in public spaces. Instead, you’re honoured and even grateful for the tag, never mind that you’ve done the same one earlier.
So here goes, for the second time, the 123 tag.
I must grab the book nearest to me, turn to page 123, and quote three sentences, starting the fifth.
Equal Rites by... Terry Pratchett! Lalalalala.
“Young men who showed faint signs of having such a talent were encouraged, on special ceremonial occasions, to bend the truth ever further on a competitive basis.
The first recorded Zoon proto-lie was ‘actually, my grandfather is quite tall’, but eventually they got the hang of it and the Office of Tribal Liars was instituted.
It must be understood that while the majority of Zoon cannot lie, they have great respect for any Zoon who can say that the world is other than it is. “
***
And now, a bit more, to do justice to the title of this post: Inspired by Pratchett’s clan of Zoon – their custom of electing Liars; and my rabidly nervous disposition. Yes, yes I know what you’re thinking... get over Pratchett already, move on, read something else, don’t bore us.
Between Pratchett and the pool I’ve a little industry going, haven’t I? Ha. ‘Tisn’t my place to say it, but I will anyway, ‘cause I’m generous like that... [You really don’t have to stay if you don’t like reading what I write]. There. I’m done whispering in brackets.
The truth is if I were elected a Zoon Liar, I’d suck at it. Very seriously.
I’d probably sooner evince a penchant for and even excel at being a cutting edge Zoon water-changer for cattle. Or a Zoon sinker-of-feed for algae. My mum has in fact always harboured a fond suspicion that I might have a talent for stamping floral shapes on bus tickets. But what’s undisputed is that I haven’t the slightest, most bashful, trembling hint of aptitude for being a Liar. ‘Tis a terribly clever job, the demands of which I am utterly ill-equipped to meet: this much is clear to me now.
But once upon a Zoon time, it wasn’t. I was young, and possibilities abounded in nature – even the number of times I could poo in my little chuddies was wonder-striking and full of potential. So you can imagine the shock I received the day I tried my head at Lying. I was four, the sibling was six and as is ordained by Things Greater Than Us, while we were playing in that dangerous frenzy in which one sibling must either fall and get hurt very badly, or the playing must take a combatant turn, the playing took a combatant turn. The innocuous pencil in my grubby paws lodged itself with certain force and vengeance in the back of my smug, taunt-mouthed sibling, who was smug no more and rather red faced and in that frozen moment which precedes a particularly violent bout of bawling when one’s mouth is dangerously silent and wide open, eyes are screwed shut, breath is stuck and one’s face goes from red to redder.
There are two things that strike the mind of a four old watching her elder sibling poised on the wrong side of balance at this fearsome precipice from which things can only go downhill for all parties involved. One is a primal instinct arising from a residual collective memory, also sometimes called mob-mentality, which demands that you drop all things at hand and instantly join in the bawling, contributing greater decibels if possible to the general ambience of panic. The other, if you are a bastardly child called H, is a highly underrated, but promising instinct of self-preservation which demands that you move into elaborate modes of damage-control immediately.
And so, being H, in glorious disregard of the wily incisiveness of the Adult Mind mostly arising from prodigious volumes of ignorance, I arranged my four year old face in a singular look of bewilderment [which comes naturally when you’re four and everything of interest lies at least five inches out of reach] and immediately sought my parents.
I found them one doorway away, in their room, reposed in a memorable picture of bliss. Pa was lying back reading, beautiful mum was bent gracefully over a piece of mending. I shuffled up urgently, reluctant though I was to break the spell, and trilled in endearing baby tones “I don’t know why di’s crying. I just tapped her lightly with a pencil!” To demonstrate, I took my pudgy index finger and with the sort of delicacy that could embarrass a gay butterfly, tapped my father ever so lightly on his arm. I had time enough only to barely catch the look of utter love that my parents exchanged...
Just then the sibling’s voice came unstuck and a piercing, sickening, shrill wail arose, destroying the gentle afternoon air.
Without getting into the gruesome details of what followed, briefly touching upon the discovery of a half-centimetre long black lead nib embedded in a six year old back, a certain sore bottom and the admonishment of a lifetime, I can safely say that this defining incident broke my confidence and spelt the end of my Lying career.
Some [not least my mum] say it is a good thing.
***
Mine darling fairyblogmatha, THE Nanster, has also tagged me. Her tag’s cute, simple and very precise. It says post the title of your autobiography as the title of this post. I just did, Nan.
So here goes, for the second time, the 123 tag.
I must grab the book nearest to me, turn to page 123, and quote three sentences, starting the fifth.
Equal Rites by... Terry Pratchett! Lalalalala.
“Young men who showed faint signs of having such a talent were encouraged, on special ceremonial occasions, to bend the truth ever further on a competitive basis.
The first recorded Zoon proto-lie was ‘actually, my grandfather is quite tall’, but eventually they got the hang of it and the Office of Tribal Liars was instituted.
It must be understood that while the majority of Zoon cannot lie, they have great respect for any Zoon who can say that the world is other than it is. “
***
And now, a bit more, to do justice to the title of this post: Inspired by Pratchett’s clan of Zoon – their custom of electing Liars; and my rabidly nervous disposition. Yes, yes I know what you’re thinking... get over Pratchett already, move on, read something else, don’t bore us.
Between Pratchett and the pool I’ve a little industry going, haven’t I? Ha. ‘Tisn’t my place to say it, but I will anyway, ‘cause I’m generous like that... [You really don’t have to stay if you don’t like reading what I write]. There. I’m done whispering in brackets.
The truth is if I were elected a Zoon Liar, I’d suck at it. Very seriously.
I’d probably sooner evince a penchant for and even excel at being a cutting edge Zoon water-changer for cattle. Or a Zoon sinker-of-feed for algae. My mum has in fact always harboured a fond suspicion that I might have a talent for stamping floral shapes on bus tickets. But what’s undisputed is that I haven’t the slightest, most bashful, trembling hint of aptitude for being a Liar. ‘Tis a terribly clever job, the demands of which I am utterly ill-equipped to meet: this much is clear to me now.
But once upon a Zoon time, it wasn’t. I was young, and possibilities abounded in nature – even the number of times I could poo in my little chuddies was wonder-striking and full of potential. So you can imagine the shock I received the day I tried my head at Lying. I was four, the sibling was six and as is ordained by Things Greater Than Us, while we were playing in that dangerous frenzy in which one sibling must either fall and get hurt very badly, or the playing must take a combatant turn, the playing took a combatant turn. The innocuous pencil in my grubby paws lodged itself with certain force and vengeance in the back of my smug, taunt-mouthed sibling, who was smug no more and rather red faced and in that frozen moment which precedes a particularly violent bout of bawling when one’s mouth is dangerously silent and wide open, eyes are screwed shut, breath is stuck and one’s face goes from red to redder.
There are two things that strike the mind of a four old watching her elder sibling poised on the wrong side of balance at this fearsome precipice from which things can only go downhill for all parties involved. One is a primal instinct arising from a residual collective memory, also sometimes called mob-mentality, which demands that you drop all things at hand and instantly join in the bawling, contributing greater decibels if possible to the general ambience of panic. The other, if you are a bastardly child called H, is a highly underrated, but promising instinct of self-preservation which demands that you move into elaborate modes of damage-control immediately.
And so, being H, in glorious disregard of the wily incisiveness of the Adult Mind mostly arising from prodigious volumes of ignorance, I arranged my four year old face in a singular look of bewilderment [which comes naturally when you’re four and everything of interest lies at least five inches out of reach] and immediately sought my parents.
I found them one doorway away, in their room, reposed in a memorable picture of bliss. Pa was lying back reading, beautiful mum was bent gracefully over a piece of mending. I shuffled up urgently, reluctant though I was to break the spell, and trilled in endearing baby tones “I don’t know why di’s crying. I just tapped her lightly with a pencil!” To demonstrate, I took my pudgy index finger and with the sort of delicacy that could embarrass a gay butterfly, tapped my father ever so lightly on his arm. I had time enough only to barely catch the look of utter love that my parents exchanged...
Just then the sibling’s voice came unstuck and a piercing, sickening, shrill wail arose, destroying the gentle afternoon air.
Without getting into the gruesome details of what followed, briefly touching upon the discovery of a half-centimetre long black lead nib embedded in a six year old back, a certain sore bottom and the admonishment of a lifetime, I can safely say that this defining incident broke my confidence and spelt the end of my Lying career.
Some [not least my mum] say it is a good thing.
***
Mine darling fairyblogmatha, THE Nanster, has also tagged me. Her tag’s cute, simple and very precise. It says post the title of your autobiography as the title of this post. I just did, Nan.
Monday, May 26, 2008
When H hugs Hafrank, and juggles slinkies with Ben
It’s no secret how much I adore little Ben - THE Bennay J D – King of Gnome Blog who likes to roll with the Kid Rock. He’s the darlingest blogger I never met. In fact, if I had a flying carpet, I’d send it over for Ben to come avisiting, with limitless servings of fun flips and imli sherbet all the way from Ohio to Delhi.
I love him that much.
But ruefully, my carpet’s aloft somewhere having racy adventures of questionable consequence, and my wings are soaking in the rain.
Just as I was brooding over this and more, look what he did for us! He brought the whole gnome company over for a visit!
Come on, join us... it’s fun really! And John Travolta’s promised not to do the full-monty.
The Gnome Company in Indiahhhhhhhhh!
Ben, this goes out from R-B-o-H and L-B-o-H...
THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!
I love him that much.
But ruefully, my carpet’s aloft somewhere having racy adventures of questionable consequence, and my wings are soaking in the rain.
Just as I was brooding over this and more, look what he did for us! He brought the whole gnome company over for a visit!
Come on, join us... it’s fun really! And John Travolta’s promised not to do the full-monty.
The Gnome Company in Indiahhhhhhhhh!
Ben, this goes out from R-B-o-H and L-B-o-H...
THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Chat
This is what a cheap-arse resorts to when:
1.) Inspiration is abundantly absent.
or
2.) She’s suffering from a debilitating bout of feeling slighted.
As will be evident, regardless of circumstances, it is deplorable and utterly juvenile. However, indulge me, for once.
Presenting: My conversation with Phish, who is a PROFESSIONAL WRITER [and I’m NOT]
Phish: So
Aren’t u missing me at all?
me: Umm. Are you missing me? When you're NOT swimming and all...
Phish: maybe
me: Well yes. A distant memory of meeting you once. fond, nonetheless.
Phish: i came FOUR times
me: damn. HOW could I forget in the 50 odd times I've been...
But. FYI [hooow I love this] the pool has been LOVELY in the last few days with this crazy weather.
Phish: SHOO
me: Btw, tell me... is this very pretentious?...because I really felt it: swimming in the rain is like breathing mud dreams...
tell me. honestly.
Phish: it’s a lovely phrase
ive swum in d sea in d rain and THATS EXACTLY WOT IT WAS
me: well someone said it sounded like it was out of a reader's digest.
Phish: uh NO
me: I thought as much.
Phish: they would’ve said "swimming in the rain is the highest form of communion with nature".
or summin like that
me: no they would've said "swimming in the rain is ... WAH WAH WAH".
because 'they' are that eloquent.
Phish: that's Delhi Times
Clearly, by the end I was still talking about someone, Phish wasn’t. *Sigh*.
1.) Inspiration is abundantly absent.
or
2.) She’s suffering from a debilitating bout of feeling slighted.
As will be evident, regardless of circumstances, it is deplorable and utterly juvenile. However, indulge me, for once.
Presenting: My conversation with Phish, who is a PROFESSIONAL WRITER [and I’m NOT]
Phish: So
Aren’t u missing me at all?
me: Umm. Are you missing me? When you're NOT swimming and all...
Phish: maybe
me: Well yes. A distant memory of meeting you once. fond, nonetheless.
Phish: i came FOUR times
me: damn. HOW could I forget in the 50 odd times I've been...
But. FYI [hooow I love this] the pool has been LOVELY in the last few days with this crazy weather.
Phish: SHOO
me: Btw, tell me... is this very pretentious?...because I really felt it: swimming in the rain is like breathing mud dreams...
tell me. honestly.
Phish: it’s a lovely phrase
ive swum in d sea in d rain and THATS EXACTLY WOT IT WAS
me: well someone said it sounded like it was out of a reader's digest.
Phish: uh NO
me: I thought as much.
Phish: they would’ve said "swimming in the rain is the highest form of communion with nature".
or summin like that
me: no they would've said "swimming in the rain is ... WAH WAH WAH".
because 'they' are that eloquent.
Phish: that's Delhi Times
Clearly, by the end I was still talking about someone, Phish wasn’t. *Sigh*.
Blurt
There’s much to be said of the kind of sarcasm that accompanies a dark mood. It’s vile. It’s incisive. And always, always effective.
I’ve been on a roll this morning, dashing off vile, incisive responses on email, which are no doubt going to effectively bankrupt the meagre social-stroke-professional [how sensual and useful, she thought] goodwill I’ve had the mildly-good fortune to earn.
To my punctuation-challenged music director*, who’s been indefinitely stalling work and dodging my calls, but who finally had the decency to respond saying “have already started working will send you something by thursday now cos we got packed with sudden jobs in the middle but i have already started your thing...so ill send it to you when i feel confident about it...”; to him I said, with an involuntary spill of verbiage that skittered off my fingers in a thoughtless little scurry across the keyboard “Shall be praying for your confidence.”
O woe.
And then another*, to whom, with much fondness I sent a list of flattering alliterations, who had the indecent gall to suggest, with unabashed unlettered smugness “i couldn’t find even one allit there u know, all different letters of the alphabets!!!”; to this jewel my fingers involuntarily expectorated “You'd better start paying me for grammar lessons”.
I will not be surprised if I do not receive:
1.) The melody I’ve been awaiting endlessly.
2.) A flattering paean to my literary effort.
Now tell me, how many marks do I get for effectiveness? And [dis]engagement?
***
*Believe me when I say this... I am rather fond of both.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Angel
Today, I swam with angel fins.
Today, I grinned into the water madly happily and burstingly, and couldn’t suppress the spill of my teeth even when I came up to breathe.
Today, I didn’t notice the bird droppings and insect shells.
Today, I shimmied out of the pool with a song in my heart.
Because, today, I swam alongside a G-shaped angel.
I can’t wait for tomorrow
***
“Angels have fins?” exclaimed my poor friend. It must hurt to not have an imagination.
“Well of course they do”, said I. “They have fins, and gills, and third eyelids, and webbed toes, and horns and scales and powerful tails; wings, and more than four limbs and tiger stripes and leopard spots and toad warts... “
At this point I paused for a breath, and he quickly saw his chance to pipe in.
“What happened to blonde hair, blue eyes, celestial tiaras, halos, harps and plain old dove wings?” he smirked.
Said I: “That’s a very narrow Caucasian anthropomorphic view of angels. Plato said that the true form of anything exists as pure latent potential. And somewhere, really powerful angels must be able to be angelic to every kind of being, mustn’t they? If squids had invented paper before us, we’d be praying to giant ink squirting, water lurking angels for salvation. Na?”
“Stands to reason”, he mused, easily won by the lucid logic of my retort. “You should say something about saving the Earth, you know. Something meaningful about latent potential and multiple perspectives… and species. A common inheritance and such”.
I shook my head sadly “I tried.”
“And?”
“And nothing. All I could come up with were a few rancid opinions on George Reisman’s views. I became too bilious and wretched to think anymore”.
“Never mind” he said kindly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get a cassata. And maybe watch tadpoles in the gutter?”
Such an angel. But I didn’t say it. He mayn’t like to see himself like that. Anymore.
Today, I grinned into the water madly happily and burstingly, and couldn’t suppress the spill of my teeth even when I came up to breathe.
Today, I didn’t notice the bird droppings and insect shells.
Today, I shimmied out of the pool with a song in my heart.
Because, today, I swam alongside a G-shaped angel.
I can’t wait for tomorrow
***
“Angels have fins?” exclaimed my poor friend. It must hurt to not have an imagination.
“Well of course they do”, said I. “They have fins, and gills, and third eyelids, and webbed toes, and horns and scales and powerful tails; wings, and more than four limbs and tiger stripes and leopard spots and toad warts... “
At this point I paused for a breath, and he quickly saw his chance to pipe in.
“What happened to blonde hair, blue eyes, celestial tiaras, halos, harps and plain old dove wings?” he smirked.
Said I: “That’s a very narrow Caucasian anthropomorphic view of angels. Plato said that the true form of anything exists as pure latent potential. And somewhere, really powerful angels must be able to be angelic to every kind of being, mustn’t they? If squids had invented paper before us, we’d be praying to giant ink squirting, water lurking angels for salvation. Na?”
“Stands to reason”, he mused, easily won by the lucid logic of my retort. “You should say something about saving the Earth, you know. Something meaningful about latent potential and multiple perspectives… and species. A common inheritance and such”.
I shook my head sadly “I tried.”
“And?”
“And nothing. All I could come up with were a few rancid opinions on George Reisman’s views. I became too bilious and wretched to think anymore”.
“Never mind” he said kindly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get a cassata. And maybe watch tadpoles in the gutter?”
Such an angel. But I didn’t say it. He mayn’t like to see himself like that. Anymore.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Being Gracious
M declared sanctimoniously the other day as I was propping my fragile jaw carefully on a thoughtless palm while slumping over a table in vapid despair, “what do you expect H? Even if someone wants to express their appreciation to you, you brandish this red flag at them. You suspect their motives for being complimentary or even just nice. You’ve this particular combatant machete-flailing stance in the face of a compliment that is a bit… um… discouraging. No. Intimidating.”
“But…” I started, having settled in a complicated posture.
She cut in ruthlessly, “… No. Shut up. You are.”
I wanted to say, and I know it’s true [don’t ask, I just know], “…it’s because I have broad shoulders.” But this sort of argument doesn’t wash with M [it hasn’t in the past]. She isn’t impressed by the physicality of things; herself being all of 5 feet plus differential bits of an inch, she believes it’s all in the language of your body, and not the body itself.
M shut her eyes to think. M’s the sort of person who delivers her verdict on situations very swiftly and clinically. She doesn’t pause too much on the before-and-aftermath of it, because the idea, as she firmly believes, is to work out a solution.
It is this solution I was waiting for. Not daring to breathe or move for fear of toppling in a broken heap on the floor and breaking her train of thought, I sat contorted atop a freshly upholstered zebra striped chair in the flame licked cavernous mouth of our favourite sharabghar in a painful slump of stillness.
Minutes passed, she showed no sign of opining voluntarily, or opening her eyes.
I was just about to straighten my spine when M finally opened her eyes.
She looked around and quickly spotted a waiter. I sat unmoving in tense anticipation. The waiter slopped over slowly. She placed the order.
I waited.
She traced the blacks of the zebra stripes with her fingers.
The waiter slopped back with our bloodies. M took a long sip.
Finally I sat up.
“Dammit M, I can’t slouch anymore.” I cried.
“That’s a good thing H. It doesn’t become you. This bloody isn’t as good as before the renovation, don’t you think?”
*** [To denote the time lapse between horror and comprehension and all the emotions in between.]
M is losing her memory and fast become a senile old bat.
I on the other hand am becoming a fanciful old bat with an experiential overspill, because this exchange didn’t really happen. I cooked it up. Most of it. Though not about the ghastly renovation. It’s true. Bloody Marys aren’t ever going to be the same again on zebra stripes. Faux antler horn headrests had so much more character.
The thing is, M did give me a solution. M said, “H, stop being a tight arse.”
But I could be wrong. Because it was actually G’s best friend S who said this to me, two years ago. Which I thought was very kind and generous of him especially since it was entirely unasked.
I mayn’t be able to accept appreciation, but I’m always willing to hand it out on a golden platter. Thank you, S-of-the-well-lubed-arse. I might follow your advice some day.
Meanwhile, please don’t get intimidated by my broad shoulders. Go on, be nice to me. I can take it square in the jaw.
“But…” I started, having settled in a complicated posture.
She cut in ruthlessly, “… No. Shut up. You are.”
I wanted to say, and I know it’s true [don’t ask, I just know], “…it’s because I have broad shoulders.” But this sort of argument doesn’t wash with M [it hasn’t in the past]. She isn’t impressed by the physicality of things; herself being all of 5 feet plus differential bits of an inch, she believes it’s all in the language of your body, and not the body itself.
M shut her eyes to think. M’s the sort of person who delivers her verdict on situations very swiftly and clinically. She doesn’t pause too much on the before-and-aftermath of it, because the idea, as she firmly believes, is to work out a solution.
It is this solution I was waiting for. Not daring to breathe or move for fear of toppling in a broken heap on the floor and breaking her train of thought, I sat contorted atop a freshly upholstered zebra striped chair in the flame licked cavernous mouth of our favourite sharabghar in a painful slump of stillness.
Minutes passed, she showed no sign of opining voluntarily, or opening her eyes.
I was just about to straighten my spine when M finally opened her eyes.
She looked around and quickly spotted a waiter. I sat unmoving in tense anticipation. The waiter slopped over slowly. She placed the order.
I waited.
She traced the blacks of the zebra stripes with her fingers.
The waiter slopped back with our bloodies. M took a long sip.
Finally I sat up.
“Dammit M, I can’t slouch anymore.” I cried.
“That’s a good thing H. It doesn’t become you. This bloody isn’t as good as before the renovation, don’t you think?”
*** [To denote the time lapse between horror and comprehension and all the emotions in between.]
M is losing her memory and fast become a senile old bat.
I on the other hand am becoming a fanciful old bat with an experiential overspill, because this exchange didn’t really happen. I cooked it up. Most of it. Though not about the ghastly renovation. It’s true. Bloody Marys aren’t ever going to be the same again on zebra stripes. Faux antler horn headrests had so much more character.
The thing is, M did give me a solution. M said, “H, stop being a tight arse.”
But I could be wrong. Because it was actually G’s best friend S who said this to me, two years ago. Which I thought was very kind and generous of him especially since it was entirely unasked.
I mayn’t be able to accept appreciation, but I’m always willing to hand it out on a golden platter. Thank you, S-of-the-well-lubed-arse. I might follow your advice some day.
Meanwhile, please don’t get intimidated by my broad shoulders. Go on, be nice to me. I can take it square in the jaw.
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