Do come and watch the show!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thursday, April 03, 2008
18 until today
I found it hard to believe that I became an adult, the whole of last year. Now I find it completely preposterous that this year is my last one as a teenager. I’m still seventeen in my head. I’m still not accountable. I’m still a child.
I still love a heart shaped black forest cake on my birthday. I’m not old enough to be embarrassed by the number of candles on the cake. I still have friends who think that spraying someone purple and dumping cake on their head, while making them wear a ridiculous(and secretly loved) blue party hat on the aforementioned head is an important birthday ritual. I still enjoy being fussed over, and being asked “Who is the birthday girrrrrl?” so that I can answer “ME” with a big grin on my face. And I still refer to people who are on the other side of 20 as “grown ups”.
I wish Peter Pan would appear right about now at my windowsill and offer to take me away to Neverland. I wonder if I’m going to still retain that part of me that loves calling people “a monkeys’ backside” five years from now. I think I will, I think I will.
Here is to everyone who wished me, and everyone who didn’t (hint), and everyone who made my day so special. It was the best birthday ever!
I still love a heart shaped black forest cake on my birthday. I’m not old enough to be embarrassed by the number of candles on the cake. I still have friends who think that spraying someone purple and dumping cake on their head, while making them wear a ridiculous(and secretly loved) blue party hat on the aforementioned head is an important birthday ritual. I still enjoy being fussed over, and being asked “Who is the birthday girrrrrl?” so that I can answer “ME” with a big grin on my face. And I still refer to people who are on the other side of 20 as “grown ups”.
I wish Peter Pan would appear right about now at my windowsill and offer to take me away to Neverland. I wonder if I’m going to still retain that part of me that loves calling people “a monkeys’ backside” five years from now. I think I will, I think I will.
Here is to everyone who wished me, and everyone who didn’t (hint), and everyone who made my day so special. It was the best birthday ever!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Men are from...who the hell knows?!
He: So, I cut my hair!
Me: Aaaaargh! Why? Why?! It isn't even summer!
He: Whats your problem? You were the one running around a month back hollering "I want to cut my hair!"
Men. They trudge around with crew cuts and baggy jeans, shirts that should be worn by someone half their size, or double, wearing enough perfume for eight horses and three cows, or smelling like eight horses and three cows.
They either know something about fashion but just can't remember what the capital of India is, or they're incredibly smart and wear pants that show off their underwear.
Why am i allowed to cut my hair and you're not? Let me tell you.
1. Women hardly cut their hair so that it is above their ears.
2. Our haircuts normally cost more that fifty rupees(including the head massage).
3. The person who cuts our hair is not a fifty five year old man who has just been yelled at by his perpetually nagging wife for forgetting to buy the groceries, and has a gigantic pair of scissors in his hand.
4. We never fall asleep in the beauty parlour.
5. We don't think brylcream is the solution to all our problems.
6. We don't try looking like prison inmates.
7. We dont think bald is cool.
8. We wash our hair more than once a month.
Of course, there our some exceptions to that last rule in the race of men. The ones who love green apple shampoo and loreal conditioner. But then, you, my friend, have much more to worry about than just fashion.
Me: Aaaaargh! Why? Why?! It isn't even summer!
He: Whats your problem? You were the one running around a month back hollering "I want to cut my hair!"
Men. They trudge around with crew cuts and baggy jeans, shirts that should be worn by someone half their size, or double, wearing enough perfume for eight horses and three cows, or smelling like eight horses and three cows.
They either know something about fashion but just can't remember what the capital of India is, or they're incredibly smart and wear pants that show off their underwear.
Why am i allowed to cut my hair and you're not? Let me tell you.
1. Women hardly cut their hair so that it is above their ears.
2. Our haircuts normally cost more that fifty rupees(including the head massage).
3. The person who cuts our hair is not a fifty five year old man who has just been yelled at by his perpetually nagging wife for forgetting to buy the groceries, and has a gigantic pair of scissors in his hand.
4. We never fall asleep in the beauty parlour.
5. We don't think brylcream is the solution to all our problems.
6. We don't try looking like prison inmates.
7. We dont think bald is cool.
8. We wash our hair more than once a month.
Of course, there our some exceptions to that last rule in the race of men. The ones who love green apple shampoo and loreal conditioner. But then, you, my friend, have much more to worry about than just fashion.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
I thought, therefore...
Not just black and white. So many shades of grey.
I was talking to someone who I spent most of my childhood with. We drifted apart in what were probably our most defining years, and when I look at us now, it seems almost impossible that we started out from the same place.
I’ve been through a constant process of assimilation, discarding, defending. I know she has too. It is simply that we took different turns. At a lot of points apparently.
That’s not a bad thing. Or good. It is just different. Just that.
It is difficult to walk away from something without classifying it as right or wrong. Good or bad. Black or white. I have a tough time doing that.
And yet, those movies with the good cops, the bad thugs, and that damsel in distress don’t work for us anymore do they? Whatever happened to the traitor? The damsel learning kung fu? The villain winning because he was smarter?
Isn’t that what makes it so much more interesting?
And that is what I want. Plenty of shades of grey in between. And perhaps that streak of red running right through it all. I’m not talking about throwing caution to the wind. But allowing the wind to turn me in different directions, so that I can see all around.
I hope to never come out of that process. I hope to constantly meet people who will shatter my convictions, or turn me in new directions, or strengthen my belief in my own. I don’t ever want to be so blinded by enlightenment, that I lose my ability to grasp any other idea.
I was talking to someone who I spent most of my childhood with. We drifted apart in what were probably our most defining years, and when I look at us now, it seems almost impossible that we started out from the same place.
I’ve been through a constant process of assimilation, discarding, defending. I know she has too. It is simply that we took different turns. At a lot of points apparently.
That’s not a bad thing. Or good. It is just different. Just that.
It is difficult to walk away from something without classifying it as right or wrong. Good or bad. Black or white. I have a tough time doing that.
And yet, those movies with the good cops, the bad thugs, and that damsel in distress don’t work for us anymore do they? Whatever happened to the traitor? The damsel learning kung fu? The villain winning because he was smarter?
Isn’t that what makes it so much more interesting?
And that is what I want. Plenty of shades of grey in between. And perhaps that streak of red running right through it all. I’m not talking about throwing caution to the wind. But allowing the wind to turn me in different directions, so that I can see all around.
I hope to never come out of that process. I hope to constantly meet people who will shatter my convictions, or turn me in new directions, or strengthen my belief in my own. I don’t ever want to be so blinded by enlightenment, that I lose my ability to grasp any other idea.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Popping out to say cuckoo
Its easier to write
In verse I realise
The poetic license helps
A black poodle yelps
Like the nude emperor
You o foolish courtier
Will think this makes sense
A white picket fence
And now because I’ve stated
So blatantly, you shall rate it
Ridiculous beyond compare
Is a unicorn a mare?
Your hope for my redemption
Depends on the assumption
Marbles are still inside
A merry yuletide!
So shake your head and walk
Or perhaps stay and mock
While I dance my little jig
Oh and figue is french for fig!
In verse I realise
The poetic license helps
A black poodle yelps
Like the nude emperor
You o foolish courtier
Will think this makes sense
A white picket fence
And now because I’ve stated
So blatantly, you shall rate it
Ridiculous beyond compare
Is a unicorn a mare?
Your hope for my redemption
Depends on the assumption
Marbles are still inside
A merry yuletide!
So shake your head and walk
Or perhaps stay and mock
While I dance my little jig
Oh and figue is french for fig!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
To a faded friend
Did you know we would look at each other one day, and not be able to recognise what was important about the other? Or perhaps remember, but not care so much anymore?
I care. For one thing, because I hate change. I hated it when my mother changed her spectacles when I was in the eighth, I hated moving to a new house even though I was getting my own room, and I hate this.
But more than change, you meant a lot to me, at some point in my life. Id rather you disappeared after that, if things werent going to be the same. Atleast then, I neednt watch the steady deterioration. Of you in my mind, and perhaps of me in yours.
I don’t wear rose coloured glasses, and I don’t live in a world of perpetual sunshine. But I know this. If someone is important to you, and their position in your life is important too, you don’t let go so easily.
I don’t care anymore. But that is because I didn’t have any other choice.
I care. For one thing, because I hate change. I hated it when my mother changed her spectacles when I was in the eighth, I hated moving to a new house even though I was getting my own room, and I hate this.
But more than change, you meant a lot to me, at some point in my life. Id rather you disappeared after that, if things werent going to be the same. Atleast then, I neednt watch the steady deterioration. Of you in my mind, and perhaps of me in yours.
I don’t wear rose coloured glasses, and I don’t live in a world of perpetual sunshine. But I know this. If someone is important to you, and their position in your life is important too, you don’t let go so easily.
I don’t care anymore. But that is because I didn’t have any other choice.
Monday, October 01, 2007
My kingdom for inspiration
I find myself unable
To pen a decent line
The words they come
But disappear
Before I make them mine
Unfinished beginnings
Are now quite abundant
A phrase I choose
Will soon become
Invariably redundant
The rhyming scheme I follow
Does not stick to my norm
I would prefer
A b c b, but now
That aint the form
And so a traitor to the art
Bows her head in shame
And writes instead
Of lost talent
That she once used to claim
To pen a decent line
The words they come
But disappear
Before I make them mine
Unfinished beginnings
Are now quite abundant
A phrase I choose
Will soon become
Invariably redundant
The rhyming scheme I follow
Does not stick to my norm
I would prefer
A b c b, but now
That aint the form
And so a traitor to the art
Bows her head in shame
And writes instead
Of lost talent
That she once used to claim
Monday, August 27, 2007
Betty bought some butter
It was the morning after my night of resolutions. Every two months or so, I introspect, find my life devoid of meaning, and realise that the secret to a healthy existence, is learning to make candlesticks, or ravioli.
Amma always has her fight face on everytime I enter the kitchen with a determined look on my face. She’s the kind of person who has this little black book where she jots down all your previous misdeeds so she’ll never forget. And there aren’t so many really. There was the time I blew up the mixie, but that was my sisters’ fault for not supervising a kid. And then there was the time we melted chocolate on the stove and it had to be professionally cleaned...ok, so its not exactly a little black book.
My skills in the kitchen are limited to an excellent malai kofta curry, and a delicious chocolate sponge cake. But that, I maintain, is only because I haven’t tried making anything else. And like any other obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, I am confident that anything I want to do, will be a piece of cake. Or in todays case, an omelette.
Being the obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, it is obviously highly frustrating when people try telling me what to do. Whatever happened to creativity and experimentation? And why should I follow kitchen rules, when noone listens to mine? I have quite a few actually. Like cookie dough must be sampled by dipping fingers into the bowl before baking, pretty aprons must be worn, and under no circumstances is the cook supposed to clean up once the dish is done.
Amma is sort of unreasonable that way. She doesn’t respect artistic temperament at all. Creative minds can’t focus on one thing for too long, there are statistics somewhere on wikipedia to prove that. And even if you aren’t remotely imaginative, how are you supposed to remain interested in an egg for more than 15 minutes?
This was no ordinary egg I was dealing with though. If I lived in a cartoon, this would be the egg with the closely knit eyebrows and the red slits for eyes.
Needless to say, my efforts resulted in something which did taste like an omelette, even if it didn’t look like it. Perhaps with a little less salt that usual.
I think the capsicum pieces were supposed to be in the omelette too.
Amma said she wasn’t feeling too hungry.
Amma always has her fight face on everytime I enter the kitchen with a determined look on my face. She’s the kind of person who has this little black book where she jots down all your previous misdeeds so she’ll never forget. And there aren’t so many really. There was the time I blew up the mixie, but that was my sisters’ fault for not supervising a kid. And then there was the time we melted chocolate on the stove and it had to be professionally cleaned...ok, so its not exactly a little black book.
My skills in the kitchen are limited to an excellent malai kofta curry, and a delicious chocolate sponge cake. But that, I maintain, is only because I haven’t tried making anything else. And like any other obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, I am confident that anything I want to do, will be a piece of cake. Or in todays case, an omelette.
Being the obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, it is obviously highly frustrating when people try telling me what to do. Whatever happened to creativity and experimentation? And why should I follow kitchen rules, when noone listens to mine? I have quite a few actually. Like cookie dough must be sampled by dipping fingers into the bowl before baking, pretty aprons must be worn, and under no circumstances is the cook supposed to clean up once the dish is done.
Amma is sort of unreasonable that way. She doesn’t respect artistic temperament at all. Creative minds can’t focus on one thing for too long, there are statistics somewhere on wikipedia to prove that. And even if you aren’t remotely imaginative, how are you supposed to remain interested in an egg for more than 15 minutes?
This was no ordinary egg I was dealing with though. If I lived in a cartoon, this would be the egg with the closely knit eyebrows and the red slits for eyes.
Needless to say, my efforts resulted in something which did taste like an omelette, even if it didn’t look like it. Perhaps with a little less salt that usual.
I think the capsicum pieces were supposed to be in the omelette too.
Amma said she wasn’t feeling too hungry.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Abstractness
Forgiving and forgetting, that was all she was doing lately. Inking in stubs of memories into her existence, mulling over what ifs that would at times overwhelm her. She looked at her reflection, running her fingers through her freshly washed hair, as memories danced in and out of her eyes.
Dwelling on the past was dangerous. Weren't there enough poems written by the sad and wise? Enough cliched quotes she had read in her lifetime?
Perfection had seemed such an amiable concept when she was younger. The blind confidence that everything would fall into place, that she would get exactly what she wanted one day, perhaps with a bit of a struggle in between.
But that would be too simple, wouldn't it?
Thoughts were getting entangled, yet she knew there was just one thread she needed to find that would smoothen it out. It was all about will power in the end. And that was something she needed to depend only on herself for.
She smiled as she penned it down.
"The secret to happiness was discovered on a warm Tuesday afternoon, in a room filled with old sports equipment and posters of classic rock artists."
Entirely fictional
Dwelling on the past was dangerous. Weren't there enough poems written by the sad and wise? Enough cliched quotes she had read in her lifetime?
Perfection had seemed such an amiable concept when she was younger. The blind confidence that everything would fall into place, that she would get exactly what she wanted one day, perhaps with a bit of a struggle in between.
But that would be too simple, wouldn't it?
Thoughts were getting entangled, yet she knew there was just one thread she needed to find that would smoothen it out. It was all about will power in the end. And that was something she needed to depend only on herself for.
She smiled as she penned it down.
"The secret to happiness was discovered on a warm Tuesday afternoon, in a room filled with old sports equipment and posters of classic rock artists."
Entirely fictional
Friday, August 17, 2007
Blur
I’m in the midst of confusion, but there is this profound sense of calm. Like I am watching as an outsider while I’m sitting right in the middle.
The thing that gets to me about people is that what we say and what we mean are almost always completely different. And sometimes, I get so tired. Because most of the time, I can figure out what people really want to say, and once in a while, you’d rather immerse yourself in blissful ignorance.
The thing that gets to me about people is that what we say and what we mean are almost always completely different. And sometimes, I get so tired. Because most of the time, I can figure out what people really want to say, and once in a while, you’d rather immerse yourself in blissful ignorance.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Familiar routines
College started a month back, and I still haven't attended a full week yet. I am eternally grateful to Anna University for their new "85% attendance is good enough" rule.
It feels funny to be in the second year, I've become so used to avoiding places where groups of seniors congregate, and now suddenly it doesn't matter. Cannot believe it has been a year, that in less than a month we're not gonna be the "juniors" anymore.
Have suddenly been challenged to a series of tt matches, after an innocent game when the apparent champion lost *shudder* to a girl.
Results came out last week, and I'm happy with the 86.3. It doesn't seem to make a difference with the profs though. Not with dragonlady around, but a whole post needs to be dedicated to this unique individual.
Have been moping around because everyones leaving. Dumb sister left for dumb New York last week, and yes even though we mail each other 20 times a day, I'm still mad at her for going away. Am hoping to see her in London this December, but that depends upon my benevolent Dad(he reads this blog you know)
Read the last harry potter book twice. Stood in line at 5:30 in the morning, something that is not outrageous if you are a true fan.
Made my own breakfast today, but oo thats too good a story to be given away as a tidbit.
Coming soon, "The attack of the springy omelette"
It feels funny to be in the second year, I've become so used to avoiding places where groups of seniors congregate, and now suddenly it doesn't matter. Cannot believe it has been a year, that in less than a month we're not gonna be the "juniors" anymore.
Have suddenly been challenged to a series of tt matches, after an innocent game when the apparent champion lost *shudder* to a girl.
Results came out last week, and I'm happy with the 86.3. It doesn't seem to make a difference with the profs though. Not with dragonlady around, but a whole post needs to be dedicated to this unique individual.
Have been moping around because everyones leaving. Dumb sister left for dumb New York last week, and yes even though we mail each other 20 times a day, I'm still mad at her for going away. Am hoping to see her in London this December, but that depends upon my benevolent Dad(he reads this blog you know)
Read the last harry potter book twice. Stood in line at 5:30 in the morning, something that is not outrageous if you are a true fan.
Made my own breakfast today, but oo thats too good a story to be given away as a tidbit.
Coming soon, "The attack of the springy omelette"
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
My favourite thing
The rain kisses my lips and all at once, time becomes inconsequential. The leaves are greener, the earth smells fresh, the steady patter and the gushing winds form that delicious melody that makes my heart skip and my feet tingle, as I throw open windows and sing rainy day songs, and I forget. About non waterproof watches and umbrellas in my bag. Of dripping on the carpet or ruining good shoes. It is simply me, and my glorious rain.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
So much that is done, so much to do
The trip was awesome. What trip do you ask? I got back only in the beginning of this week after a vacation that lasted almost a month. And it was, in very unintellectual terms, "kickass".
I don't want to delve into details now because I hope to put up my travel notes online, a resolution I declare in public so that my butt feels too guilty to just sit around doing nothing. Speaking of travel notes, I shall also strive to put up my European vacation entries, something I am quite proud of. They are long overdue, but I did misplace that beautiful diary, which remained lost for a considerable amount of time, but I have found it, and I solemnly promise to hope to be optimistic enough that I will not lose interest like I did with my Bharatnatyam classes, yoga, and the violin, and will put it up.
Otherwise this week has been a mishmash of warm days on the beach playing football, plenty of movies I've forced friends to watch twice, bowling, go karting and pool. Obviously, I now request those with a benevolent heart to hand out money for...well...poor little me, and I'm being completely literal.
I have read quite a few good books this summer. "Ignorance" by Milan Kundera, "Dispatches from the edge" by Anderson Cooper, "The bookseller of Kabul" by Asne Seierstad, and almost but not quite "Longitudes and attitudes" by Thomas Friedman. Am currently devouring "The kite runner" by Khaled Hosseini. Very excited about my gift vouchers from Landmark!
I cant end this without mentioning the gorgeous weather, and even if you feel inclined to disagree thanks to your undoubted pigheadedness, I'm quite positive it is due to my arrival.
The Gods are not crazy.
I don't want to delve into details now because I hope to put up my travel notes online, a resolution I declare in public so that my butt feels too guilty to just sit around doing nothing. Speaking of travel notes, I shall also strive to put up my European vacation entries, something I am quite proud of. They are long overdue, but I did misplace that beautiful diary, which remained lost for a considerable amount of time, but I have found it, and I solemnly promise to hope to be optimistic enough that I will not lose interest like I did with my Bharatnatyam classes, yoga, and the violin, and will put it up.
Otherwise this week has been a mishmash of warm days on the beach playing football, plenty of movies I've forced friends to watch twice, bowling, go karting and pool. Obviously, I now request those with a benevolent heart to hand out money for...well...poor little me, and I'm being completely literal.
I have read quite a few good books this summer. "Ignorance" by Milan Kundera, "Dispatches from the edge" by Anderson Cooper, "The bookseller of Kabul" by Asne Seierstad, and almost but not quite "Longitudes and attitudes" by Thomas Friedman. Am currently devouring "The kite runner" by Khaled Hosseini. Very excited about my gift vouchers from Landmark!
I cant end this without mentioning the gorgeous weather, and even if you feel inclined to disagree thanks to your undoubted pigheadedness, I'm quite positive it is due to my arrival.
The Gods are not crazy.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
A wee bit o celebration
It has been a whole year since I started this blog, and I pat myself on the back for frequently making a fool of myself so that I have something to write about(That is the ONLY reason I sometimes look like a goofball, ye ignorant curs).
I would like to thank my ardent fans(yes, both of you), my old laptop that taught me to try again and again, no matter how many times it would conk, my mother who is my constant source of tea, without which hyperness would be impossible, and my sister, for teaching me that no matter how crazy I appear to be, there is someone in the world more insane than I am.
Thank you Amsterdam, goodnight!
I would like to thank my ardent fans(yes, both of you), my old laptop that taught me to try again and again, no matter how many times it would conk, my mother who is my constant source of tea, without which hyperness would be impossible, and my sister, for teaching me that no matter how crazy I appear to be, there is someone in the world more insane than I am.
Thank you Amsterdam, goodnight!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Update on life
- Sister becomes slightly crazy and kicks phone from table while in the middle of a tribal dance of sorts.
- Mom's temporarily borrowed phone has aggravating smiley screensaver.
- People stare weirdly at a cuckoo 18 year old in the neighbourhood talking to herself as she is walking and threatening to pour water on phone if it doesnt stop leering.
- Phone is fixed and all things are bright and beautiful once again.
- Downed three cups of tea and proceeded to sing opera songs to friend calling long distance.
- Choreographed new "plumbing" dance after being the only person in my batch to get it for the university practical exam.
- Classmates threaten to pour water on my smiling face if I dont stop "acting like a baboon", and I sadly realise the irony of life.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Verse
I seek no shelter from grey clouds that carpet skies above
I ask for no compassion from eyes filled with tears and love
I am not afraid of terrific rain that threatens to pour
I will cherish each blessed ray, and then search for more
Till I soar, bleak lands below, above the heavy cloud
And the space I begged for, is everywhere around
Will I then forget the tough sacrifices made
Perhaps I will, perhaps, I'll give it all away
I ask for no compassion from eyes filled with tears and love
I am not afraid of terrific rain that threatens to pour
I will cherish each blessed ray, and then search for more
Till I soar, bleak lands below, above the heavy cloud
And the space I begged for, is everywhere around
Will I then forget the tough sacrifices made
Perhaps I will, perhaps, I'll give it all away
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
My "pome"
I traversed a great distance to be here today
So it hurt tremendously to hear the voice say
All that I thought will be, will not
My hopes, my plans, to the ground have been brought
You needn't have asked me to believe and trust
Only to turn all my dreams to dust
I sit here imprisoned, without any chains
So much I could say, but I'm forced to refrain
Bitter and angry, I hope not to become
Or drown my sorrows in a bottle of rum
Perhaps it was written above in the stars
That it would be cancelled, my chem practicals class.
So it hurt tremendously to hear the voice say
All that I thought will be, will not
My hopes, my plans, to the ground have been brought
You needn't have asked me to believe and trust
Only to turn all my dreams to dust
I sit here imprisoned, without any chains
So much I could say, but I'm forced to refrain
Bitter and angry, I hope not to become
Or drown my sorrows in a bottle of rum
Perhaps it was written above in the stars
That it would be cancelled, my chem practicals class.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
WORLD THEATRE DAY CELEBRATIONS
MASQUERADE
presents
THUS SPAKE SHOORPANAKHA SO SAID SHAKUNI
by Poile Sengupta
a play the delves into the past....
to connect to the present...
What have Shoorpanakha and Shakuni got to do with love and global terrorism?
Should we hate a woman because she wants love?
Should we isolate a man because he wants revenge?
ALL this and more... intense but humorous
FIND OUT...
March 23 (7pm), 24 (7.30 pm), 25 (4.00 & 7.30 pm) & 27, 2007
at TOP STOREY, Alliance Francaise
Directed by Krishna Kumar
in the cast - Amit Singh, Gayathri Sreedharan, Shyam Rajagopalan, Prateeksha C & Neeraja
Boarding Passes - Rs. 100/-
available at all Landmark outlets, Alliance Francaise (2827 9803)
or call 93802 86129 / 98411 17773 for direct booking
====================================
As our ancestors said, Tathaastu - So Be It !!!
=====================================
presents
THUS SPAKE SHOORPANAKHA SO SAID SHAKUNI
by Poile Sengupta
a play the delves into the past....
to connect to the present...
What have Shoorpanakha and Shakuni got to do with love and global terrorism?
Should we hate a woman because she wants love?
Should we isolate a man because he wants revenge?
ALL this and more... intense but humorous
FIND OUT...
March 23 (7pm), 24 (7.30 pm), 25 (4.00 & 7.30 pm) & 27, 2007
at TOP STOREY, Alliance Francaise
Directed by Krishna Kumar
in the cast - Amit Singh, Gayathri Sreedharan, Shyam Rajagopalan, Prateeksha C & Neeraja
Boarding Passes - Rs. 100/-
available at all Landmark outlets, Alliance Francaise (2827 9803)
or call 93802 86129 / 98411 17773 for direct booking
====================================
As our ancestors said, Tathaastu - So Be It !!!
=====================================
Monday, March 12, 2007
Peace. Please!
Nature, it is said, is supposed to fill our hearts with joy. It echoes the rhythm of our heartbeat and the music in our souls. It also gives you a throbbing headache, at 7 on a Sunday, especially when you study in a college which is 40 kms away and have to get up at 6 on weekdays, when this soon-to-be-extinct bird comes and sits in the AC vent and begins making the following noise - mmmmmm. mmmmm mmmmm mmmmmmm. To elaborate, it isn't a hum and it isn't a coo. It is a combination of a sharp nail scraping a blackboard and a man trying to say "sarcophagus" in his dying breath.
But yes, i respect nature, so I decide to adjust, and sleep instead in the late evening, hoping to catch an hours rest. Now my watchman has decided, that being our trusty guardian, he needs to prove his worth to us. And to show us that he is not sleeping, he will hit anything he sees with this nice long stout soon-to-be-broken-in-half wooden stick. Again. And again. And yet again. He hits pillars and floors, babies and dogs, but with all due respect to his ear for melody, he does it all in the same monotonous brain crunching note.
And so I decide, being the flexible creature I am, to sleep in the bus. I normally rest my head on the shoulder of my obliging and comfortably short friend, and am just dozing off when she decides to hum. And the humming, thanks to the hollowness of her bones, echoes loudly in my ear, and I am forced to wake up, and growl till she swears never to sing again.
I am now going to lock myself in my room. I am going to stuff cotton in my ears, switch off my phone, close all the windows, switch on the AC and lie in bed. Dare you disturb me, and you shall be renamed soon-to-be-killed-by-a-raging-red-eyed-minor.
It better be, a good night.
But yes, i respect nature, so I decide to adjust, and sleep instead in the late evening, hoping to catch an hours rest. Now my watchman has decided, that being our trusty guardian, he needs to prove his worth to us. And to show us that he is not sleeping, he will hit anything he sees with this nice long stout soon-to-be-broken-in-half wooden stick. Again. And again. And yet again. He hits pillars and floors, babies and dogs, but with all due respect to his ear for melody, he does it all in the same monotonous brain crunching note.
And so I decide, being the flexible creature I am, to sleep in the bus. I normally rest my head on the shoulder of my obliging and comfortably short friend, and am just dozing off when she decides to hum. And the humming, thanks to the hollowness of her bones, echoes loudly in my ear, and I am forced to wake up, and growl till she swears never to sing again.
I am now going to lock myself in my room. I am going to stuff cotton in my ears, switch off my phone, close all the windows, switch on the AC and lie in bed. Dare you disturb me, and you shall be renamed soon-to-be-killed-by-a-raging-red-eyed-minor.
It better be, a good night.
Friday, March 02, 2007
If.
“You see each of us as a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess and a criminal
But you see, each of us is a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess and a criminal”
-The Breakfast club
How long do you need to be with someone before you can truly say that you know them? A few weeks? Perhaps a few months? And what if fifty years later, you realize that there is a side of them you never knew. Do you feel deceived? Or intrigued?
Letting someone into your beautiful world isn’t easy. It isn’t just about sharing your dreams, and your taste in music. It is about allowing them to discover you, and wanting to know more. Memories that they cherish, ideas that they nurture in the dusty corners of their minds, the few little quirks that make them human, the few traits that make them unique, the passion that drives them, the inhibitions that deter them.
If you knew that the word “gooseberries” can kindle the strongest and sweetest memories of my childhood, if you knew that I sniff around for the smell of the musty old chair and soon as I enter my grandmothers’ home, because it reminds me of the house I grew up in, if you knew that I don’t mind having anything on my desk, as long as it is arranged in neat piles, if you knew that I go berserk if anyone brushes their teeth in front of me, if you knew that Moonface and Silky still hold a magical place in my heart, if you knew that I will always cherish the world “Little Men” lent me, if you knew all this, could you say you know me?
And if you didn’t, could you say it made a difference?
But you see, each of us is a brain, an athlete, a basketcase, a princess and a criminal”
-The Breakfast club
How long do you need to be with someone before you can truly say that you know them? A few weeks? Perhaps a few months? And what if fifty years later, you realize that there is a side of them you never knew. Do you feel deceived? Or intrigued?
Letting someone into your beautiful world isn’t easy. It isn’t just about sharing your dreams, and your taste in music. It is about allowing them to discover you, and wanting to know more. Memories that they cherish, ideas that they nurture in the dusty corners of their minds, the few little quirks that make them human, the few traits that make them unique, the passion that drives them, the inhibitions that deter them.
If you knew that the word “gooseberries” can kindle the strongest and sweetest memories of my childhood, if you knew that I sniff around for the smell of the musty old chair and soon as I enter my grandmothers’ home, because it reminds me of the house I grew up in, if you knew that I don’t mind having anything on my desk, as long as it is arranged in neat piles, if you knew that I go berserk if anyone brushes their teeth in front of me, if you knew that Moonface and Silky still hold a magical place in my heart, if you knew that I will always cherish the world “Little Men” lent me, if you knew all this, could you say you know me?
And if you didn’t, could you say it made a difference?
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