We Are Rolling

The Spoils of War

2011-07-05T17:37:00.006+03:00

The spoils of war must be shared.

He wanted his Maus books back. The series was hard to get his hands on. She placed them in her blue Snoopy bag that she planned to give to him. He had often said he thought it was endearing that despite her love for diamonds and that one specific Argentinian malbec, that she insisted on transporting overnight things in a four year old's bag. She gave him the look of death the first time he made the remark. Nothing that couldn't be repaired with a dash of his charm though.

His Criterion Collection film shelf was missing three DVDs. These she also placed in the bag with the Al Di Meola World Sinfonia CD. Then she paused for a moment and thoughtfully slipped it into her music system (also selected by him). Almost instinctively, she went straight to Track 4, Tango Suite, Pt. 3. The sharp guitar, the seriousness of Piazolla when he composed the number, the strength of the legs that dance to this piece came to mind. Nope, she thought, this one I'll keep. She applied similar logic to a book of interviews with jazz artists (she was keen to one day have the same encyclopedic knowledge of jazz as he did). Even though she was calling the arrangement off, he was still irrepressibly cool.

Somewhere else in the same city, he set aside her Chatwin books, a belt meant specifically for a summer linen dress and black shirt she kept there just in case they had to go out for a fancy dinner. What he didn't return were a pair of delicate jade earrings she loved to wear lying on her bedside table. The peek of green through her long straight hair when she nodded her head excitedly, her slender neck when she threw her head back and laughed - he knew painfully that he'd have to make do with those thoughts now.

The talk
The sex
Somebody to trust
The comfy Eames chair
The good copper pans
The '54 Strat
These are the things I miss the most

Some spoils of war can be shared. But most of them are memories. What do you do with those?

Here, Monkey Monkey Monkey

2011-06-15T07:31:00.012+03:00

I have long suspected there is a monkey in my soul. And not just because Donald Fagen said I was wrong to interrupt his song.

My monkey makes rare appearances but he's deeply deviant. He will mess with you in the ophthalmologist's waiting room if you commit a faux pas. Let it be known that he is not a teenager. Don't be fooled by the sneakers, the college sweatshirt and the sulky demeanor. Yesterday, he frightened a seventeen year old kid for sport. The threat of glaucoma past the age of forty was suddenly immediate and dangerous.

He thought nothing of giving the asshole demented by road rage in the car behind the finger. This incited a rabid fury that my friend had to contend with. 'No! She did NOT give you the finger!' he yelled, putting his physical safety at risk to protect mine. The monkey made a swift exit over the boundary wall of the parking lot, leaving me horrified.

He sends pithy, provocative texts, without my permission. My fingers glide over the screen as though guided by a loving hand. Hurt and offended replies arrive promptly and remain unseen in my inbox. The phone rings and I strew casual and hateful remarks, acutely aware of and yet acutely indifferent to their impact.

My monkey makes me grit my teeth and look at you demonically. He makes me loathe you and shove you around. I can do it with my most radiant smile. I can do it with tears streaming down my cheeks. Secretly, I love him, his intense commitment, his willful strength, his extreme dominance and his gleeful disregard for you and for me.

The few who have been present for his performances have tried to exorcise him. And failed, naturally. I imagine they expect remorse but all I can provide is a quiet apology because while I dread his return, I also look at his trail of destruction in awe.

Window

2011-05-24T09:24:00.010+03:00

After a few years, I have finally felt that distinct sense of accomplishment at having whipped out a complete blog post. The idea had been germinating for a while. But I, of course, was being lazy in a way only I know how to be. It is a pure inertia, punctuated occasionally with a desire to write (I cannot let my desire to be a writer die) and then it fades away (how dare I have such a dream when I lack the courage to follow it), as quickly as it hits me. But yesterday, I sat in my chair, with excellent posture, I might add, rattled it out on the keyboard and hit Publish before you could even say Snake Anthony. Today I am writing again.

It would be inaccurate to say that I am inspired but at long last, I am at peace with myself. Perhaps what is even nicer about it is that I know it is temporary. Come August I will be crushed by new problems and inconveniences as I move to a new country and start a new life, something I have worked towards for two years. My skepticism and social ineptitude will return and those frown lines will resume their formation.

This is my little window of transition, my period of rest. I look at the elements of my life – my penultimate month at a company I have helped build, the smile on the face of my date last Saturday, my collection of music which I am re-cataloguing, my family who get sentimental about silly things – and feel contented. I have mind space.

This morning, eying a bunch of litchis lying on the kitchen counter, I remembered a sweltering Calcutta morning in the early nineties in an Ambassador. My mother had gone to shop for fruits and vegetables while my brother, five years older than me, and I were instructed to wait in the car. She would return periodically to leave bags in the car. Our driver was off somewhere, presumably smoking a cigarette. Bored and thirsty, we caught sight of a fresh bunch of litchis.

My brother dared me to eat one. Being the obedient child, I immediately said no. He casually shrugged and helped himself to one. Then, looking at me with mock innocence, held the bag out to me. I looked at him in horror and then grabbed one quickly before anyone could notice. He watched me eat it triumphantly. I giggled. He giggled. He then reached into the bag. What are you doing, I hissed. Oh would you relax, he replied, poking his thick glasses back in place. This time he ate the litchi slowly, teasingly, staring nonchalantly out of the window. I watched wide-eyed and gulped. A bead of sweat trickled down my neck and into my thin cotton frock. I looked out into the delirously hot marketplace. No mother to be seen. Okay, just one more, I said and popped a soft juicy litchi in my mouth. I licked my sticky sweet fingers in relish. My brother gave me an approving smile. Obviously, we consumed all the litchis and deviously left the stems and shells in the bag so it retained its bulk. Later, when this was discovered by our housekeeper, my mother gave us both a couple of slaps. My brother was irresponsible and I had no mind of my own. We were going to be failures in life, a line we have heard often since. This statement has both encouraged and haunted us over two decades. I would even venture to say it has caused some of the successes we have had.

I snapped out my reverie as I heard my name being called for breakfast.

If bliss is moksha, a complete release or a some sort of heightened, orgasmic exhilaration, I want none of it. For me, this is bliss - the summery pause between losing my mind to get what I want and complaining about how it wasn’t worth going through all the heartache for.

Promiscuity

2011-05-23T09:19:00.014+03:00

I am a promiscuous baker. I bake for everyone and I rarely discriminate. This new hobby has made me uncharacteristically attention-seeking. If you casually mention over coffee that you cannot resist palmiers, I will probably invest eight hours in the joys of laminate baking to make you your very own tin of delectable mini cinnamon palmiers. If you crave chocolate in the middle of the night, my skills allow for a comforting batch of chocolate chip cookies to keep on your night stand. And if I am hosting a party, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t seize the opportunity to bake something ‘life changing’ (in the immortal words of my friend, V. Bless him) for such a captive audience.

Last weekend, I chose a triple layered chocolate mousse cake, a triumph of my present culinary abilities. I went easy on the top layer, mindful of the fact that white chocolate isn’t popular. I compensated with a generous half kilo of high quality bittersweet dark chocolate distributed evenly between the flour-less dense cake base and the soft creamy mousse that sat on top made with the freshest cream my city can provide. Giddy at the thought of twenty five people sinking their teeth into this creation, I decorated the upper most slender white layer of mousse with gentle stripes of cocoa and expresso dust. This I did shortly before serving, wearing my apron over a black silk dress, to ensure that the final touches looked new.

I surveyed the room with pride. Most people were reduced to quiet puddles, some disbelieved that I had made it (secretly, this is the reaction I long for most. I am an unlikely looking baker. I am skinny, I roll my eyes and have been told that I lack maternal instinct) and in the corner of the room, three of my most analytical and articulate guests collected to exchange their thoughts on the subject.

A: I like eating these layers separately. My favourite is the base though.

V: I agree. I love the base the most but I’d still say that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

G: How does that make sense? A complete bite captures the beauty of every layer. It all adds up.

V: Holism is the idea that all the properties of any given system cannot be determined or explained by its component parts alone. Instead, the system as a whole determines in an important way how the parts behave. So that’s the extra feeling when you take a full bite. You cannot break it into its component parts.

A: I disagree. Mathematically, according to binomial theorem, it is possible to expand the power (x + y)ⁿ into a sum involving terms of the form ax^by^c so the sum of the parts would be exactly equal to the whole.

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I do, however, remember walking away to pour myself a drink as I watched three hours of passionate baking degenerate into absurd academic debate, vowing to bake only for the less cerebrally endowed.

Fashion

2011-04-01T12:38:00.005+03:00

The Creature and I are out for a walk yesterday. A little four year old girl comes running up to us to pet The Creature. I notice her cute outfit and remark, 'Oh that's a nice churidar you are wearing!' to which she rolls her eyes and says to me, 'This is a Chinese dress with slacks.'

Fashion is not my strong suit.

Sometimes You Need a Headache

2011-03-23T10:12:00.003+02:00

I had a conversation with my friend this morning.

Me: De, I have a headache from HELL!

De: How did it land up in Bangalore?

Roll the Dice

2011-02-16T07:30:00.004+02:00

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

Otherwise, don’t even start.

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

This could mean losing girlfriends,

Wives, relatives, jobs and

Maybe your mind.

Go all the way.

It could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

It could mean freezing on a park bench.

It could mean jail,

It could mean derision,

Mockery,

Isolation.

Isolation is the gift,

All the others are a test of your

Endurance, of

How much you really want to do it.

And you’ll do it

Despite rejection and the worst odds

And it will be better than anything else

You can imagine.

If you’re going to try,

Go all the way.

There is no other feeling like that.

You will be alone with the gods

And the nights will flame with fire.

Do it, do it, do it.

Do it.

All the way

All the way.

You will ride life straight to perfect laughter.

It's the only good fight there is.

-- Charles Bukowski

A Plate of Nostalgia

2010-09-20T07:55:00.006+03:00

Snake Anthony did something bizarrely uncharacteristic last evening - she made a plate of maggie and mince for dinner. Anyone who attended her undergraduate school would know the significance of such an act. It wasn't planned though. The supplies were just lying there and it seemed almost natural to bring them together in a plate of nostalgia.

You would know that Snake Anthony is not given to random bouts of reminiscence. In fact, what this innocuous plate of food brought on was a surge of emotion she has never experienced in all the years that have passed. She imagined a hot dusty Delhi afternoon, sitting cross legged in the giant cane armchairs of the cafe, waving her arm furiously to get Mohan-ji's attention. She wants to have a plate of maggie and mince. She's surrounded by friends stranger than her, a giant cloud of cigarette smoke and the gentleness of a dream that she will conquer the world with passion and resilience.

It made her smile.

Watch and Learn

2010-06-13T18:07:00.004+03:00

Snake Anthony is dropping the hammer, bringing the thunder, people. Right now.

The Hottest State

2010-05-25T07:19:00.011+03:00

Spurred on by an old blogging buddy's recent message to me 'Is Snake Anthony on blog-aiatus?', I thought to myself - Is she? She's certainly active in my head, collecting absurdities and cleverly putting them into groups. It's what she does best and yet when We Are Rolling opens, the last post was more than a year ago. We need to do something about this, Snake Anthony, I said.

Hot is one of my most frequently used words. Anyone will tell you that. I even said something about it once. Yes, I am really that shallow. But I always promised I would be honest, right? The boy I referred to in that post turned out to be less than Hot, leaving me to scour the world for whatever little bits of Hot I could lay my hands on (it's a figure of speech; I wouldn't get too excited if I were you).

But Hot is dynamic. Hot is varied. And Hot, in fact, has very little to do with how snugly you fit into your jeans. See, this line of thought is clearly a topic close to my heart though this piece was written before I realised that what I thought was Sexy is really Hot. Even Snake Anthony can muddle her concepts sometimes. A quick word on the difference before we proceed: Sexy is physical. Hot is all in the mind. A chiseled body is Sexy but the discipline and rigour that goes into sculpting that body - that is Hot. You see?

Indulge me while I explain the Hot phenomenon simply - Hot is what gets your breath a little angular, what makes the corners of your lips curl ever so slightly the right way. Don't look confused; you know precisely how it works. You've just never put a name to it. And maybe that's because it was so fleeting. You'd expect Hot to be a whole breathing, writhing, living individual. Oh no, far from it. Hot consists of fragments that you, yes you, are expected to assemble. Seriously, no one is going to do your dirty work for you.

Allow me to illustrate. A recent addition to my List of Hot is The Orphan. I'm referring to the Jungian Archetype. Those is doubt, click here. True, The Orphan isn't the sort who'd top anyone's list and I'm not sure the boy in question would be flattered if he were to read this but I genuinely adore that he's so... unpretentious? I realise I'm probably too biased right now to be clinical in the way that I describe him but the point I am trying to make is that a quiet assurance has an endearing warmth that even the most charming man cannot outdo with words. And in my time, I've been at the receiving end of plenty of those. Stop it, boys. It no longer works.

So, Self Awareness trumps Confidence. Your knowing that you have two left feet makes you a much more attractive partner on the dance floor. Sincerity. Well, I cannot emphasise how powerful sincerity is. And I don't mean stretching yourself beyond what you can handle. I merely mean committing to the scene. Define your role, however large or small and stick with it. Exit the stage when the time comes and do it in style. Neat. Clean. Clear cut.

Be(have) human. I know that my careless smile in someone else's direction put a spear through your soul so don't play tough and make things complex. Tell me. Tell someone. Tell anyone. The world looks far more beautiful when your insecurities are collected in a pile for me to sift through rather than when you strew them around the place.

And Efficiency pretty much beats any quality there is. Knowing the smartest way to get something done - that endless spreadsheet at work, an itinerary for a trip around the world in 80 days or handling a tricky social situation - reflects a deft mind. And well, let's face it, a deft mind is pretty much the Hottest State to find you in.

So in the absence of all these features being available in one single product, I can explain how to derive joy in your life by experiencing them in fragments. Though, of course, I encourage you all to continue your quest for the one individual out of whose behind you think the sun shines, along side using this DIY kit I've put together for you.

The Hottest State DIY Kit:

1. Get ahold of music that pumps you up, that makes you feel invincible, that gives you hope.

2. Play it on your ipod or on your car stereo as often as possible so you start feeling it in your veins.

3. Clear your mind of expectations and look around you at your workplace, at your school, at the next table when you're having drinks on Friday night. Even at the supermarket.

4. Soon you will find yourself noticing a perfect smile on the most unlikely face or sniffing the scent of Issey Miyake as someone you meet everyone leans over to change a presentation slide or being struck by the stormy aggression of someone who didn't like being cut off on the road by another car. Whatever works for you. As long as you follow Steps 1 & 2 & 3 well, these will come to you organically.

5. Put all these pieces in one place in your mind. Think about them at your leisure.

Go on. Try it. You know you want to.

The Difference

2009-03-13T07:36:00.005+02:00

I'll tell you the difference between Bangalore and Mumbai.

Get into a rundown auto in Bangalore. Oh wait, the auto guy won't let you get in his rundown auto. He won't tell you why either. He'll tell you he's going in a different direction and continue to proceed in the same direction you need to go. About seven autos later, some auto guy will agree to take you. But, in the bright daylight, he insists on a one-and-a-half rate. You are bewildered. It is noon. You flag down your nth auto. This guy agrees provided you gift him another ten rupees. You are late so you agree. It does not matter how fast you need to go, the auto guy will drive at his own pace.

You might reach your destination.

Mumbai. It is 0740 hours. You are in Mahim and late for your 0845 flight. The first cab you wave at comes to a prompt halt. You hop in. 'Boss, airport. Kitna time lagega?' you ask with a look of worry.

He turns around with a swagger characteristic of a seasoned Mumbai cabbie and asks nonchalantly, 'Kitna jaldi jaana hai?'

Snake Anthony and the Mechanic

2008-11-24T10:56:00.008+02:00

Snake Anthony went to the mechanic the other day to get her headlight and bumper changed. The mechanic opened the car bonnet to examine the engine. It looked like a regular engine, convoluted and dusty. But it had tiny little paw marks all over in the dust. These are rat paw marks, the mechanic remarked.

Snake Anthony, shrieking: What?! How did a rat get in my engine?!

Mechanic, pensively: Well, do you have a garden?

Snake Anthony: Yes, I do.

Mechanic: Hmmm... that's where it is from.

Snake Anthony: Err.. that's great. But what do I do now? I can't put rat poison in my garden. I have a dog. And what if the rat starts chewing my wires?! Then I am screwed! What do I do?

Mechanic, leaning forward: Here's the thing... the rat has messed with you, right?

Snake Anthony, also leaning forward: Right.

Mechanic: So now you have to mess with the rat! Iska dimaag ghuma dena hai (you need to turn the rat's brain around). Wonder how?

Snake Anthony: How?

Mechanic: How do you park your car?

Snake Anthony: What do you mean, how do I park my car? I drive into my driveway and park it.

Mechanic: Aha! Now this evening you need to REVERSE park it! So when the rat wants to chill in your engine tonight, he'll find your boot instead! That's how you will mess with the rat's mind.

The Great Wave

2008-07-29T12:23:00.006+03:00

This one is for TS who recently told me to ‘Write. Write. Write. My Lovely.’. My apologies that it isn’t a full fledged soul baring entry but you would agree that those are hard to come by on We Are Rolling. So we have one of Snake Anthony’s typical random numbers that inshallah, will lead to greater waves in the coming months.

My mum came to visit me this past week from Singapore. I was very eager to show her my humble abode and the working of my new single and independent life. I was particularly pleased that she was unusually impressed by everything from my meal of oats in the morning to the condition of my car.

However, the décor of my room did not quite catch her fancy:

‘SA, I really don’t like waking up in the morning and looking at the tsunami!’

‘Ma, that is not the tsunami. That’s The Great Wave of Kanagawa, Hokusai’s masterpiece.’

‘I can see that. It’s still the tsunami to me. Take it off.’

‘But, Ma…’

‘It’s freaking me out. Take it off, SA.’

‘Fine.’

Snake Anthony Turns On The Charm

2008-05-02T09:52:00.008+03:00

I have had the somewhat peculiar priviledge of having lived long enough in all four corners of the country to be acquainted with, at least superficially, all manner of regional quirks. While I don't claim to be an authority on the subject, it is not unusual to find me vociferously defending the docile ways of a Kannadiga to an aggressive Bihari or explaining the working of trade unions in Kerala to a born and bred Mumbaikar. I've always prided myself on having the ability to appreciate both sides of the story, quietly listening and patiently responding to the sometimes bigotted viewpoints of the other party. But (yes, of course, there is a but), there had to come a day when zealously protecting the jovial ways of Delhi-ites would initially attract severely disapproving glances and finally result in complete dismissal by the friends of the boy I am dating.

We are two hours into a lovely garden party last Sunday evening in namma Bengaluroo. This is, as it were, my official introduction to the inner circle of R's friends. Naturally, I was prepared to be an object of curiosity and I met eager eyes looking my way with a radiant smile and a 'Hi, I'm Snake Anthony, nice to meet you'. (I had been told categorically that my socially inept ways would be frowned upon, especially given R's permanent role as the life of the party.) The evening is progressing well, punctuated by an even number of Mojitos and walks down memory lane (I stayed behind, not knowing the way). It would be a fair assessment to say that R's friends had found me suitably charming and worthy of him by this time.

The DJ, at this point, a restless North Indian youth, unhappy at gazing an empty dance floor, abandons Boney M numbers and turns on Himesh Reshammiya. Conversation stops abruptly and there is a collective look of horror around me. 'Oh god, I hate this Punjabi music', someone remarks.

'Really? I kind of like it' I say immediately, doing my characteristic seated jig. 'I don't know what it is about Punjabi music that really strikes a chord in me...'

R shoots me a look I can't decipher. Oblivious, I continue, 'You know, ever since I studied in Delhi, there is part of me that is Delhi-ite. I resisted it for so long and finally after two years it the culture had seeped into me insidiously. Now when I go back, I feel strangely at home.'

'How long were you there?'

'Not long. About three years.'

'I think North Indians can be so uncivilised... even their music can be...'

'Really? I see what you mean but as community I must say they're the only ones know how to be truly bindaas, you know...'

'Bindaas...?'

'Chilled out. Relaxed. Letting your hair down!' I do some clumsy gestures indicating unselfconsciousness unselfconsciously. 'The North Indians really know how to do it! That's why their music is like this. They really know how live life. Don't you think?'

Only now I begin to notice a distinct level of discomfort around me. Someone gets up to go tell the DJ 'to turn of this rubbish and play some English music' to which Nidhi says with a sideways glance at me, 'Yeah sure but we have a Delhi-ite among us.' I smile confusedly at this comment.

In the car I ask R, 'So, did I make an impression? Did they like me?'

'Yeah, I'm sure they found you nice.'

'Just nice? But I was lovely!'

'Of course you were, baby.' I sense tentativeness in his tone.

'What, is it something I said?'

He sighs. 'Maybe you can keep your North Indianness a little quiet, that's all. Afterall, you actually aren't North India, if you remember.'

'Huh? What, what's wrong with it? So what if I feel North Indian?!'

'Don't worry, baby, we'll work on that...' he says and pats me on the head.

Hot

2008-03-30T15:00:00.003+03:00

I see the world in terms of Hot. I have eyes that wander, that glance at you sideways when you aren't looking. Why? Well, because you might just be hot for a split second and I don't want to miss it.

The Downside Of Free Guinness In The Office

2007-10-22T10:36:00.002+03:00

I get many perks at work. I get to wear jeans and flats, listen to music and take leisurely lunch breaks. I also get alot of freebies - tickets, electronics, bags (essentially, everything our clients make and we have a whole range of them, and everything our vendors gift us in order to get our business). Quite fun, you say.

Today, Guinness sent us several crates of their draught. Rebecca came by to hand the cans to us. And each of my tank mates (yes, we call the office a tank and yes, we are often referred to as fish) smiled and helped themselves to a few cans, saying, 'I'll take this for my father.'.

Cest la vie. In Singapore.

Everyday Discoveries

2007-10-01T07:53:00.001+03:00

My boss is a Scribbler. Yes, a Scribbler. He called me in for a chat and while he spoke, he unintelligibly noted down everything for my benefit on half a ream of paper.
DJ Shadow was here in Singapore on August 5th. No, I didn't go. I'm not the most informed person, evidently.
I can do Excel sheets.

Mid Autumn Night's Dream

2007-09-26T12:28:00.000+03:00

Eat moon. Watch cake.

St. Ives

2007-08-12T05:58:00.001+03:00

Divine Intervention

2007-06-01T15:52:00.000+03:00

What else I am to make of getting turkey curry for dinner tonight after I wrote this the other day? Cooked in coconut, that too.

And I Thought It Was Only A Bird

2007-05-30T17:14:00.001+03:00

For a variety of reasons that I will spare you the trauma of reading, I have been finding nodding off to sleep a little hard these past few days. The super student in me refuses to admit exam stress. After all, that how ordinary people feel. Instead, she insists there is some sort of cosmic imbalance in the universe that is refusing to let my brain shut down. But last night, worried, she secretly made me look up tips on inducing sleep. I ignored the usual ideas - brandy, hot milk, waking up early (it was too late for that), etc. - but was rather perturbed by this:

Get up and eat some turkey: Turkey contains tryptophan, a major building block for making serotonin, a neurotransmitter, which sends messages between nerve cells and causes feelings of sleepiness. Note that L-tryptophan doesn't act on the brain unless you eat it on an empty stomach with no protein present, so keep some turkey in the refrigerator for 3 am.

Disturbed, I turned off my laptop. I fell asleep immediately.

'That Was Smooth, SA'

2007-05-29T03:09:00.001+03:00

I wonder if by any stretch of the imagination, this could qualify as behaviour caused by 'exam stress'. I was visiting a friend at another student hall this evening. I got into the lift when I was leaving and I noticed a thirty five odd year old looking man with a trendy haircut and a faded leather jacket. He smiled and asked me, 'So, exams over?'

'Not yet.' I replied. 'They only begin Wednesday. You?'

'I'm the warden of this hall.'

'Oh.'

Awkward silence. I rolled my eyes uncomfortably as I do sometimes.

'Err.. well, I don't live here. And actually it's the first time I've been here too.' I justified.

'I often speak to students in the lift.' he said, giving me no indication of what that meant.

So I offered, 'Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't know who the warden of my hall is. I mean, I know of him but I've never really met him.' I waited for a few seconds but did not think. Instead I continued, 'I've emailed him... once, I think. Yeah, but I don't know what he looks like.'

'Bradley. I know him. Young guy.'

'Like you.' I said immediately. 'I mean, I mistook you for a student, after all.'

Finally, after an eternity the lift doors opened on the ground floor. I fled.

Media Panic

2007-05-27T03:07:00.001+03:00

new media paradox Silverstone digerati postnational network community Castells self regulation racism Rantanen broadband Press television Milanovich ethnicity gender value chain analysis technology geopolitical supranational Saussure determinism determinism determinism Mansell Voip open software convergence development society experience inequality IPR audience public sphere web Adorno globalisation Hall Said Foucault media postmodernism Kabeer cosmopolitanism representation Harvey migration Appadurai panic deterritorialisation Bourdieu space placelessness communications Baudrillard time Innis space McLuhan resistance Horkheimer power Tambini Habermas displacement virtual place digital divide information culture political economy production distribution consumer Marx money capital labour qualitative postdevelopmentalism state Stiglitz radio public service broadcasting people individuals choices film analogue switchover

The Relative Humour Value of Exam Questions

2007-05-24T02:43:00.001+03:00

Here is a question from P's Roman Law paper:

Six months ago, Julian's slave Castratus was persuaded by Drusus to go with him to a men's club in Rome. Castratus, who had formerly lived a sheltered life, has developed a taste for the entertainment on offer. One night he goes there on his own. He begs Primus and Secundus, two senators, to thrash him. They do so. Castratus returns to Julian's villa, but the wounds from the thrashing are so bad that he is unable to work. Julian calls the doctor, Medicus, who puts a home-made ointment on the wounds. Castratus is allergic to the ointment and dies. Shortly afterwards Primus dies, having made a will in which he left a legacy of a hundred gold pieces to Castratus. Julian, seeing Secundus in the forum, shouts after him that he is a pervert and pelts him with rotten fruit. Some of the fruit misses Secundus and hits Tertius. Discuss.

And here is a question from my Theories and Concepts paper:

Media imperialism is dead. Discuss.

Green Green Sky

2007-05-20T03:57:00.002+03:00

The shivers that ran down Axl's spine were far from ordinary. They would start around the back of his neck, trickle across his scrawny shoulder blades and down his poky spine, lingering at his tail bone. All this while playing the bass on stage for Markett, one of the new modern jazz outfit in Kobenhavn.

Today they were doing a nifty improvisation of their signature Green Green Sky and her eyes were, for a change, not glued to her kaleidoscope. Instead she had on her glasses but what Axl couldn't see were her ipod earphones hidden in her long hair. She was listening to Ben Harper's Bring The Funk. She nodded her head rythmically. It was cycle of 16 beats. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Boom. 1-2-3-Bang.

The Copenhagen Jazzhouse was filled this Saturday evening. Some had spent their day on their boats on the canal. Their linen jackets said as much. Others like her had vaccumed the house, done laundry and filled in a new job application today.

'Thank you all for a lovely evening. We'd like to end with a cover of Jeep on 35... ' said Valentin. The audience made noises of appreciation. Uh-one-two-three-four...

Axl was the Scandanivian father of peace, not Axl Rose, as he often explained to foreigners like her. 'Who would have imagined that!' she had replied nonchalantly last Friday. 'I need a drink.' The shivers had extended to his stringy arms as he handed her a scotch on the rocks. 'Can I tell you a secret? I really don't much care for jazz.' she said, scrunching up her nose. Axl didn't know how to respond. 'It's a little noisy, you see. Nevermind, how come you play bass? I would think it's quite cumbersome. You know, the whole big whale of a thing...' she asked. 'Well, I...' he started to reply but Valentin had swept her away with an I-want-you-to-meet-these-people gesture.

Jeep 35 trudged the terrain of Markett and arrived in style. Scofield would be proud, he hoped. Or at least their fans would be. It was hard being a musician, most certainly. It was hard trying to be something more than ordinary. It was hard handling the shivers when she wouldn't even listen.

Axl watched her from the corner of his eye. She was smiling at Valentin and gave him the thumbs up sign as he walked off stage. He beamed back.

Boys Are Dumb And Get Angered Easily

2007-05-14T00:36:00.001+03:00

This afternoon, P and I got in a bit of an argument on the train from Kings Cross to Cambridge. The last few times he has visited me over the weekend, the passengers have had to get off midway, take a bus part of the way due to weekend work and then get back on a train. It has obviously been an annoyance both to him and to me, also because I have never faced this inconvenience on the weekends that I have been to Cambridge.

So we boarded the train. He fished out his lengthy notes on criminal law and I my extra sweater to prop my head against the window and away we went at 1638 hours. A few minutes into the journey I heard the following announcement:

'This train is for Cambridge, calling at Finsbury Park, Stevenage, Hitchin and Royston. Those passengers heading up North are requested to take the chartered bus at Finsbury Park.'

P nudged me awake, carefully put his criminal law notes back into his bag and got up as the train approached Finsbury Park.

'Why are you getting up?', I asked puzzled.

'We have to get off here. Bloody weekend work. This is the reason why I've been late getting into London so many times.'

'Huh? We don't have to get off. This train is for Cambridge.'

'No, the guy just said we have to get off here. You were sleeping.'

'Err... no. He said people going North should get off here, not us.'

By this time, the train came to a stop, two people got off and I kept sitting. The doors shut and the train proceeded.

'We'll have to get off soon, I'm telling you.' he insisted.

'Ok, whatever.' I said dismissively and nodded off.

An hour or so later the train pulled into Cambridge railway station. We got off and I said, 'See, I told you the train was for Cambridge. I don't know why you thought we had to get off.'

'Maybe this time we didn't have to but the last few times, I have had to get off and take a chartered bus!' said P with gritted teeth.

'Oh god, P! What's the big deal?' I asked.

He ignored me.

I muttered under my breath, 'Boys are so stupid and get annoyed so easily...'

As we walked to his college, I looked into the window of the Tshirt store on Bridge Street. There was a manequin wearing a Tshirt that read: Boys are dumb and get angered easily.

I walked in and bought it.

Make That One Year Please

2007-05-11T04:27:00.001+03:00

We have been rolling for a year now.

Thanks everyone.

They Call It 'Being Tagged'

2007-05-07T20:06:00.000+03:00

In the spirit of this delightful blogging tradition of tagging, That Armchair Philosopher has invited me to share five unknown things about myself:

1. If one is fairly judged by the company they keep, I fear that this little snippet paints me in a somewhat... unstable light:

A friend (let's call her Fatma and let's make her a Nehru scholar at Cambridge) recently said to me over drinks, 'Snake Anthony, I've been seriously troubled by this dream I had last night.'

'What happened?'

'Oh, it was so vivid...' she shuddered, 'I had six fingers. SIX, Snake Anthony, SIX! It was so frightening. I couldn't decide which was my middle finger that I could stick up at people!'

2. As a little girl, I fancied myself as an air hostess or a secretary because the two most remarkable and inspirational people I knew - my father's secretary and my mother's best friend - were in these professions. As I grew older, I came to understand that it wasn't so much the glamour of these jobs that I fancied but the dedication and passion that these two women brought to their work. I am not quite sure what I will be doing 9-5 once I graduate but I know for certain, I will always try to be as enthusiastic and committed as they are.

3. I amuse myself by conversing with media theorists in the margins of their pdf readings. 'How wonderfully vague' and 'Easy for you to say!' are some of my more frequent scribbles. But like I mentioned in one of my previous posts, McLuhan's prophetic writing silences me:

'When we lose nature as a direct experience we lose a balancing wheel, the touchstone of natural law. With or without drugs, the mind tends to float free into the dangerous zone of abstractions.'

from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century (1989)

4. I confess that I have been setting back the feminist movement by a few decades. Yes, it is true, I cry at airports and the results are miraculous - inexpensive tickets suddenly appear and several kilos of my luggage over the weight limit are suddenly dismissed. If all my attempts at a mainstream career should fail, do watch out for The Snake Anthony School of Airport and Other Tricks.

5. And here, a spurious one for good luck, as one of my Philosophy professors would say: I ate for lunch a smoked ham and cheese panini and large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

There!

I tag Jerry, Basho, Young Thos, Scritch and Jon.

It's... How Do You Call It?

2007-04-27T20:59:00.001+03:00

At the height of essay writing frenzy this week, Snake Anthony and three friends were at Leon for lunch one sunny London afternoon. They chose the Tuk Tuk salad, the chicken wrap, the lemon ginger and mint quencher, the Morrocan meatballs and organic brown rice and the pea and mint soup with brown pitta.

'So how would you describe this food?' asked Kristen.

'Organic?' said Sharon.

'Just organic, you think?' replied Kristen.

'Well, I don't know. Sorta Middle Eastern too...' offered Bekah.

Intense silence.

'Post-modern, you mean.' said Snake Anthony.

Three heads nodded in agreement.

Too Cool For School

2007-04-15T02:29:00.000+03:00

So it appears to be acceptable to quote All Along The Watchtower in academic discourses on cosmopolitanism..

if you are Homi Bhabha, Dipesh Chakrabarty and their inner circle.

Much of the Truth Lies in Shadows

2007-03-25T20:44:00.000+03:00

We Are Rolling is an anonymous blog for the standard reason of the author wanting her thoughts and expression to be appreciated (or not) for themselves and not for its source. As a result, I have often found it difficult to write about certain things for fear of revealing my identity. But I realise as I approach the first year mark that this cannot carry on forever. I must confess that I have more to write about than inanities like eggs, currency notes or magic beans and would like to share some of my more cerebral thoughts, which sadly, emanate from my academic interests. I am student of Media. There you have it: the truth. Though do not forget that much of the truth lies in shadows. There is more to this facet of me, mired in wanting to be more than a student, a traveler, a woman.

Studying Media is an intriguing 'activity' because every once in a while you'll read something that'll jolt your little world. Marshall McLuhan has been more successful in doing this to me (and I reckon, to many others). You might know him from his famous expressions 'the global village' or the more ominous 'the medium is the message'. For me, as a Media student, the less obvious lines send chills down my spine. Who is the hell is Nostradamus? This man takes foresight to a whole new level! In the early 1960s, McLuhan wrote that print culture would soon be replaced by what he called 'electronic interdependence'. Note, this was the early 1960s; fax machines weren't even used until the 1970s, let alone cell phones or the internet.

And here is what I find most eerie - 'users will simultaneously become producers and consumers' from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century, co-authored by Bruce Powers, published in 1989 after McLuhan's death in 1980. I am baffled. How did he preempt the postmodern era of media non-ideology in which YouTube and Amazon and Wikipedia are leaders in this marketplace dynamic? Or, 'communication media of the future will accentuate the extensions of our nervous systems, which can be disembodied and made totally collective'. How did he know of the blogosphere and e-activism and the fact that for an alarmingly large population of the world our cell phones and keyboards are quite simply extensions of our arms and minds?

Much of the truth lies in shadows.

I rest my case.

Untitled

2007-03-21T21:10:00.000+02:00

Aniruddha was a little disconcerted to find this email in his inbox one morning:

Dear Aniruddha,

Thank you for applying to the Department of South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkeley. I regret to inform you that you have not been accepted for graduate study. Our admissions committee has reviewed all of the materials submitted with your application. Its members have the difficult task ofselecting those with the strongest overall records. Equally important is the selection of those applicants (from a pool of well-qualified candidates) who are the best fit with our program's language and literature emphasis. Each of our six language groups must draw from the small allotment ofadmissions permitted our department. As a result, unfortunately, we are not able to accept many talented applicants. We wish you good luck with your academic goals in the future.

- Lee

Perplexed, he replied:

Dear Dr. Amazonas,

I am really surprised to recieve this mail of a rejection of the application for admission, as I haven't applied to the South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkely in the first place. Therefore, I do not understand this mail and its purpose. A kind clarification would help, if it so pleases you.

Thank you,
Yours sincerely,

Aniruddha

Clarification soon arrived:

Dear Aniruddha,

Please accept my deepest apologies for this error and any distress my mistake caused you. I did not catch this error and am truly sorry for this.

Sincerely,
Lee Amazonas

Musk

2007-03-20T21:34:00.000+02:00

With the impatience of his generation

he abandoned his fountain pen.

He chose instead a sip of first flush Darjeeling

because of a butterfly that fluttered past.

Under his pillow, the butterfly kept

some kernels of musk to seep

into his dreams, till warm sunlight

tickled his eyelids awake.

They flocked to the sea one day but

the clouds were debating a storm.

The butterfly laughed at the thunder while

he watched in astonished silence.

Learn, Power Wielders, Learn

2007-03-13T01:53:00.001+02:00

Email writing is a tricky business, no doubt. Being the bearer of bad tidings can either make you very uncomfortable or really get your creative juices flowing, especially when you are (secretly) thrilled with your power as the Common Room Treasurer of a college in a prestigious university. Then, emails like this get sent out at a high frequency while it's writer sits chuckling to himself in his room eating chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night:

Dear A,

Your request for funds to compensate for expenses incurred while participating in the U8 Summit at the University of Warwick this weekend cannot be met. This is for many reasons:

1. I am told that the Summit was well organised but due to its location in an isolated English village, 20 mins away from the crime capital, Coventry, the impact on world affairs and problems was minimal, if any.

2. It is alleged that you spent much of your time either sleeping, talking to a gentleman named Sam and partying to Punjabi music. Though the cultural exchange must have been enlightening, the College Amenities Fund should have nothing to do with it.

3. You slept through most important meetings and talks at the Summit. Thereby, not only casting a shadow of doubt on your commitment to the cause but also shaming the college before students from around the world.

4. You shamelessly slept with your mouth open in a gathering of more than 500 students while the Director of Global Fund for HIV Aids was delivering a lecture.

5. You spend an exorbitant amount of money at a Summit dedicated to development and sustainable growth, on tissue boxes to wipe your (ahem) mucus.

I hope you understand that it would be inappropriate to have the college compensate you for all the above reasons.

Best Regards,

Your Common Room Treasurer

Disclaimer: Reader Discretion Advised (Morbid Content)

2007-03-11T00:02:00.000+02:00

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

They say the world is shrinking. I say the world is on Facebook and will not leave you alone. That creepy annoying kid on your bus who picked his nose? Remember him? He is on it. So is that girl who spread vicious rumours about you. Even that boy you had a crush on but could never approach. There are many many many more people in this world who you don't know, don't remember or care to. They are all on Facebook.

Yet, one day you get added by a girl named Mira Seth (name changed to protect her identity though I don't know how it makes a difference). You accept her request because there was a girl way back when you were 12 who you were friends with and she was called Mira. However, when you go to her profile page, you realise that it is someone else. Not some complete stranger, just someone who was a year senior to you at that school. Alright, you say.

But then she writes on your wall, asking you how you are, etc. You are obliged to reply in this wonderful era of instant communication. Oh well, you reply saying your memory is a little rusty and that you recall two Mira Seths and politely ask which one she is, as her profile photo is unclear. She replies saying she is the 'chubby one, the one who didn't commit suicide in Class 12'.

You are shocked. Obviously, it's tragic and scary, even though you cannot remember who she is, no matter how hard you try..

Still, something continues to bug you.. You think, so there now is only one Mira Seth. Why am I not able to put a face to the one on Facebook?

Note to Self

2007-03-10T16:03:00.000+02:00

Do not offer to share your umbrella with persons who are 6'2" tall.

There Are Many Ways To Feel Good About Yourself

2007-03-06T14:07:00.000+02:00

Here is one:

Meet an old friend who is now, for some obscure reason, studying Finance in Bergen and buy her many drinks when she visits London. Soon she will say, 'I know I said my life is great but it disgusted me when I realised that if I stop eating chicken for a month, I could pay for an entire trip to Spain.'

RHCP Inspired Father-Daughter Togetherness

2007-03-04T02:11:00.000+02:00

It has been a really long time since I last heard the Chili Peppers. Stadium Arcadium (which, by the way, I now feel starts off well and then gradually descends into unintelligible madness) is an album that listened to considerably last summer. So when I heard Snow Hey Oh this evening, it brought back the memories of sunny Bangalore and trying to tuck my zippy car in the chaos of cars parked on Church Street. It also brought back this lovely memory of driving my father to work one morning:

My father is, by far, one of the most calm and open-minded people in the world and I love him to tiny little bits. On this fine July morning, we were on Koramangala Ring Road and Stadium Arcadium had played on the system for a good twenty minutes. Negotiating my way through rush hour traffic, I was, as usual, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.

Suddenly my father asked me in all seriousness, 'What is this fellow saying?'
'Err.. hmm.. actually, I can't follow the lines in this particular track.' I replied uncertainly, trying to decipher Anthony Kiedis' rap interlude.
'Hmm.. so why do you listen to this music, if you can't understand it?' he asked earnestly.
'Well..' I said, caught a little offguard. '.. it's catchy and funky and it has rhythm, don't you agree?'
'Actually, that is true. I do feel the beat.' My father replied, with a tentative head bob to the beat of Hump De Bump.
'Don't you?' I smiled back, pleased at my skills of persuasion, doing a little jig.
A silence followed as we appreciated the melodic genius of the Red Hot Chili Pepper's guitar riffs together. What a beautiful and peculiar moment, I thought to myself.

The song ended and my father remarked in wonder, 'It never ceases to amaze me how there is a market for everything. Even this has an audience!'

For Some Inexplicable Reason

2007-02-22T18:33:00.000+02:00

I was reminded of this gem today:

Once upon a time at college, a very sweet and earnest boy called Minga rang the Choreography Team leader, a much sought-after beauty.
She picked up, Hullo?
Minga cleared his throat, Hi. This is Minga and I'm calling from the Students Union..
Beauty replied, Err.. Minga? Yeah right! And this is Chinga.
Huh? No no, my name is Minga!, he protested.
Yeah and my name is Linga!, she said and hung up.

Writing Poems

2007-02-21T23:34:00.000+02:00

Revision

My notebook, left by mistake
all night on the garden table
has been revised by rain -

blurs and dribbles swims
the lakes and swallow seas
of its brimming pages.

Put in the oven to dry
drought begins to crinkle
the lip of every puddle -

and what comes out is a shell,
crisp and hollow and curled
around a fall of rain.

- Charles Bennett, How To Make a Women Out of Water

**

The Notebooks

To turn again these faded pencilled pages,
Their neatly cancelled lines, precisely dated,
Their doodles of frustration, sudden rages
Or mocking self-contempt, before the next
Refining or reduction's contemplated,
And then the immaculate and final text -

This is to hear you speak, not just to read you,
Familiar words-by-heart plumbed deep and strange
Down to the nerve of hurt, the pains that feed you
Raw as they are, a present tense, not past,
Thronged with the power to strengthen through their change,
Poised to their lines we know and built to last.

- Anthony Thwaite, The Dust of The World

For He Who Thinks In Multiples

2007-02-21T02:25:00.000+02:00

Three Promises

Between the sheets of midnight and morning
A dream

At first light there's frost
Fields of white manna

In sunlight moment by moment
The day stretches out

A dream, manna, this moment
Three promises you'll never keep.

- John Moat, Firewater and the Miraculous Mandarin

(And while I'm on the subject, may I just add, as Sting would say, sometimes I see your face/ stars seem to lose their place/ why must I think of you/ why must I/ why should I/ why I should I cry for you?)

The Collector of Oddities

2007-02-09T15:07:00.000+02:00

I am The Collector of Oddities. And stamps, earrings and wine corks, but that's besides the point. The Oddities I collect are stories, or not even. Flecks of stories, the discarded detailing, incongruities of a different sense that go unnoticed because everyone is too busy trying to get on the bus.

In this past week, I have become just a bit richer.

**
Three days a week, I switch to work mode for my internship at an independent literary press that produces almost handcrafted books for a very niche audience. The office is a cozy apartment with big windows, sunlight streaming in, obscure paintings on the walls, books everywhere and beige carpeting.

If I were to ignore the number of letters I've folded, enveloped and franked, I could say that this experience is putting me back in touch with the artist in me, a side that I fear has slowly eroded since I started this masters programme. Interestingly, completely unrealistic conversations about poetry, William Trevor, survival and the art of romanticising globalisation have been enjoyable at the very least and I would even venture to say that I like the seclusion. But this Tuesday, the lack of touch with reality nudged me ever so slightly. The nudge was easy to mistake for an accidental brush but something about it made me look up and right after, I returned happily to the dissatisfied world of the social sciences.

A few neighbourhood boys were playing cricket on the street outside, a street that only rarely sees cars as it is in a residential area. My boss noticed this and with a faraway look in his eyes, said to me, 'What a novel way of playing cricket. On the street! Very unsafe though. Imagine that... Have you ever seen anything like it?'

I answered with a quizzical look on my face.

Still astonished, he replied, 'How very very unsual. How marvellous!' With that, he threw his hands up in the air and walked back into his office.
**

**
I might be stepping out of my area of expertise here but I believe they're called alpha males. They are boys who think they're the best thing to have happened to mankind, or at least to their family and friends. When you have an alpha male friend, it is your duty to stroke his ego and nod in agreement with his insinuations as to his superiority as a creation of God. Chances are, this will be accompanied by dashing good looks, a tall built body, a fairly charming personality. And you will have to smile appreciatively at being showered with physical affection when you're with other friends at a restaurant. At this point, your friends will raise their eybrows and smile, wanting to be introduced, inspite of your insistence that it would not be a good idea.

However, when you are sitting with another alpha male you've just met (for a volunteer project, by the way), who for the satisfaction of his own ego is buying you a drink and talking about how he came to be such a pro squash player, and your alpha male friend walks in, the conversation will go like this:

Alpha male friend to alpha male stranger, 'Hey, man. Who are you?'

Alpha male stranger to you, 'You know this guy?'

You, 'Yes, he's my flatmate.'

Alpha male friend, 'She's my girlfriend.'

Alpha male stranger, 'This guy's your boyfriend?'

Before you can respond, Alpha male friend, giving you a kiss before going back to his table to his latest victim, 'Alright. She's my sister. But no messing with her. She's a very special girl to me.'
**

**
A friend to whom I had lent some money called me yesterday in a curious state of panic, 'Listen, I have a problem. Remember those 90 pounds you lent me? I can't use them.'

'Why?'

'Because! Two of the 20 pound notes have an arrow near the Queen's face with c*** written next to it!'

'So?'

'What do you mean, so? Now if I hand the notes to anyone at a store, they're going to think I wrote it! I don't think the Queen is a c***. She's a little unreasonable, yes but she's like any other sweet old lady.'

'Riiight. How about you use them in a machine to top up your Oyster card then? Then no one can judge you for what you think of the Queen.'

'Dude, that is a brilliant idea!'
**

Speaking of Critical Thinking

2007-02-01T01:34:00.000+02:00

Last night I realised that I am no longer impervious to the insidious power of the social sciences.

When I saw this cartoon in The Economist, besides finding it hilarious and appreciating the artistic genius of the drawing, I found myself pondering over these issues:

- Isn't the dragon such a eurocentric representation of China? That's right, continue to exoticise the East, you hegemonic monsters!
- Nevermind the political dimension of the relationship, why must the dragon be sitting and Bush be standing? Huh? Couldn't the relationship be conveyed through less belittling means?
- Why such a servile expression on the dragon's face? Doesn't this continue to perpetuate the image of the world terrorised by America, nations just awaiting approval...

Suddenly Alfonzo interrupted, 'SA, it's a cartoon.'

I looked up.
'Oh. Right.' I replied, sheepishly.

Snake Anthony and The Magic Bean

2007-01-29T22:51:00.000+02:00

My maternal instinct was able to shelter this helpless bean from fungus, over-watering and the reckless use of fertiliser. I am now proud to present the documentation of the growth of my magic bean:

Stage One:
Unattractive Infancy

Stage Two:
The Declaration of Love

Stage Three:
Cheeky Adolescence

Stage Four:
Standing Tall and Strong

Stage Five:
Reaching out to Dali

Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing

2007-01-18T13:12:00.000+02:00

Or.

Alternatively, this morning's text message:

SA, it is a really windy day today. Make sure you walk carefully. You know what happened in Boston.

Dove: Try The 7 Day Test

2007-01-18T00:52:00.000+02:00

I think not.

I am little disconcerted.

Really? Using Dove on one side of my face and ordinary soap on the other and waiting see the difference for myself in just 7 days?

What is the world coming to?

There Is Such A Thing As Too Much Salad

2007-01-16T01:43:00.000+02:00

Indeed.

At dinner, the usual small salad bowls were missing last night. Of course, as luck would have it, Dan was next in line. He reached across to the giant size bowls and piled it up high with everything - beetroot, mint leaves, tuna and beans with olives, lettuce, sweet corn, cucumber and tomato - in sight.

Seeing this, Denise surreptitiously nudged her junior behind the counter and whispered, "Pssst... We have a problem. Get the smaller bowls! The kids are going wiiild with the salad."

Question

2007-01-05T18:26:00.000+02:00

Seriously.
Singha beer or underboob?

Dancing In Cambodia (Haven't Yet Been To Burma) - 2

2007-01-04T14:11:00.000+02:00

Dancing In Cambodia (Haven't Yet Been To Burma) - 1

2007-01-04T13:59:00.000+02:00

You Are No Longer Five

2007-01-02T12:33:00.000+02:00

You can tell things have changed when your age-appropriate present is no longer this:

But this:

AND you're being asked to get a job.

The Common Trip on Riff Cafe

2006-12-25T14:50:00.000+02:00

Music analysts,

You might enjoy The Common Trip.

Floatingly,
SA

The Hunter

2006-12-20T17:00:00.000+02:00

I'm amused.

My best tricks? Yes, I do employ them. Sincere and bold? Mostly. Dramatic guestures and being chased down the street? Huh? Maybe I should start looking back.

And I took the test twice just be sure.

How To Wear A Brassiere

2006-12-15T07:27:00.000+02:00

I would let the photograph speak for itself but please allow me to draw your attention to Step 4: 'If the flesh around your bust are exposed under your arms, tuck the excess into the cups.'

Tuck the excess? Shouldn't you just get the next size? Or think of losing some weight? You don't tuck the excess; you get something that accomodates the excess, I would think. Especially when Step 3 tells you that it should all fit nice and snug.

As regards Step 2 and 5, I am not sure you really need to lean backwards and forwards to get the damn thing on. And wearing a bra in general isn't that complicated. But maybe that's just me.

And they wonder why most women in the world wear the wrong bra size.

The Inconvenience Of Street Food

2006-12-10T12:06:00.000+02:00

There is something wonderous about being sleep deprived and disoriented, walking through Frankfurt airport, searching for Gate B25. Doors miraculously open, leading you into empty elevators the size of small palace with marble flooring and no buttons to press. Handel's Giulio Cesare lingers in the air while trains magically appear and zip you across to far flung terminals. But most importantly, when you're sitting in the airport lounge, all sophisticated, sipping red wine and eating cheese and crackers with a goodlooking investment banker, you suddenly think distractedly - Mmm.. golgappas would be nice!

Some People Are Better Left Snubbed

2006-11-30T14:19:00.001+02:00

What the title says.

Alfonzo

2006-11-26T17:46:00.001+02:00

Alfonzo is back in my life, guys. True, I'm not six and skipping around my garden aimlessly in a cotton frock but at this stage in my life, I might as well be. Without sounding dramatic, he always was the still point of my moving world as a child and now as I have to stand in line to get a visa to go home for the winter, I realise I need him around, that's all.

In other news, this was slipped under my door the other night:

"Hot horny housewife is all very well but will she take you to Paris for 3 nights all inclusive for only £99? http://www.ishevents.org.uk"

I'll ignore what this might lead you to think of me, but Alfonzo and I went online to check out what this was about. (Now is when you do the same. Go on, don't be shy. There isn't anyone around. Click here. I know you want to.) And we (re)discovered a fascinating and somewhat depressing fact about human nature - Sex sells like nothing else. But you've got to hand it to these guys - brilliant gimmick!

I have a brother. He is doing his phd in another cold cold city which makes London seem tropical. Last weekend a friend of his came into town to do a part of her research on trade unions and we met up over a late Sunday lunch. Inevitably the topic of conversation moved to the recent death of a classmate of theirs.

"Well, this is how I look at it. You've got to have some survival technique if you're doing our phd programme. Most kids do some drugs. Your brother has his girlfriend and I've got my supplements." And with one swig of water, she downed seven pills of different shapes and sizes.

I considered for a moment what my survival technique is. I'm still not sure but for the time being, I have Alfonzo.

Orange

2006-11-20T03:54:00.000+02:00

Why has orange become such an unexceptional flavour?

Devious Delectable Dinners

2006-11-14T00:18:00.000+02:00

True to what is drilled into my head every day in class (and outside, come to think of it), even food is turning out to be conniving and predatory. It watches you and decides who you are. Then it melts in your mouth while ensuring a perfect atmosphere conspires against you.

In restaurants such as these, the food has a uncanny way of making its way to your table and deciding just how eclectic a spread you deserve. And naturally, there is also a suitably devious mind picking the lotus and lily stir fry over the asparagus and Exo fish for you.

You are seated in the lounge section because luckily the reservation was made exactly a week ago at twelve noon, during the only half an hour window one gets to make them. Because of this, you are now the most gorgeous girl in the world. An angular beam of light falls from above, highlighting your cheekbones, detracting from your slightly bulbous nose. Your diamonds glisten as you throw your lovely head back in laughter. Soft Keith Jarrett swirls the atmosphere around. The stressed waitress obeys like clockwork the rules of this great universe and everything works its way smoothly to the orchid tea at the end when the lights are dimmed further for the arrival of the bill.

And then you fumble giddily for your bag, smile a sweet thank you and walk up two flights of stairs to go back to that cold, cold world that is the city you live in.

But at least you were gifted a delicate box of fine Belgian praline chocolates that will last longer than those two blissful hours.

What's your Sexy?

2006-11-05T05:21:00.000+02:00

A classmate of mine likes one of our professors - a rather brusque, highly opionated and mostly angry woman of forty plus, who teaches culture studies. Her chain smoking tendency is a factor, he says. It also appears that middle aged professors who talk of eating breakfast with their children score high on the Sexy Scale with the girls. Dark jeans add to such appeal. There too is a consensus about dark rimmed glasses and how they intensify the academic image.

Imperfections are big as well. Absentmined pauses are intriguing. Nervour tics are inspiring. Sexy is varied, let me just say.

The fact is that Academic Sexy is different from Regular Sexy. What is acceptable (even encouraging) about the former is intolerable about the latter. Because not specialising in some obscure field of material science disqualifies you from having distasteful quirks and a receding hairline. I myself can willingly endure otherwise ugly V-neck sweaters and an obsessively numerical worldview.

However, the crisis as some of us later discussed, is exposure. How much is enough? Full time professor? Personal tutor? Or simply a guest lecturer? (who you can stalk later perhaps?)

The question is - What's your Sexy?

Ah..

2006-10-26T02:06:00.000+03:00

You know the lecture is going to be perfect when the professor begins by asking you what Gandhi said about Western civilisation.

"Sound like a good idea."

Home

2006-10-22T17:32:00.001+03:00

This is not The Creature's time in the sun, metaphorically speaking. Wealth and health are fine. But where is the love?, I know she is asking. Her heart is in fragments strewn across the world. I am one.

"Come back and make me whole again." she begs.

Remote Control

2006-10-17T13:30:00.000+03:00

What could have possibly prompted anyone to do this?

"2) TV Remote - This has also gone missing. I appeal to whoever has the TV remote to please return it to the large TV room within the next 24 hours (again without prejudice). If this does not happen, when cable TV arrives on Friday, I will have to chain the remote to the wall. This is an obvious inconvenience and rather a sad state of affairs, but if necessary I will ensure it is impossible to take the remote. "

(Excerpt from my Hall Committee's email this morning.)

Strange Cars In Strange Cities

2006-10-12T02:41:00.000+03:00

It isn't everyday that you meet an old college friend in a strange city and he says you, "I was just coming down Blackfriars and Batman and Robin asked me whether I'd seen the Batmobile anywhere. So I pointed across the river and they said thank you and walked on... Ok, now how about that overdue coffee?"

The (Eleventh) Finger

2006-09-13T14:08:00.000+03:00

So the Doctor told me this story the other day and since he deems it too irrelevant an anecdote to write about, I shall swoop in and take this one:

It is a regular day in the Emergency Ward at St. John's in Bangalore and the Doctor is tending to an motorcycle accident victim who has just come in. Suddenly he notices some rolled up bloody gauze lying on a table. He goes over and opens it up and finds a finger in it! Panic. He dashes back to the motorcylcle accident victim and checks all his fingers. All there. He runs over to the next bed. 'Show me your hands, show me your hands!' he asks frantically. Hands appear and he counts the fingers... One Two Three Four... Five. One Two Three Four and Five. He rushes to all seven beds. All fingers attached and intact. 'Where did this finger come from?' he asks the doctors, nurses and interns. No one knows.

Later, over the phone, 'What?! Wait... So that means someone was and still is missing a finger somewhere!' I said, shocked. 'Yes, somewhere.. someone.. is missing a pinkie as we speak.' said the Doctor ominously.

Do this. Now!

2006-09-06T10:12:00.000+03:00

Go to http://www.yahoo.com and click on the exclamation mark after the Yahoo logo.

Jail

2006-08-31T21:43:00.000+03:00

"Jail is the government's way of sending you to your room."

- J. Seinfeld

The Final Justice

2006-08-24T20:06:00.000+03:00

Murakami Boys

2006-08-20T21:37:00.001+03:00

There are some boys who think they've walked right out of a Murakami universe. They are a standard lot (if you've read any Murakami), though they do come cloaked in some variety. If you look close enough, you'll find your very own local Toru Okada.

Mine sports a head of curly hair and a scowl. With hands in his pockets, he strolls into the neighbourhood Hello Cafe nonchalantly every day and mulls over an expresso. On weekends I see him tapping his feet to the jazz band that plays in town. It appears that the Girl from Ipanema isn't on the scene yet. And it is unlikely that my Toru thinks What A Wonderful World it is.

He is, predictably, one of two siblings (the older sister being happily married with a child on the way) and not on talking terms with the parents against whom this aging rebellion is waged. I reckon they're suitably unimpressed. He works in advertising and thinks all the world's a sham. His evening meals are often eggs on toast and his shirts are never ironed.

Now, the Toru Okada of Murakamiland is an aspirational figure for many a male facing an internal identity crisis it seems. He is a bit of Holden Caulfield and Meursault and Agastya Sen all at once, of your local hybrid culture. Toru behaves as if there is a seamless link between what he wants to be and what he is. This nihilist alien lives in a transformed magical land where every day happenings tread the line between the known and the unknown. It would, after all, be tragic to be ordinary.

His interest in you is questionable. His curiosity is not always fresh and he claims to have a tendency to get embroiled in absurd situations. What you see is not what you get. The impersonators of Murakami's Toru Okada often add a twist to these basic features. So you might have a flamboyant Okada or one with a poetic lisp. Mine, like I said, has curly hair, wears a scowl and has a dimple I have never seen. I know I will soon have to leave him but I know just as well that another Toru will walk down my corridor or sit next to me in class. And Murakamiland will be here again.

At Hello today Toru gave me a mysterious smile. What I didn't realise is that I crushed him with mine. Because he told me every man is an island.

Eggs

2006-08-07T17:12:00.000+03:00

Carrying eggs is a tricky business. Though if you are about to be hit by a bus, don't think too much about them.

Paresh Maity (2002)

2006-07-13T13:15:00.000+03:00

B.80. I went in search of myself. - Heraclitus

2006-07-09T16:03:00.000+03:00

B.95. The waking have one common world, but the sleeping turn aside each into a world of his own.

B.73. A man, when drunk, is led by a beardless lad, tripping, knowing not where he steps, having his soul moist.

B.69. The way up and the way down is one and the same.

B.67. Mortals are immortals and immortals are mortals, the one. Living the others' death and dying the others' life.

Wild Horses

2006-06-11T23:12:00.001+03:00

I was there this week because it often feels like the only glimse of the outside world.

Beside me sat a forlorn woman, seemingly spurned. She looked, my friend commented, like a typical Bengali film star of yesteryears. I wondered how many women I know could sit alone like that in a room of curious wandering eyes. When her phone rang, though elated, she picked it up in a composed and dignified fashion but put it down, disappointed. It wasn't Uttam Kumar, I gathered.

Some time ago someone said to someone else, "Wild horses couldn't drag me away..." And the reply, in the spontaneous tone of a lover underestimated came, "I wouldn't let wild horses comes near you!".

The Seeker

2006-06-03T11:50:00.001+03:00

She sauntered into the room. Her sly eyes did a survey of the scene. The Who's The Seeker served as the musical backdrop this time.

I've looked under chairs

I've looked under tables

I've tried to find the key

To fifty million fables

The Creature grinned. It was the seed of a mango. She watched it with the precision of an entire pedicure tool set. It sat on a plain white plate, its fibres holding in place delectable pulp, un-smushed. Her plan was one slick maneouvre called Gulp.

Focusing on nowhere

Investigating miles

I'm a seeker

I'm a really desperate man

***

Three days later. The seed lay on the floor, tragically. The Creature looked at it condescendingly.

I won't get to get what I'm after

Till the day I die.

Mortals Immortal

2006-06-02T10:53:00.000+03:00

The Creature lies curled up on the regal burnt orange leather armchair and sighs at the trivial world around. Her eye lashes flutter ever so slightly as her eyes shut magnetically. A mild quiver as she transits. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise. And. Fall. Rise.. And.. Fall.. Her arm falls over the side the chair, limp.

A clumsy shuffle elsewhere. Papers fly around as the elctricity returns.

One eyelash flutters. A live marble appears. Glint.

Carry That Weight

2006-05-10T14:17:00.000+03:00

Listen:

The Beatles don't always sing about Right Now. But on some rare occasions, you will feel your small world quiver and crack and from within a small crevice, you will hear the Beatles walking down Abbey Road, telling you that you're going to 'carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...'

And so it goes.