Prose before hos

Post-its. Awkward face. Call me maybe. Newsroom. Cake. Biryani. Yellow Biryani. Introductions. Dark Room. Man from Gurgaon. Classroom 3. Babbloo. Street Theatre. Nova 125. Pepperoni Cheeseburst. Wayfarers. Kari Kuttu. Sarojini. Freshers. Community Centre. Maut ka Saudagar. Darinda. Drug Peddler. Sunshine. Gunda. Kashif. Jamun. Winslet-2. Chowringhee Lane. Kanti Shah. Amar Colony. Iqbal Bhai. Sicken Sausage Burger. You Don't Get it. Fresca. Ghazi Bhai. Yelling. Wasseypur. Tomaro. Ducks. Promises. Murg Mussalam. Batla. Homeless man. Pantyhose.Twitter. Guha. Chaat. Putul. Winslet. Dino. Pianos on the head. Bhosdi wale. Mamiya. Cuntlets.

Few friends, lots of pretensions, dramatic endings. End of semester 1.

I promise to you, Season 2 will be full of interesting curvy bends. Unlike the punctuated ones this season. to you.

Poker face- achievement unlocked. 

to be drunking, fa la la la la la la.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Hello? I can't hear you. Hello?"

"Hello? I can hear you"

"Yes, but I can't hear you."

(Yes, we suck at prank calling. Thanks for texting and giving us an honest opinion of our wasted efforts.)

Drunking leads to uncontrollable laughter. It also leads to drunk dialing that uber hot blues guitarist. Then, fumbling and finding it hard to say anything at all. (potato?).

Non drunking nights also lead to laughter.

"Myself post grajuashun in mass communikashun. Nice to meet you."

And, sometimes, there are no words involved. Just the look.

Fuck the scholarship interview. I'm going to be here and make the most out of it. Even if it means pining for accessories from Claire's and that blues guitarist.

In other news, I have the world's prettiest pink bow. So what if I'll be broke for the rest of the month and that it costed me more than my Marie Claire coat. Me and my pink bow will take over the world. Hopefully, after passing Sound final.

(This is what happens when you pull an all-nighter and overdose on chat after that.)

I want that Ph.D. As bad as I wanted the Grimms brothers Fairy Tales, vintage edition.

And I am not going to settle for anything less than that.


(Don't mind the image. I spent a hefty amount- last of my dollars in Hong Kong at 2 am after sneaking out of the hotel. One of those souvenirs for my grandfather. )

Excitement. Nervousness. Anxiety. Confidence. Or the lack of it.

Tomorrow's here. Time to get another rejection. Make a few memories. Feign happiness and drown in celebration of getting rejected once again.

I'm honestly sick of churning out academics. I hope the panel reads this and rejects me tomorrow on the basis of lack of interest over lack of intellect. That'd be killing my confidence truly.

Decided. Need to work. Will pick a job. Ph.D and London can wait. So can chasing men and being chased (atleast, in the head).

Everything else can burn. I'm going to pursue Masters at JMI and get my butt at writing and editing. Polishing that.

This post could have been reserved for 12 December, evening, perhaps. Or not.
I'm going to face an interview that may define the course of everything I've aspired for- in the last four years and it's perhaps my last shot at getting close to it. If the things do not work out, it'll probably end very differently than how I want it to be. Ergo, the end won't be what the means were aiming at. It never works that way.

A couple of days back, I was considerably drunk. It started out as a pleasant evening. I'd written my first final and it wasn't too bad. It exceeded my expectation. Naturally, it meant celebrations were in order. It doubled up when I checked my mail and saw the acceptance letter from yet another university that I applied for ten days ago. Getting acceptance in the span of time was an upper that I required at the point of time. Cutting a long story short, I decided to indulge in a little socializing and I would lie if I'd say I didn't enjoy it. I think I'm comfortable enough to enjoy little getting together with lesser known people. Makes me want to survive the rest of the evening as opposed to being stuck with the people I choose to be with at such places, more often than not.

Either way, I got home only to end up crying my liver out for a few hours- first in front of a friend on skype- making a fool of myself. Emotional drunk, the category I despise, I became just that only in the matter of a few seconds when I was chided for something silly. When I was slightly conscious, I realised, I'd achieved everything that I had aspired for, it's simply not putting it properly on paper what I wanted.

I wanted to escape. I asked and strived for admission in anthropology at several institutions abroad. I got that but couldn't escape- manage to get out of there due to my several reasons- some rational while other foolish ones from the list. I just wanted to go out and do things on my own accord.

Here's what kills me every day, little by little. I'd molded myself into a model child at college. The place and time where everyone goes wild and does act like a clown, I'd made myself into what they sought out. Again, selfish reasons. I wanted to get that offer letter from institute so bad that I ensured I attended every solitary class on each day, come rain or shine. I ensured my life revolved around my department, my class even if it meant killing yourself with work load.

I see no reason to continue leading a life like that. A lot of people have told me, this behaviour, or any for that matter is usually not for acquiring an end but for personal satisfaction. If that is so then I've failed at it miserably since I'm fighting battles in my head everyday- whether to be that model student yet again, do everything as desired or take things in the lazy stride that I want it to be in since there is no future I see for myself. I wouldn't say my dreams are shattered. It's too big a statement to make, honestly. I've everything at my disposal, a family that cares and enough funding to take a loan and get the fuck out of here the minute I want but the point is do I want it that bad now? It's like a tape set in my head that I play every morning when I wake up. I'm obsessed with the idea of getting this scholarship and going but do I want it that bad? Do I really deserve to be bestowed with this tag of representing the country? If it so then why have I become too lax and callous in life that I don't give half a flying fuck to what I am doing right now. I wanted this college and course nearly as bad as I wanted London, just when I was on the wait list for a month and now I am at a stage where it wouldn't hurt to even work as an analyst or just about anything since it's not even about the fulfillment of goals or 'studying' something that I want to do for a bit. Now, it's all about waking up and playing that tape in the head and doing everything in a mechanical fashion.

If not for myself, I really want this scholarship for my HoD. I cried a lot when I heard that she's really fond of me and thinks highly of me. I don't deserve any of this. Not with the person I've become here. I miss the last three years more than anything else. Given a chance between this scholarship or going back to college, I'd choose the latter any day. I want to work sincerely. That's all I want from life. Time to make changes- where ever I be heading towards. 

Can I design a dream?

I want to be lost in the wings at R.K. Dalmia auditorium. Lights off, curtains off. Empty auditorium. Only visible light in the seating area, once I set my amp. I want to feel the pressure to be able to match to the drummer and the singers. I want to feel the power that produced something worthwhile, even if it meant plucking a note over and over again. I want to be in my red tunic and black pant uniform, looking for a tissue paper to fix my kohl, 14 minutes before we're set to go on stage. I want to hang in the green room with familiar faces, the ones who'd be sweating over hitting the right note. It's all predictable, it's all about achieving it in the moment. You don't plan such things.

The only control you have is to alter the notes that determine a track, a melody which is all reminiscent of a particularly bright moment shared. One bit of appreciation, that could lift me.

I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned

Sometimes, I feel like a hollow piece of plastic, not knowing what to say to the people I truly give a fuck about. The people who I know deserve the best- I am unable to emote to them. To those, who I have grown up with and am still growing.

A, this is for you. I love you beyond words. You deserve infinite happiness and success, the kind you want. Your loss is something I can't imagine. I can't put my thoughts into words. Neither can I express my concern. I just want you to know, I have your back. I invest more trust in you for a better future that you deserve and will have, more than I have for myself.

I don't know how you deal with this, losing a parent. I can't even imagine being in your state.

I am a firm believer in the fact that death itself isn't hard. It's just a matter of a split second. There is no grey area there. It's either here or not. You live and then die. Or die in no time. What's truly difficult to cope with life is the vacuum that is left. This may seem selfish but isn't part of pain in death all about having to do with the leftovers. The memories that may linger in times when you can only speculate what the person would've said.

We linger over trivial things- exams, relationships, job, guys. Run after seeking happiness and hope for the things you want. Isn't that hopeless in itself when adversities such as filling a vacuum are infront of us?

Right now is the best that could ever happen and I hope it brings out the best for you. 

Never done this sort of stuff but it sure feels great to know someone's cooked for you- boiled eggs in biryani, bread roll with extra mashed potatoes- just the way you like. I'm privileged to have someone wake me up every morning and to make sure she wishes me the best on my way out from home, tumbling out with breakfast in one hand and a cup of tea in another.

Here's the deal- I see only couples around me. Where are the damn single people? Is no one ever interested to hang out 'so-lo', without carrying the baggage of relationship? I don't fucking understand the idea of sticking together like one soul, two bodies. I mean, do you guys use the same toothbrush? If the answer's no, then you shouldn't stitch those two lives together. Not when it involves a cynical, asexual snob (who's single and unavailable, thankyouverymuch). Some three-four years back when these couples got together or were on the verge of getting together I somehow had the semblance of keeping their individual life separate to their 'couple' life. Now, when I speak of 'couple' life, I imply the stuff couples do, mostly involving other couples as opposed to their single friends (who are another degree of hopelessness and obsessed with power dressing).

I hang around with a couple in college, spent the better part of my day watching Life of Pi (which is a 'spectacular visual treat!', how nice of everyone to tell me via their facebook statuses) with a couple and ended my day with another couple while they circled  around the colony aimlessly.

Over the time, I've turned my circle big and accepted my committed friends and their partners into my social life circle (which practically is as badly illustrated as the rest of my free hand geometrical figures). Trouble begins when you/the couple is awkward around you, which more often than not is the case. I can identify the types of couples- the ones where you become friends with the couple itself is a tricky category. If you're friends with one and the person gets a better half, that's kinda hard because you begin sharing your friend and vying for their attention all the fucking time. My friend has been dodging me for past two months. Exams for the last two weeks has been her excuse. Today, she recited four incidents of how she hung out with her guy after teaching him accountancy, in my neighbourhood. The same friend, who I hadn't met in months, had planned a dinner date. Post exams, she'd come to see me at 6 pm and we'd go out for early dinner at our favourite Thai restaurant where we'd order one bowl of soup and shamelessly talk for two hours (because the serving is gigantic). Post soup, we'd go for a drive and circle around the neighbourhood while she'd incessantly fuss over her boyfriend while I'd nervously fiddle around with my phone, texting someone/fussing over someone in my hand. To conclude the trip, we'd work around the radio, blast some bollywood from 9os and sing along until she'd drop me back home.

Reality beckons. My friend gets her boyfriend in the car.

"He wants to meet you, come out.", instructing, as though, I'm a specimen at the zoological park and her boyfriend, the VVIP visitor wants to see the African Orangutan that looks like the cross between a panda and mongoose. I change into a comfy pair of stirrup pants, as opposed to cropped black pants, because it's chilly outside, also cause I'm unaware as to how long I need to entertain this foreign entity who's possessive about the girl that he wouldn't let her come for a girls night out without tagging along. He's parked himself on top of the window, which has been rolled down to fit his unshapely ass (I'm losing some friends tonight, time to clear my schedule). We exchange pleasantries, he looks visibly bored, almost as though, he's been forced to come here and see my face. "Can I see your dog?", he demands. I feign an excuse and linger around for a bit to figure out the nature of our then dinner and now haze of a plan because of the foreign intrusion. The man's quiet.

"Get your ass in the car", barks friend.

"Are we going?", I ask quizzically.

"What do you think we're doing?", replies friend, who by then, is sitting over her boyfriend, fist fighting or bull fighting or boyfriend fighting. Something of that order. I adjust my way into the back seat and friend asks in a cursory fashion if I'd like to sit in front, her boytoy would swap places with me. I refute the offer and go for my phone, cursing my friend and her guy to another one. Spot on, my friend snatches my phone and begins wondering if I am "seeing" someone. People here are just obsessed with one thing. I pounce on her and there's a debacle in the middle of the road because my friend wants to read a conversation where I am just ranting about her. Scary prospect was that she'd have thrown me out of her vehicle in the freezing weather if she'd read the stuff I was penning down. Honesty is the best policy, sure; not when your friend is behind the steering.

After an hour of driving mindlessly, we drop the guy and head towards the park where we discuss how a Harvard returned asked my friend out. She said no and now he's back in Harvard, at UK.

Me? I just talked about how I demand people to bake home made cookies, pasta in red sauce with extra cheddar and jalapeno cheesy omlette and how I do end up getting that stuff more often than not.

Cheese will never dessert me. Nope.

There are times when you just want to be hugged and tugged and said, "It'll be okay, it'll pass."

 I've had a grotesque day. The kind that beats entire 14 years of convent school experience- from morning till the evening.

Here's the deal:

Dogs do eat stuff- homework, belts, your kebabs.

People do pass infection.

Cameras don't always produce impressive bokeh.

Your best dress does make you look fat and unshapely.

For more, buy me lunch/dinner/filter coffee/cardamom chai and I shall tell you gory details.

^I didn't think of any of this before.

Defining Halloween can come close to putting on several layers of IP Calamine, prescribed by doctor and purchased from hospital pharmacy. Just when I thought I'd said adieu to the rash infested days, hives came back to high five me on my nape and neck. What went past was Halloween eve, Halloween and post Halloween evening covered in a fresh, thick layer of hives and calamine smothered over it with a whole lot of agony, cussing and near tourette state of mind. Thankfully, this post comes when I am done chumming and brimming with happiness for it is Sunday and I am in no mood to reply to anyone about my whereabouts.

November kicked in, almost as weepy and silent as the exit of October. Tautologous crap but I can't help it. I don't exactly remember what all went past. My cousin got hitched, Pandal hopping was done, two re-unions with less than half of our classmates turning up in different instalments and evading classes with exams. Exams, ah. We're back at cribbing, full blown. Oh, there was Weekender, Delhi's own Woodstock- for glitterati indie lovers. Neon hats, ribbons, flags, Smirnoff buckets (alcohol will not be served to guests below the age of 21), boot and shorts; everything NCR and Delhi can encompass at an event that yells "commercialization" yet the vibe was amazing. I'm a sell out, after-all.

Coming to something recent, I lost my Wong Kar Wai virginity to Fallen Angels today, followed by losing yet another one- Marquez's Chronicle of  a Death Foretold. Today's afternoon was nothing short of intellectual stimulation- the kind that is not easy to come by when you're enrolled in master's course (and are slacking most of it). Brings me to an interesting revelation, inspiration can come from anywhere.

In my first year at college, film society had organized a Wong Kar Wai week. That was my first brush with Neo-Wave cinema. Later, the society represented our college at some Inter College Event for a short film making event and won some prize. I was massively impressed with their production. Now that I think of it, it's a fully inspired piece, cinema noir a la Wong Kar Wai. Strangely, I was re-reading this Murakami piece last night and it reminded me of this guy I know, who appreciates his work. His writing style being eerily similar to Murakami's.

When I compare these pieces, I do not imply the content. I simply state the mechanical process-something like carving a pumpkin, on account of Halloween. There will be a certain style to hold the knife or even while employing a kind of knife, the idea that goes in the purchase. Strangely, I function on the same spectrum. While I idolize certain people, I make sure I carve my work, just as if they've touched it. It's a lot like this scene from Fallen Angels where Ming's partner visits the bar and takes the same seat as him, just to feel his presence metaphorically. Later, when she crosses path with his blonde lover, she encounters the same scent. If you've ever been in place of Ming's partner,  you'd know the intensity of madness as propagated by the person who idolizes it. It's almost as if a dog was made to sniff a bone and then it disappeared. The dog's madness is akin to the person who's reproducing his work in style of his master.

And, that's that.

Sound exam, which is partly physics and partly mind-fuckery has been postponed twice. On both the occasions  my study graph fell substantially as I involved myself in better things than numbing head over trash like Nagra, Digetic and Pulse Code Modulation. In all likelihood, I'd fuck this, the way I'd fucked my head studying it. Perhaps, even more. Speculations precedes reality. I'm in no mood to hook people up (hint hint).

Now, if this post ceases to make sense, it's not because I've a confusing idol, it's because it's written over the span of 1o hours when I did everything possible in the middle of it- ate, wrote a script, skype-ed and even napped. To lazy day writing.

When your semester exams kick in a month's time and mid-semester exams kill your brain cells, you stop blogging. 

This page has been blank for a while- about the same time when I realised Mass Communication isn't for me and I, not for Mass Communication. In the last fortnight, I've fought deadlines, people amongst other irrational ideas in my head that compelled me to give up college, completely. It was a lot like waking up each day and saying to myself, "Go back to sleep, there's nothing for you." If you have parents like mine, chances are, you won't be allowed to make decisions for yourself (forget the age factor). The subtle art of making one admit to doing something, that essentially is what the parentals want from you, is my mother's forte. From an array of explanations thrown in, a lot of them seemed quite logical about how I must continue here, get the degree and consequently, get the fuck out of here.

Question is, why am I desperate to get the fuck out of here?

Usually, under any circumstance, it is extremely hard to please me. "Pleasing" here constitutes of enjoying an experience, atleast in the concurrent view of this post. Tracing back the blog and pretty much my virtual history, I've cribbed about school, whined about college and despised work. Anything and everything, one may even say cribbing is my life blood etc. I admit wholeheartedly, it isn't easy to satisfy me and match up to the standards I create in my head. Heck, even I can't match upto those standards. I digress but this is where the institution comes in, where I am pursuing Masters.

I attended a relatively unknown, convent school which had twisted rules to begin with. Till today, I haven't been able to conclude whether my classmates were more twisted or the administration but in a nutshell, that place was the end of me. In the last two years, I counted down days- till today, I've never claimed to "miss" what I left behind. Good riddance, that's how I describe my school life (or the lack of it). College, on the other hand, was completely opposite. I met some brilliant people and in short, we all helped each other to carve into the persons we all are today. The little capsules of my three years at college are spread along this blog, which some of you may or may not have read. Either way, you get the drift about teething troubles- that was it. My college was anal about certain things and those things bugged me a lot. At some point, due to emotional content of my heart, I may even agree to the idea that those things were necessary but that's another post altogether.

Coming to the Masters and the institution. It's almost as if, I've come back to my convent school to re-live the bad memories of Extremely horrid times. Letch professors, rude administrative staff shouldn't exactly be a cause of worry, as this is a learning experience, says my mother. I don't know whether to take that with a pinch of lemon and salt or how but essentially, I'm a wreck at college. My classmates, almost all of them, are empty in the head. The conversations that one hears makes me want to smoke myself to death. The least I expected from the batch was to be smart. Smartness in an individual here, is defined by their ability to answer in class- which by the standard of the rest, is the shite (pardon me, for I cannot use this at college- due to the inability of the peers to understand). Agreed, it's not going to be the same as my undergraduate institute and perhaps speaking from their point of view, I'm as strange as strange can get. Probably, blonde too. I mess up stuff when I go to the dark room to develop pictures, day dream during sound and sleep like a log during radio besides bunking Theatre.

Bunking. I've succumbed to it.

I bunked three days straight- at a hotel room in Jaipur, shuffling between that and what was Jaipur's first rock festival. That is another story, worth writing in detail about. Men dancing to Beatles and Hendrix covers and women with babies enjoying every minute at the venue which was selling Chhole Bhature. I didn't expect much and I'm glad. Hung around with a drummer friend for a bit, who was kind enough to get me an entry and backstage access. Also, bumped into Motherjane and her bassboyfriend, to turn my sad unwinding trip to a cheerful reverie at the most inane location of all times.

When I didn't bunk college sipping beer and blowdrying my hair, I was besides mum- who was extremely unwell and saw the face of hospital. One of those experiences that leaves you with profound thought of how sacred the life is and how things can quickly change from normal to fucked- in crude terms.

My attendance should be a serious cause of worry right now. According to sinner, I must really get a scholarship for I won't be allowed to sit for exams with such low attendance (bunked three weekends, straight, probably bunking the whole of next week and doing nothing).

I'm living my non-complaining week so this post needs to end, with the hope that in a few hours from now I shall live to see Dave Mustaine's face, provided the man picks me up for the gig (he's only six hours late) and a few more hours from now, I shall live to write my first exam- that I will graciously fail for the lack of any common sense that can get me past the passing mark line. More on this page, soon. 

 At the onset of 21, you're not left with many "first time"s which is what's making this brightly infectious for me. I can smell the clouds as I walk past them, already thanking those rare few moments when sunlight reflects on my face. I see myself prancing around the place, getting wasted at the SOAS bar and picking up the accent (bluh-dee-helle).

Recipe for a good day:

Ingredients

• Tuesday (having radio through the day, point)
• Getting over with practical in the first half
• Clumsy Eater Friend
• Rattan Tata Library
• Proxy
• A book review
• North Campus
• Aroon
• Early dinner

Resigned myself to lifelong sadness that comes from never being satisfied.

I last wrote here when I was still 2o. To this day, I'm 21 and 1o days old. Two parties, bunch of drinks and a substantial few anti-histamines down, surviving and seeing the face of college every day. It can't get any more gruelling than this, college ie. In the last month and a half, I've gotten into a row with cops, administration, lecturers and students. I hope for my sake that this is just a part of teething troubles that one ought to face after joining a new institution.

Birthday was pleasant. I was smiling throughout, no one annoyed me (much) and was out for most part of the day. The flat party was something else, subtle music, dim light and a very drunk me. Next morning onwards I just found myself repeating this, "When did that happen?". Ofcourse, in that comprised embarrassing stories and my lines.

I think I ought to have followed Zadie Smith's advice of shutting internet off before starting to write. I've spent my day from 8 am to 12 am outside. Came home, had the strongest urge to write. What? Don't know. Just decided to fill in details of last few days here. Strange sensation in head overpowers. Must write later about sound design, birthday gifts and all that's up.

Currently- not looking forward to over 1o hours of theatre tomorrow. Take a pistol, already. 

This writer's block is the end of me. Nonetheless, rant aside, I had a stunning weekend comprising of a few common elements. Free flowing alcohol and food and uninterrupted smooth jazz accompanied with conversations that may create controversy otherwise. Friday evening at Sinner with Obe and Saturday evening party at Clumsy Eater's crib. I wish my skill allowed me to write but this block is just not behaving.

September skies bring in blue moon and a nip in the air that is uniquely comforting and fuzzy. It's almost as though it signals transition and new beginnings at so many levels. Meeting friends of friends and all that follows, quite surreal. Shan't go into details because they're painfully long and no one has time for me or my stuff.

Anyway, I was reading some old posts and realised my previous birthday wishlist was quite the fucking teenager while making it. I did ended up getting stuff off that list including admission offer from SOAS, birthday wish from him and Chanel N*5. Yes, that shallow.

Anyway, the list comes this year as well. Pliss to get me stuff just off this or else your present shan't be considered.

1. External hard disk (What, you don't have an external hard disk?, exclaimed my classmate)
2. Books. Check with me for titles I want. Fucking wasted time and 8k at Book Fair today for nothing. 
3. Noise reduction headphones from Bose.
4. Return tickets to Shibuya. 
5. Orange wayfarers from Rayban. Alternatively, Janpath.
6. A bookshelf to stack them books
7. Polaroid camera
8. A new backpack for college.
9. Vintage typewriter
10. Sugar free mint pellets/ chewing gum carton.
11. That student exchange trip to France 
12. Balloons.
13. Cotton pants
14. Scholarship/funding for US/UK/Timbucktoo
15. A batch of cupcakes with sugar frosting
16. Toga and a trip to Greece wearing that.
17. A few gigs.
18. Good old lovin'. 
19. Someone to make/dedicate me some live music. Brownie points for playing my favourite numbers.
20. My friends. All of them who've left Delhi.
21. Him. (heha, from wish to the person himself!)
22. Warwick double buck corvette (sigh).

Sunday afternoon brunch.
Wind gushing through my dirty hair tied in a tight bun.
A quick discussion on the mentality of audience/viewers/art lovers who appreciate mindlessly.








I've lost my ability to write, the same way Axler lost his talent to act- overnight or not. I hope in this process, I do not meet a Sybil.

I want to shoot a few people. Kill myself,either.
I hate acting. Hate sound recording more.
Mass Communication is two parts physics, one part interaction and three parts of meeting fuckers who frustrate you so much that you want to do a la kibreet.

I've had an extremely long, frustrating and a useless day.

Looking forward to more such.

I can't wait to get out of this hell-hole.

Got to be the only jackass to reject/defer SOAS' offer.  

Time for an anon blog has come. 

It's going to be an extremely hard night. The state where you want to sleep but demons in your head won't let you. You feel sticky and sick of yourself but won't indulge in a shower. You'll only sit, stare and listen to the same track over and over again.

It's going to be an extremely hard night. I need to stop thinking.

Tonight, we are young
So, let's set the world on fire
We can burn brighter
than the Sun. 

I've fluctuated from extreme happiness to extreme gloominess within the span of 6o minutes today. I want college, WMS and you.

I'm a few drinks down and very curtly I shall mention three strange things that happened today.

At college, we worked in the black and white lab today. The class clown cracked a wise one, "We developed 50 shades of grey. Hahahaha". The uptight woman that I am began questioning him on literary value of the text.

"Matlab erotic hai. Achi lagi muje to."

Facepalm.

I digress. I also like to prance proudly across to everyone and show off my scratched print of grey scale photography. Developed by me, in chemicals. Dipped in alkali and other chemicals (I will fail first year, repeat after me. She will fail first year), felt pop about doing something. It's a lot like making music, from the wrong end in photography. Giving expression to a parchment. Ofcourse, music is a notch higher, there is no parchment involved. Only your instrument and the skill you exercise on it. I shall consider music as a higher form of activity in comparison to photography but then no one gives a shit and I'm not Wittgenstein that people will actually debate over this so yeah, fuck that.

My father, after looking at what his daughter produced in the lab declared that he was a proud owner of enlarger, cutter and everything they have at the damn lab, including inventing a dark-room in the spare room of their Kabul house. Fuck my life. Essentially, my father did all what I'm doing in my masters when he was 13 years old, all of which was self taught. No internet, no mentor. He repeated everything that we'd learned in today's 4 hour long session- theory+practical.

For once, just once, I felt this weird connection with dad. The kind I always associate with mum, of gene-pool, that. Never felt this way. It all explains now, my interest towards photography. Strangely enough I never took interest in anything dad had to say, today I realised the grave mistake. If only he was allowed to pursue whatever he wanted to, he'd be quite the stud-muffin. Not that he isn't now, but a stud-muffin with colourful sprinklers.

Second thing that took me by surprise was this surreal moment. I was thinking about this drummer I'd interviewed long ago. Okay, fuck that, maybe a month ago. For some reason, I was thinking about his birthday (and we don't know each other, nothing). I had a feeling he's an August baby. I turned to refresh my facebook app on iPad. Lo and behold, my boss published that same interview along with a birthday wish for the drummer boy, that went up on Facebook. Surreal, how it happened just within the span of few seconds. Needless to say, it made my day ten folds. Interview's up. I shan't link, no sir.

Finally, I began reading Charles Bukowski's Women. Weirdly enough, minutes after starting it, I found out, it's his birthday today.

In short, I need to stop thinking about people or it'll be their birthdays.

No?

Okay, I'm going.

I feel like Hank Moody. Perpetually wasted and unable to make sense.


So let's set the world on fire, we can go higher.  

Co-ed College taught me:

                                                                               

Ah right. Who would have thought that you'll be assessed for photography in two month's time, while I was struggling to write essay on Wittgenstein. Over dramatic thought aside, three days into the course and I already have a photo-feature submission in a week's time. The course is everything that I have not done and possibly wanted to, at some point, maybe even now. It's challenging to sit for three hours at a stretch and do theory/practical but it's going to be worth it (two orientations summarized).

To say, it is completely true, academic course breeds laziness. To the extent that I've rarely put so much thought into say, something as trivial as thinking of a shot. I suppose to be out, as of now, covering Janmashthami for a feature and I'm currently updating this page, while nibbling on a Brownie (not Kodak Brownie, thankyouverymuch) and contemplating the messed closet that I ought to sort by the night fall.

I did venture out for a bit in the day, to click the pre-festivities and the marketed view of the festival. Did capture decent shots but the trick is that they only want four solitary pictures. Which leaves the person behind the camera at a loss for words and clicks to capture the best of the scene. Today, I realized, how my hand shakes each time I think of taking a shot, devoid of any thing that may make it look bad. This is what the course aims at, holistic thinking improvement in technology. You must know I'm a few screwdrivers down and hence I shall faff a bit here.

Anyway, I had a lot to write/think/perceive when I was sober. All I can think of right now is how George Eastman is my new hero. He's what Anaxagoras was in philosophy. Which entrepreneur distributes free cameras to kids? None that I know. Humanity prevails, let's stick to that lose end for now and continue with Massfuckin'communication.

How upset could you be with life, people and some such?

Answer- So much that you've played Here Comes the Sun on loop for a little over than an hour and a half

Last when I felt like this, I'd just been handed over my pre-board result in tenth grade, where I had flunked in two subjects out of five. Or, when I went to college for the first time and met snooty bitches. Combine all that, throw me back in my school, tenth-eleventh grade and that's what I feel each day. Post graduation is a prick. I don't believe I cried and whined to get into This crap (and I highlight This in uppercase). It is The most stifling place I've been to, by far, in last twenty years. By stifling I mean, the people remind me of my classmates dated back from puberty stricken years spent in the convent. Here, you've the guys and the girls behaving in exactly the same way.

Shoot me, in the head, if I ever write back here about how I love them. I would be a changed person. That is the only way we can ever be on the same page.

And, that was the crisp update.

Because I don't have time to write 1k words and writing a daily diary entry is a suggestion the lecturer teaching us Radio has given.

Aadab, mai Snobster.

Little darling, it seems like ice is slowly melting.

It's not a good feeling when your two month long indefinite vacations come to an end, abruptly. You're only forced to go to Grad School, to meet new meat and devour their ideas.

Just kidding.

I'msoexcitedthatiwanttopooprainbowrightnow.

See you with new rant, on the other side. 

That was not sex. That was naked poetry.





I'm in love with this man, immensely.



I used to feel bad for assholes who were in love with Tv shows. There can be nothing worse than being in love with something on television. I've become one of those assholes now. Under the same spell, this is what I've been saying to myself, to convince. He's not another jack. He's a writer. So what if he's a writer in a show. The actor becomes unreal in the character. The character does not become unreal in the actor, so said dear Sartre. I say, shut the fuck up and soak into the goodness of  them motherfuckaaas. 

What do you get when you mix sex, drugs, writing, rock 'n roll and a plethora of emotions all entwined with hedonism?

Californication.

I've never been gay for a television show. Not until I saw a nun give a head to this writer at a chapel. Don't get me wrong, I'm asexual to the very end but this show has something that has positively changed me from,
"Let's read a book, after work to unwind after a long day." to, "I'll fucking enjoy Moody and a cup of tea better."I don't mean to say that I put Tv before reading but this particular show does it for me. I don't wish to see entire season together, I like to keep it slow. Too much of Runkle starts getting to you after a bit.
Fuck, this just proves, amongst a million other things that I am going through right now, all I consider doing is writing about Moody and the gang. This show is quite something.

Anyhow, this is one of those posts/announcements that I won't, in all likelihood, regret even after a couple of years. This won't make me awkward/embarrassed to list my choice. No. I wish I could spend more time being drunk and writing all about it. Sarcastic much. Yes.

“The fact that people seem to be getting dumber and dumber. You know, I mean we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all its really given us is Howard Deans aborted candidacy and 24-day access to kiddie porn. And people, they don’t write anymore. They blog, instead of talking they text, no punctuation, no grammar. Lol this, lmfao that. It just seems to me that it’s just a bunch of people pseudo communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the kings english.”

—	Hank Moody, Californication.