Prose before hos

Earlier this month, a friend met someone she's been talking about for the last quarter or so. During our meeting prior to the last, we bet on the fact whether they'd end up sleeping together or not. I bet in favour of the act and she, against. Either way, she was going to be winning some so it wasn't a bad deal in any way.

Turns out I won the money, as I discovered over a text message couple of days ago. After collecting the bet money (which was graciously given, because their rendezvous was worth it and my poor friend, unknowingly is smitten by the mongrel) I set out wondering what I'd do with my abilities. In a complete Karen Smith talent reprisal, my talents too are extremely restricted and on fleek.

In a complete spur decision, I spent the bet money buying a bottle of Bhut Jholakia sauce from the local bakery in my college. I was surprised to find the brand and the timing to digest that my ultimate earning in life is coming from betting on whether someone is going to get some or not.

Going to be making panko crusted fish with some Bhut Jholakia soon. 

I have several writing rituals, pertaining to dates, events and occurrences. You could say, it's my way of displaying severe superstition with regard to my sole talent- making way with words. Every writer likes to believe (unconsciously so, even) that their words can make the mountains melt and move, people into a pool of melting emotions and even execute operations. Words make the world go round. However, it's on every new year's eve, I sit down and spend the last couple of hours writing, as if my life depended upon it.

This year and the year before that was spent in creating several different accounts, with respect to my writing. New (and now abandoned blogs) projects were initiated and taken on as I increasingly found myself fumbling with words on my professional front. I guess, I should have seen it coming. I'm suppose to write 50k meaningful, academic words that make some sense and convey something which hasn't been said before in my supposed area of research. Before it ends up sounding bitter, I must duly acknowledge what changed. I began to think before I typed. I examined every piece of writing I encountered, I went into the layers of content floating on the internet- purely to understand the construct and the idea behind the formation of the same in the mind of the creator.

On the surface level, I did a lot of other things. Got more rejections (for writing) than ever, got the least amount of published work to my kitty and broke down inconsolably at least 16 times in the last 365 days. Writing became punishment and reading abhorred me. I couldn't look at the face of books. I didn't say it out loud but I was thankful to every person who didn't bring me a book this year for my birthday, Christmas and other noteworthy events. Not to be ungrateful but books as gifts have to be stopped now. There's no space at my residence for humans, pets or books. We can no longer accommodate any of the aforementioned three. Other than books and a overdose of that, I got very few things this year to be thankful about. This year was a colossal test to my mental health, how long until you snap out of frustration towards where your life was heading. As a writer, you don't have a schedule until you make one. A fact, I'm still trying to grasp. Better part of the year was spent juggling braces, boxes and bad reviews on each submission I made. The positives are that I know I can't do academic writing to save my life, be in academia and teach or do anything else and also, I'll have better teeth very soon.

Soon, being that moment in time that'll arrive in moments from now. It's like 2008 to '09 turn. You know, sitting in your room, life will be changed. You won't know for better or for worse but you'll no longer be doing the same things as you were doing for a long time in your life. I sound positively melodramatic and downright idiotic. But the fact of the matter is that I won't be doing what I'm doing for long, trying to understand the way of life and things as a writer in making, as a potential researcher and maybe, even as an academic. I might even be jobless and do nothing at all next year, but it's a hopeful idea to wait for, to roll.

The choice remains between hustlin' and sleeping. It's time to move and make a call. Six months of sitting in the hood of a wannabe academic until we know where the winds will blow.

Oh, and if you see me looking out to enrol myself for another degree in the next seven or eight months, slap me hard. You've the permission. 

Discovered this gem in my e-notes today. Dated 12 October, 2015.

"ten alternative researches I could pursue instead of pursuing the current research:

1. How to conduct a research in 2015- with all your subjects scattered across mediums.
2. Alternative distraction: When you’re researching on the internet and don’t know where to look besides your subjects.
3. Why are my research subjects so elusive and other sad stories.
4. Why internet is the greatest and the worst invention of the last two decades.
5. Why you should write even when you’re dying. 
6. Obsessively watching YouTube videos without break: How not to research
7. I’m not becoming a doctor and other myths concerning my academic life.
8. Dating is a bad idea: When all your dates insist on visiting you at the university, you should call it quits. From the dates.
9. When all your peers are earning more working in the field you’re researching.
10. How to research like a boss when you’ve not been given a stipdend since Summer and are jobless. (Research like a boss: Version No Money A cash strapped summer can teach you all the hacks and innovations of pursuing research without being receiving your stipend)"

Disgruntled. Aggressive. Potentially hot (erotic writer positions open?). I've been told I'm being severely 'hot' and super aggressive. I believe it's PMS and cold (not the 'hot' bit, but definitely the aggression). However, 'hot' requires explanation and I believe it's hyper -ness that everyone's taking up as 'hot'. Fuckers. What do they know about hyper anyway? I've been nicotine free, minus any drag, cigarette- any trace of it on me for 365 days and you have to give this to me. It's a real big deal to pull this off if you're in my shoes- I have been quite broke and have no real day job to keep me busy. I hit the books and tap my laptop and that's that. Bound to bring you cravings at unbelievable hours but again, whatever. It was easy, just say no and don't look in the direction when someone offers you a smoke. Claim it's not your brand, not your lighter brand or feign hatred for the person you're in the company of. First year is doable, it's always the next one which is harder. There's always someone who makes you want to choke to death and I'm afraid we're hitting the 'new' year in about a fortnight. Meanwhile, I'm planning to chuck alcohol as well, so I'm still more concerned about smoking than drinking. Alcohol's far easier in comparison. You can always hold on to a glass of water, and be happy. There's really no replacement for that momentary satisfaction you suck when you smoke yourself knowing it's harming you in ways your genes will pay and your grandkids, if any, will inherit those harmful genes.

Yes, I'm fucking hyper, sick and even aggressive. I don't see making sense but neither does this cold I've. Who catches cold with three whiskeys on the rocks? I blame my genes more than immunity for all this. Are genes and immunity interconnected? Don't know, certainly not looking up. Okay, I should feign interest and leave a nice post. I feel like I'm going to die of common cold- and it'd be a real shame if I did so. Like, what would people talk? "She died after suffering from common cold." Not even special cold or some ridiculously weird named cough problem (I believe it's whooping, fuckers, what a funny name for cough). Common fucking cold. I'd kill myself if I had to face the embarrassment of dying of common cold. Yeah, I'd kill my ghost or commit suicide as a fucking ghoul, if there's a chance of me returning as one, after having died of common cold. Why does no one ever use the term 'killing my ghoul' like a real solid example of disgust? It's a great expression. We should make 'killing my ghoul' a real expression in everyday conversation, for example, "I ate so much, I killed myself and my ghoul."

I'm bringing 2009 back with Lady Gaga. Listening to Poker Face and really thinking what's with me and gay men. The only kind of men who do things to me are gay men and goddamn, I love them; but I think I need to break this pattern. I also believe what I've written sounds extremely wrong and I'm making no attempt to fix it. Well, fuck that. Common cold is taking my life. Who cares about what people think. Anyway, stating that the guys are gay, I'm straight and single (apparently, we call ourselves heteronormative single or some such, because 2015-'16 demands politically correct). I really miss 2009. It was such a fun year, I was young, good skin, straight out of one institute to the other, I'd met some fantastic people and the Christmas party that year was a boozy affair. It was a really, really good year. You know? Where you don't know too many people and you meet your core, A-circle and you realize how happy things can make you, things like chocolate cake slice from Café and Bhelpuri outside college building. You don't need complicated stuff like new friends, internship friends, their friends, Masters friends, men, more men, new men, men you've danced with in different cities, men you've danced with when you're sober- goddamn I'm sounding like a player when in reality I can't even play Monopoly well, fuck playing myself or guys or whatever. I really just want someone to invent a cure for common cold cause this shit sucks dead monkey balls and I can't deal with this.



Also, realized I met Lady Gaga four years ago, sometime around today and it seems like yesterday cause I still wear that outfit that I was wearing when I went to see her, and it's not even great or anything. Only that boyfriend blazer is the shite, but the rest of it is like mediocre best. I wish I could see her now. I'd totally get my Harajuku game on, back then I was earl-grey hating on winter and trying to keep it Chinese chic meets Polish bold. I should stop. 

I once attended Sivamani live in concert. It was supposedly a really big deal, back in the day. I'm pretty sure that if you get to attend something of the sort today, it'll not be that big a deal. But, we're talking of the early noughties and live music at corporate parties wasn't a regular deal.

Throughout the event, I covered my ears with my hands. Not for a minute did I let the shielding of my palm come off my ears. I was standing in front of the amplifiers and on the stage right, classic rookie mistake (of being so close to the stage and the speakers). I remember getting home and being awfully pissed about the colossal waste of tv viewing time and stupid office party and live music. The only redeeming factor had been Pao-Bhaji from some part of old Delhi. On a side note, whoever planned that corporate party needs/needed a lesson or two in event management.

Recently, a friend recited an ordeal of a corporate show his band played at, and how this toddler hit the band with used tissue papers and empty bottles. Amongst other things, the audience was extremely rough to these guys. He was agitated and naturally bummed about the situation.

I'd really be hating on the crowd if I were in the band, but back in the day I remember being one of them (the kid) and being oh-so agitated by being forced to attend some prodigy drummer's live show. You don't really know what's happening but all you want is to be at home, using the landline and eating Maggi or some other unhealthy stuff. I can't say the same for the adults (because really, I suck as an adult) but as a kid, I'd be embarrassed as hell if I were to throw stuff at people during their performance. Also, there's no excuse for badly behaved children but in hindsight, a kid holding her ears would be as bad as someone throwing stuff at them. No?



What goes around, comes back around then? I did come back around and look me. YouTube-ing Rahman and noughties feels at 3:21 am.

Oh, and here's a noughties throwback with Sivamani. I wish I had A R Rahman's hair. (also musical ability but hair, more).

I find it a wee bit ironic and all parts indicative of where my life is headed. Not to sound ungrateful, or any part bitter but while a colleague's essay appeared in an International journal today, I got published on a friend's blog.

She wrote about the lack of science fiction in Bengali Cinema (if you're someone who's read her piece, please tell me if it's that) and well, I wrote about this Punjabi digestive drink called Kaanji. Very different readership and purposes. Two different platforms and entirely different writing style. However, I find it amusing that it describes us both so well.

Meanwhile, I'll try keeping a straight face knowing that I'm nowhere close to doing anything groundbreaking in academia with what I want to talk about and that the train to work in lifestyle writing left approximately two years ago.