Shobita, who was unperturbed by news of a stalker, was also suitably scared after meeting the brat. She was caressing a lau with three spoons stuck savagely into it.
Yes, I do lock my door every night and hang garlic around my bed.

St. Ubro has his moments, molested as he is. Alas you had to be there to see him enact "mera pau bhari ho gaya" from a past dumb charade session and swaer like a Punjabi, which involved a lot of "bh"s and spitting...and o the pelvic thrusting, despite the painful absence of the main ingredient.

When the left part of your butt wiggles independently.
When you are agravatingly aware of your breasts and want to fling them out of the way, like untidy ends of a muffler.
When objects in your sprawl-area are nuked.
When you are caught in compromising positions with the bed, the fridge, the floor.
When a successfully lit fag induces misty eyes.
When you instinctively twist yourself pretzel-like when Hypnos comes calling,
Sleep sweet child and know that Bacchus Da loves you.

They want me to do another cover *blanks out in blind panic*

"It could happen to you, like it happened to me,
There is no immunity, no gurantee"

No I am not talking about laab, or laau or love. This is about the complete and total identification with the characters in the book you read, the film you see. A few weeks ago I was a gay, confused charming fella in Britain, today I'm Fanny Price - dirty, starving and charmless in Paris hanging dead from a string of rope.
It's not a good feeling being depressed by an external stimuli and I have done it to myself countless times.
I remember walking out of 'The Thomas Crown Affair' screening, feeling every bit as sexy, smart and fruity (in a lush sort of way) as Rene Russo. Then my heel broke and I hobbled to the nearest mochi but that's besides the point. My point is, am I essentially without a personality then, since I take on alter egos so quickly.
I get children flinging themselves off furniture because they KNOW they'll fly, just like superwoman, but this? At the age of 23?
Very pissing off.

Things people have said last week:
* Beat chillo
* Gand e angul dukhie boshe thake
* Coca Cola is so chunt no?
* I am on a sticky wicket
* Boisterous is not sexy, is it?
* So ganga is always this virginal, fair aishwarya, while yamuna stands on the side, a little neglected, like a dusky Sushmita Sen
And the prize goes to this exchange:
A: Why didn't your parents call me too?
Me: You WANTED to be called at 2 am?
A: Yes and have fluttery feelings of concern
Me: Feeling left out?
A: Yup.
(Hysterical giggling on both sides of the phone)

Alanis Morissette is unfortunately my back up.
When the low point hits the solar plex
All I can do is hear her half-raving voice, full volume.
The absolute rage in her voice is pure balm.

That is me, Monday morning when they realise I still haven't proceeded beyond the first 1000 blasted words of the cover story. Procastinator thy name is smita. What have I been doing since 3 in the afternoon then you say? Lets see blogged, read blogs, mailed my sister, cropped pictures to put up as my desktop wallpaper, reactivated my Yahoo geocities site, visted every online community I have ever joined, trawled through both my yahoo mail accounts to see what people have written to me since 2002, googled my editor's name and friends who write and generally ran around the office floor saying lalalalala.
Make me write. Make me write for the dear lord in heaven's sake. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ok. all done. You can look now.

S is a very nice woman. She is. She makes allu posto, opens rum bottles with nail cutters AND has red curtains. I mean really, what else do you want? But there is a thorn between us now. And its a pack of Will's Silk Cuts.
But I get ahead of myself. A little backtracking will help. I am broke and thus it falls on her to buy the pack of smokes. She goes for the aforementioned Silk Cuts. I pout and demand my regular Gold Flakes instead. She pats me with the air of the very wise and says, "this has got a white filter."
I am unimpressed.
"The tobacco smells better."
I am sold. Anything that smells better does it for me in most instances. So here I am, being unfaithful to my blonde originals, sucking at their pale cousins instead. These pathetic, sissy excuses for cigarettes that do their tribe an injustice by even existing.
S shall pay ofcourse. Someday I shall switch the allu in her posto with kochu.

Cover Story Massacre

This is how all good stories begin, no? A day dawned when Smita’s almost still born, refusing to kick, cover story idea suddenly jerked back to life.
Tiny tendrils of information that confirmed the hotness of the idea snaked in and zapped The Powers That Be. “We must, we must, we must/ before the story does rust/ In words do fetter/ The quicker the better/ without too much of a fuss.”
They comandeth, I followeth. Since the deadline was now fixed firmly and unassailably "for next week," it was used like Mowgli's thaba. Charming but deadly emails were sent out asking for inputs or else. They came. There was mad scramble for pictures and much hand wringing, begging on bended knees was done in person and on phone. They came. It was all coming together in one blindingly beautiful blaze of doingness.
Then My Specs Broke. I get contact lenses. Then My Story Is Swept Off Cover. I end day by drinking massive amount of rum. The End. The End.

there is in this thriving metrapolis a woman who shares my taste in men. tender with onions, lightly fried.
But on every other sphere, we differ completely. And if I throw away the fig leaf of modesty, (there...off it flutters) I feel snottily superior.
The sole similarity disturbs me however. Why? because I took to heart what Francisco D'Anconia (the only Rand character I liked) said. Something to the effect that the person you love is a reflection of your deepest, most secret self.
In short, you might scream from the rooftops that you hate metrosexual men and secretly be drawn to clean nails and freshly scrubbed skin.
So I wither at the thought, peel away, froth at the mouth...you get the idea...of being attracted to the same men she is.
P.S: I shall pay for this post. I shall fall irreversibly in love with someone blatantly unsuitable. Given the time I spend in autos, it will probably be a rickshawala.

Curiously all ex-es are reduced to initials. They all become "those who cannot be named," for fear of invoking the Memory bogeyman. Till now I have collected A and G. Now I just need an H to succinctly describe smug present self's revulsion towards pitiable former self's choices...AGH!

The brat (refer to post below) actually deserves special mention. Think of The Hulk with a very dark complexion, reduce him to around three feet and change his gender and you come close to imagining the monstrosity.

first, the essentials. I am now installed in "my own place" that is essentially one of those horribly de classe back-portion-of the-house joints that abound in CR Park.
i've been concretely hankering after this since september 04 and dreaming of it since I was 15 (or was it 13? the amoebic years are so hard to keep track of) when I drew a fully functional one room flat on graph paper.
However there are practicalities. By and by I realise how inconvenient it is to shit in a bathroom without a sink, wash dishes in kitchen with a sink but without running water and smile charmingly at the brat of the household who steals my phone when my back is turned.
On the upside I have peace, no guilt-wrenching moments, and time to read without interruptions to "discuss my day." Thus I have swimingly progressed though 'Paperweight,'a collection of essays, by Stephen Fry, which compares favourably to 'Moab Is My Washpot,' his frankly frank autobiography. Why? Because while I appreciate the fact that it is Fry's demons that inspire his best writing (The Liar), I'd rather not have front row seats to watch him mucking about with them. I am content with the shawdowy twin I meet in his fiction that draws the ever-so-slight veil over his vulnerabilities, his inadequacies and his guilt for being the archtypal outsider on the inside.

According to the site http://www.blogshares.com/, my blog is worth much money. $1000 to be precise. despite the initial oooooh reaction, I am kind of peeved about anonymous people selling shares of my blog — which no one is buying. So to quote higgins, "Hah!" to them.
PS: what do u know...the site trades in 'fictional blog shares.' *feeling a bit stupid about earlier outrage.*

NOW i realise that no one can post comments on this blog. and here i was feeling all sorry for myself.

So female monkeys indulge in prostitution and male monkeys 'pay' to see female monkey bottoms...no seriously, they do....Male rhesus monkeys take a cut in their fruit juice allowances to view computer screen images of either a female monkey's posterior or a socially dominant monkey. And the two researchers who gobbled up large sums of grant money to prove this is Robert Deaner and Michael Platt of Duke University, North Carolina. Says Platt, "Now we are preparing to do it with females.We may find they have similar attitudes but that is not really the perception we have of human females." Thank you boys.

This weekend was divided between a wedding and a funeral. Both in families connected by the comraderie of our site-days in haldia, pune and mumbai. These were my father's closest friends and the bond of adda sessions, fish-buying adventures and collective parenthood still exists. Between them they have seen two bypass surgeries, two deaths, career shifts, weddings and the birth of grandchildren. Their friendship is from an older, simpler world where bonds were forged with more tensile matter -- not based on cleverness, one liners or sozzled moments of illusory companionship. But then they were men and women. Not children playing at being adults like us.

Shobita just introduced me to the smutty new world of...
.

there is a downside to bunking office...the weekend looses its charm. You don't have that exhilarating, stretchy moment on friday contemplating two days of leisure.

I have been a very sick puppy these last few days. And since I am so rarely sick, I don't often have the pleasure of listing every ache, pain and secretion in gross detail. So here goes. My right eye turned bright red. It was like the socket of doom which watched every move you made and winked leeringly. For added effect I lay in bed, covering everything up with a blanket except the EYE which needless to say freaked Ma out. In addition I was coughing up green slimy goo every 5 minutes which I dutifully collected in a rolled up handkerchiefs and tissues. meh heh heh. And then there was the don corleone's voice in which I demanded
1) Chicken soup (maggi soup would do, I am not unreasonable)
2) Hot chocolate (Milk - 3/4ths of large Cup, Chocolate powder - 4 heaped tablespoons)
3) Cha, Cha and more cha
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday, I bunked office again and went to watch Finding Neverland with anubha who insisted on doing the most distracting things like diverting her boss's calls to my phone. Teeth grinding done softly in the dark interjected with TB coughs and anubha saying "You are dying, aren't you?"
Despite all this found film itself to be very sweet and unhurried. Subtle links between Barrie's adventures with the Davies family and the story of Peter Pan. Like Sylvia saying "Their father would have never let a dog into the house. He would've have had it tied up in the yard."
Best lines.
Peter: "But I'm not Peter Pan, he is." pointing to Barrie.
Barrie, pointing to the actor playing the nanny-dog "Can he have teeth?"
Producer (Dustin Hoffman)": He can have mine.
Hum...then bundled anubha off to office and went to CR Park to hug Shraddha in person for joining the ranks of 'The Employed.' Much tea-drinking, fish fry eating and general gaffing about till 8 pm which is when I went home to mother, hot water gurgling and more cha.
Being sick is very good for the soul I realise. Very happy.

i fortell great things for this blog once i get my laptop. every night with mom snoring next to me i am assailed by brilliant observations. my brain goes on an overdrive and i fly. and then morning comes and the inevitable zombie like state descends. it continues till around 7 in evening. I am guessing that is how long it takes for the thyroxin to kick in. Thus when i am enconsed in room with laptop at night in march with an internet connection I hope for great things. Stop laughing. Its rude.

With a sinking heart, she realised she had done it again. Opened her big, fat virtual mouth again she had.
"Maybe he doesn't love you."
The Empathy alert sounded and whined woefully. Bite tongue and remember Why She Was There.
To Be Unquestioningly Receptive. Check. Kick ass as a Healer Idealist. Check. Lose Weight? Tee Hee Hee.
She sighed. Inner voices have a horrible sense of humour. She snapped the connection and was reported logged off.
Will you still love me when I'm 64?
Drift as people plugged in and people plugged out. Someone would need her again. Unquestioningly receptive as she was.

Jesus knows you have been naughty and ....

http://www.bettybowers.com/payback.html

so what do i have to say about the tsunami. Horrifyingly little. i reacted as usual with clinical detachment. I switched channels expressly to avoid the images. I was not compelled to pack my bags and go to nagapattinam or start blogs. Instead I danced around the bonfire on the 31st and forgot to feel the guilt of an urban, well-off citizen in the face of an unimaginable disaster somewhere else, far away. Unforgivably I am not sad.