To tell you the truth, I do not know if I am fit to write all this in the state I am in. I have not slept in 23 hours and my eyes feel like they will pop out any moment. But this I can't resist. I know this is not really my forte. I do not know if I do emotions well. My one display of true emotions got turned down as Illogical Psychological Reaction. So there!
But today after we were coming back from Milonda's canteen at JU, I was lagging behind Peep, watching her butt sway slightly, enticingly as she moved like a dancer, and Fish was giving me little, concerned looks behind her back that made her eyes glow in the dusky lamplight... I do not know how often have I seen a scene more beautiful, the sky darkened to an iridescent shade of near-midnight blue, transluscently the dusk fell all around us and I never wanted that moment to end, just stand there and have meaningless chit-chat with the two of them and let the moment continue. But that moment reality called, and I was on the bus to my way home, and on the way I was thinking of the way our farewell in Xavier's went where there were long boring speeches interspersed by Saru pulling on his tie because he was getting sweaty and hot, and Anni's yawns that were never-ending, and Sabby wanting to go to the loo and T S clicking photos. Andro was the rock, sitting beside me and letting me play snake in her cell-phone.
Afterwards we had gone to the little coffee bar where over Nestea and hideously sugarless coffee Anni had suddenly asked, "Achha what do you think about me?" to everyone else. It led to a long discussion about how everyone felt about everyone else and in the end nothing was resolved or said really, just a list of what we liked/did not like about everyone else in the gang was established.
And then there was the time in my school when we were given some glitter powder and asked to sprinkle it over someone else's head and confess whatever we wanted to. I remember wanting to use it on the crush I had, only to find someone else getting there first and being readily accepted. I stood back and let the couple move away, then charged on the Professor whose classes I hated because I was a perpetual mathophobic and he was the worst of the lot....
And then on Friday, I did not quite understand the impact of leaving JU. It was only after I came home and was preparing to go out, I received the full impact of it, and I was suddenly afraid. I hated feeling lost, and it was exactly what I was feeling.
But then, I have regretted my life sometimes, and loved it in moments. And today I was being jerked and thrown virtually everywhere on the bus, and finally I hung on to the window ledge and looked back and wanted to tell all those people whom I have met in JUDE and around JU exactly what they were to me... but I failed to tell them.
I wanted to tell Fish that I would miss her because she is one of the people I care about in JU.... but I forgot.
I wanted to tell Kaichu that I love her, but I was too afraid.
I wanted to tell Rimi to be a bit more responsible in real life, but I wondered if my advice would be welcome or not.
I wanted to tell Mou that people come in all shapes and sizes, and are loved for it. And she too shall be... but she was not there.
I wanted to tell Bimbo that she was the most beautiful little thing in JUDE I have had my pleasure of meeting, but she slipped away.
I wanted to tell Peep that she will always bounce back because thats the way she is... but I was sort of dazzled by her splendour.
And I wanted to tell my agesake to not impart wisdom where it was not required, but I realized that the effort would be too great... and it would not be appreciated at all!
All this, and more. Sometimes, I wonder why I do these things... tell people. But then, I do. I have seen that putting things out in the open tend to make them lose all their importance.
April 16, 2007
Sitting here in front of the computer typing down endless lines of my never-ending term paper is hell. I hate it. Thats why sometimes I like typing meaningless lines just to make it better.
I got a few saved.
Heroic and-tic-lime-axe. (Macbeth)
More for gits, hmm? (Samson Agonistes)
Eminem and unconscious souls of Eliot perhaps shall rule. (The Autobiographical elements in Rap term paper)
Growing up, I had nose-picking moments. (Araby - James Joyce)
Ewes might not have udders. Who is to know? (erm, King Lear)
Fandays should be made. ( Grateful Dead presentation )
Porlock and Kubla are on simultaneous planes. (No prizes for guessing)
Quite western frontiers are never true. (Strangely, this is the English Patient )
Ah well... on the other hand, Mortification is the dish of the day. In fact it has been the dish for the last three days.
I got a few saved.
Heroic and-tic-lime-axe. (Macbeth)
More for gits, hmm? (Samson Agonistes)
Eminem and unconscious souls of Eliot perhaps shall rule. (The Autobiographical elements in Rap term paper)
Growing up, I had nose-picking moments. (Araby - James Joyce)
Ewes might not have udders. Who is to know? (erm, King Lear)
Fandays should be made. ( Grateful Dead presentation )
Porlock and Kubla are on simultaneous planes. (No prizes for guessing)
Quite western frontiers are never true. (Strangely, this is the English Patient )
Ah well... on the other hand, Mortification is the dish of the day. In fact it has been the dish for the last three days.
March 31, 2007
Another Day....
Just when Panu was thinking about giving up on life, and love and everything in between, I found out that there is more to life than the occasional grief... you know. And it passes pretty soon, leaving a void that I had to fill up.
So there I was shouting at the top of my lungs : "Whose Kubla Ij It?" and smearing chocolate cake on general unsuspecting (and suspecting and appreciating a choco-facial) public who were equally maenadian in their gestures, and among the sound and the fury, I walked off to see 300.
I dont care what other people says, I loved it. It was the beauty of savagery in motion, and I liked every bit of it. Panu thought it was perhaps a tad too on the scary side, but it was all right until the hunky guy she liked lost his head (literally).
Home, heart filled with joy at the sight of my cousin, my Guru... I lay my head on her lap and inhaled the smoke-powdery sari and mild sweat flavour she wore on her. She is so cool and untouched, poised and benign. My first love, my first protector against the ministers of darkness.
And the night brought on something new. Panu found on her message box a friend request at orkut. What was interesting was, this person was NOT interested in scrapping. When asked, he gave the following reasons:
U have a point there - about the scrap heap of this life being already too littered!! Though never thought about it from quite that perspective. (But, my objection to the scrapbook is sort of related to it.) Obviously, it pays to interact with perceptive people! Well, I have a three-fold distaste for the scrapbook.First : The scrapbook is accessible to everyone and there is no privacy. Somehow, I am not comfortable about some third party( or parties - to make it worse) being a privy to what is essentially private communication - however innocuous - between two persons. (When I say 'I am not comfortable....', I 'd rather like to share a personal secret with u; I am more with the British in the penchant for understatement!) Second : I find the other connotations of scrap rather disturbing. Scrap as a verb is really abominable; I just can't think of scrapping anyone !! Scrap is not a word of choice for me here. And so .... I don't send scraps and I don't scrap anyone! (yea, it takes all sorts to make the world - particularly some quaint types!) Third : I find most entries in most scraps just that - a heap of scrap! And, I prefer more august company. (Pardon me if I sound too bloody egoistic!)
At this point, one must pause and think. And wonder.
Okk and I found a friend. One who loves music as much as I do, If not more.
So there I was shouting at the top of my lungs : "Whose Kubla Ij It?" and smearing chocolate cake on general unsuspecting (and suspecting and appreciating a choco-facial) public who were equally maenadian in their gestures, and among the sound and the fury, I walked off to see 300.
I dont care what other people says, I loved it. It was the beauty of savagery in motion, and I liked every bit of it. Panu thought it was perhaps a tad too on the scary side, but it was all right until the hunky guy she liked lost his head (literally).
Home, heart filled with joy at the sight of my cousin, my Guru... I lay my head on her lap and inhaled the smoke-powdery sari and mild sweat flavour she wore on her. She is so cool and untouched, poised and benign. My first love, my first protector against the ministers of darkness.
And the night brought on something new. Panu found on her message box a friend request at orkut. What was interesting was, this person was NOT interested in scrapping. When asked, he gave the following reasons:
U have a point there - about the scrap heap of this life being already too littered!! Though never thought about it from quite that perspective. (But, my objection to the scrapbook is sort of related to it.) Obviously, it pays to interact with perceptive people! Well, I have a three-fold distaste for the scrapbook.First : The scrapbook is accessible to everyone and there is no privacy. Somehow, I am not comfortable about some third party( or parties - to make it worse) being a privy to what is essentially private communication - however innocuous - between two persons. (When I say 'I am not comfortable....', I 'd rather like to share a personal secret with u; I am more with the British in the penchant for understatement!) Second : I find the other connotations of scrap rather disturbing. Scrap as a verb is really abominable; I just can't think of scrapping anyone !! Scrap is not a word of choice for me here. And so .... I don't send scraps and I don't scrap anyone! (yea, it takes all sorts to make the world - particularly some quaint types!) Third : I find most entries in most scraps just that - a heap of scrap! And, I prefer more august company. (Pardon me if I sound too bloody egoistic!)
At this point, one must pause and think. And wonder.
Okk and I found a friend. One who loves music as much as I do, If not more.
March 19, 2007
Afterlove
He came to her in the middle of the night when she least expected.
And then the sky darkened, and rain fell, and they twisted in the middle of the big bed, clawing and fighting with each other, hurting each other and marvelling at the extent they could hurt if they really tried. They tore off their clothes, they did not care what went first, as long as they did. And then they were pushing each other, straining and restraining to prolong the contact, as if this was the last time they would. And he entered her and they shook and trembled at the intensity and friction... and then the short climb to ecstasy began, but it was more than that, it was a beginning and an end, and she could not stop her tears as he buried his face against her neck and trembles with the bliss and the joy. She mouthed the three words over and over and over again as he poured inside her the fruits of their passion, her legs spread obscenely wide in acceptance.
And then all stilled and she could feel the cold air hit her wet ears. She was so tired. So was he. They fell asleep. locked in the embrace as primitive as life itself, and when the morning came, he was gone.
* * *
Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was gone.... there was just an emptiness beside her, a place was barren where her heart had placed him. It was strangely numb------ this feeling of loss. She could not really believe it was there at first, but then it hit her ------------- the cold. It struck her smack in the chest and she gasped pitifully and scoured her head to dredge up the thought of what to do next.
She was so tired.... she did not even know if she could open her eyes and face the day again. She just wanted to shut out the world and all and forget herself in sleep.
But at that moment, betrayal struck. Sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, but the cold that had spread inside her refused her the warm safety of slumber. It denied her the only escape she would have had. She stared at the ceiling and counted away the whirling time, as the morning passed to day and moved towards the afternoon, and she twisted her fingers and contemplated her loss. Soon she began to shake silently, that turned into a gentle sway------ to and fro----- to and fro------ as she came apart in her knowledge.
He was gone.
Gone.
GONE.
For Ever.
For Life.
He was not going to come back.
Ever.
And the tears did not fall. What fell so easily last night at the beauty did not fall in grief. She started to whimper but the tears did not fall. Soon she realized that there were no moisture seeping from her eyes.
It enraged her. It made her so angry that she began to scream ------ short, staccatto bursts erupted from her throat that changed quickly into high-pitched wails and shrieks of disbelief and denial.
Where were the tears? Why could she not cry? Why? Why why why?
She clutched the pillow and bunched it against her chest, bringing her knees up together as she lay on her side, her long hair spread on the pillow, her eyes widely open. She breathed rapidly, in short gulps she inhaled and released the air just as quickly. She was bewildered and angry. Where had all the tears gone? Why could she not cry it out? What was wrong?
And she heard the lady downstairs play on her ancient cassette player something familiar. Something that she had once listened to as a child-------- when her parents used to look at one another with a smile on their face, but refused to share the joke--------- and the shadows fell across the room from the window, making patterns on the tiles as the sun began to set.
"Maine poochha chaand se,
Ke dekha hai kahin
Mere Yaar sa Haseen.
Chaand ne kaha,
Chandni ki kasam,
Nahin, nahin, nahin.
The room was a mess. The books had fallen from her bed, clothes were randomly spilled in colourful puddles on the floor, dust had settled on her shelves, and an empty cup graced the nightstand. She got up, rubbed her eyes with the back of her left palm and yawned. Then she began to pick up the clothes and fold them into a neat pile. The song went on outside. She pushed aside the falling fringes of her hair as she worked, and slowly began to hum the tune.
And then the sky darkened, and rain fell, and they twisted in the middle of the big bed, clawing and fighting with each other, hurting each other and marvelling at the extent they could hurt if they really tried. They tore off their clothes, they did not care what went first, as long as they did. And then they were pushing each other, straining and restraining to prolong the contact, as if this was the last time they would. And he entered her and they shook and trembled at the intensity and friction... and then the short climb to ecstasy began, but it was more than that, it was a beginning and an end, and she could not stop her tears as he buried his face against her neck and trembles with the bliss and the joy. She mouthed the three words over and over and over again as he poured inside her the fruits of their passion, her legs spread obscenely wide in acceptance.
And then all stilled and she could feel the cold air hit her wet ears. She was so tired. So was he. They fell asleep. locked in the embrace as primitive as life itself, and when the morning came, he was gone.
* * *
Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was gone.... there was just an emptiness beside her, a place was barren where her heart had placed him. It was strangely numb------ this feeling of loss. She could not really believe it was there at first, but then it hit her ------------- the cold. It struck her smack in the chest and she gasped pitifully and scoured her head to dredge up the thought of what to do next.
She was so tired.... she did not even know if she could open her eyes and face the day again. She just wanted to shut out the world and all and forget herself in sleep.
But at that moment, betrayal struck. Sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, but the cold that had spread inside her refused her the warm safety of slumber. It denied her the only escape she would have had. She stared at the ceiling and counted away the whirling time, as the morning passed to day and moved towards the afternoon, and she twisted her fingers and contemplated her loss. Soon she began to shake silently, that turned into a gentle sway------ to and fro----- to and fro------ as she came apart in her knowledge.
He was gone.
Gone.
GONE.
For Ever.
For Life.
He was not going to come back.
Ever.
And the tears did not fall. What fell so easily last night at the beauty did not fall in grief. She started to whimper but the tears did not fall. Soon she realized that there were no moisture seeping from her eyes.
It enraged her. It made her so angry that she began to scream ------ short, staccatto bursts erupted from her throat that changed quickly into high-pitched wails and shrieks of disbelief and denial.
Where were the tears? Why could she not cry? Why? Why why why?
She clutched the pillow and bunched it against her chest, bringing her knees up together as she lay on her side, her long hair spread on the pillow, her eyes widely open. She breathed rapidly, in short gulps she inhaled and released the air just as quickly. She was bewildered and angry. Where had all the tears gone? Why could she not cry it out? What was wrong?
And she heard the lady downstairs play on her ancient cassette player something familiar. Something that she had once listened to as a child-------- when her parents used to look at one another with a smile on their face, but refused to share the joke--------- and the shadows fell across the room from the window, making patterns on the tiles as the sun began to set.
"Maine poochha chaand se,
Ke dekha hai kahin
Mere Yaar sa Haseen.
Chaand ne kaha,
Chandni ki kasam,
Nahin, nahin, nahin.
The room was a mess. The books had fallen from her bed, clothes were randomly spilled in colourful puddles on the floor, dust had settled on her shelves, and an empty cup graced the nightstand. She got up, rubbed her eyes with the back of her left palm and yawned. Then she began to pick up the clothes and fold them into a neat pile. The song went on outside. She pushed aside the falling fringes of her hair as she worked, and slowly began to hum the tune.
March 17, 2007
And then....
Gloop. Gloop.
The world has folded upon itself. And it makes a sound something like this.
I took it from Equal Rites. Pratchett is the Saviour.
He really is.
The world has folded upon itself. And it makes a sound something like this.
I took it from Equal Rites. Pratchett is the Saviour.
He really is.
March 13, 2007
Of Monos and Men.....
Read this. PLEASE. * After Monday.*
I ask those people who have read the post I have been pointing at with bold types, when you go home and face yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and sigh a little sigh that thank God I was not involved directly then you feel that the world is a selfish place.
And this man takes the cake around JUDE. Thanks to him, JUDE shall always be accompanied in my memories as a place sullied by his presence.
I shall not forget my professors.... who have been staunchly supporting our cause.
Kudos to Babelfish, Teleute, Somnath, Aritra for sticking up for those who are in the mess.
This sounds embarrassingly like a thank-you note, but I shall not continue in this area because I feel that personal involvement is equal to being biased. And I am personally involved in this.
I ask those people who have read the post I have been pointing at with bold types, when you go home and face yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and sigh a little sigh that thank God I was not involved directly then you feel that the world is a selfish place.
And this man takes the cake around JUDE. Thanks to him, JUDE shall always be accompanied in my memories as a place sullied by his presence.
I shall not forget my professors.... who have been staunchly supporting our cause.
Kudos to Babelfish, Teleute, Somnath, Aritra for sticking up for those who are in the mess.
This sounds embarrassingly like a thank-you note, but I shall not continue in this area because I feel that personal involvement is equal to being biased. And I am personally involved in this.
March 02, 2007
leaving on a freaking train....
which is at 10 tonight.
Miss you already Kolkata.
Havent left it though.
I hate best friends getting married. I will miss my first best friend. I dont care even if people think we rule the greengrocer's shops.
I dont wanna see her hitched. I DONT!!!!
Miss you already Kolkata.
Havent left it though.
I hate best friends getting married. I will miss my first best friend. I dont care even if people think we rule the greengrocer's shops.
I dont wanna see her hitched. I DONT!!!!
February 26, 2007
26th February. Seven days to Best Friend Getting Hitched.
So there I was, twirling my pen idly and wondering what the hell was this exam for and why was I such an idiot so as to give it? Sitting for it made me realize that I knew nothing of such matters as what is the first "rockumentary"... and stuff like that.
Friggit.
Ah on the other hand.
Have freaked out last night with buddies and generally have been musifucked till the head groaned in protest.
Have had Flury's er Black forest Cake after cocking a snoot to my diet chart, with the chant "50 crunches" rolling around my befuddled head.
Have effectively lost my voice for the umpteenth time due to dust allergy in book fair, because Panu had to go and look at a book called "Sex tips for Straight women from a gay man". ENLIGHTENING. Very.
Have bought four major Tennessee Williams novel for seventy rupees. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, A Streetcar Named Desire and Sweet Bird of Youth has the stills from the film.
Bought my laptop. Own money, apunka pride rules.
Have got best friend her complete wedding cosmetics set. Woman is jumping with joy... because of a promise for a male stripper on her bachelorette party. I NEED a Stripper. Male. Someone who can carry off Black Leather.
Have also got her a brand new peach lace teddy. Future Hubby's expression is what I want to Find Out.
Lots of things.
I Am making lists.
Oh Oh Oh, and have finally decided to get a life. ASAP.
Update: Asked Deep and Iru about the Stripper bit. Both declined.... quite unpolitely that is. Men. They can be so shy sometimes, I tell you.
Friggit.
Ah on the other hand.
Have freaked out last night with buddies and generally have been musifucked till the head groaned in protest.
Have had Flury's er Black forest Cake after cocking a snoot to my diet chart, with the chant "50 crunches" rolling around my befuddled head.
Have effectively lost my voice for the umpteenth time due to dust allergy in book fair, because Panu had to go and look at a book called "Sex tips for Straight women from a gay man". ENLIGHTENING. Very.
Have bought four major Tennessee Williams novel for seventy rupees. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, A Streetcar Named Desire and Sweet Bird of Youth has the stills from the film.
Bought my laptop. Own money, apunka pride rules.
Have got best friend her complete wedding cosmetics set. Woman is jumping with joy... because of a promise for a male stripper on her bachelorette party. I NEED a Stripper. Male. Someone who can carry off Black Leather.
Have also got her a brand new peach lace teddy. Future Hubby's expression is what I want to Find Out.
Lots of things.
I Am making lists.
Oh Oh Oh, and have finally decided to get a life. ASAP.
Update: Asked Deep and Iru about the Stripper bit. Both declined.... quite unpolitely that is. Men. They can be so shy sometimes, I tell you.
February 19, 2007
Hmm. The season changes with misty murkiness, and Panu realizes that her time in JUDE is almost up. Another three months, and she shall be able to put the words M.A. after her name. And be off to the wider world of nasty, annoying superficiality that awaits her star-struck gaze.
So what’s so new about the world that she has not seen already? Now, now, lets not pretend here. Panu has seen the world. She has seen this little universe she inhabits to the minutest details… and experienced and criticized in her mind, analyzing and putting away the bile that has been stored up within, only to vomit them out here, in this particular post she is writing.
No, strangely enough, this is not a bitch post, as her friend Rimi calls them. Panu cannot bitch about people all that much. She really can’t put people down at the drop of a hat, either. That's because Panu believes in looking into a person’s face and telling him/her exactly whom he/she is messing with.
By the way, to tell the truth, bitching does have its advantages and sometimes Panu does indulge it in a bit, but nothing she cannot repeat in the face of the person concerned.
You know what? Lets make this a funny post, filled with nothing in it. I would like to be superficial. I do believe that it takes a lot of depth to be superficial. But to be nasty and superficial, it takes a lot more.
Panu is becoming famous. People are bitching about her behind her back. Wow!! That's like… super good, cause that means, they somehow feel threatened by Panu’s existence. It means, they consider her to be a challenge, and therefore needs to be put down. Panu would like to say that she feels like Shylock, who had to be sent out of the play for all to be better. Or like Feste in Twelfth Night who became steadily numb as “rain it raineth every day”.
What else? All right. This was not a post in defense of me, or an apology for being me, although this might be called by the backbiters both… This is an acknowledgement of me being me. I am, and therefore I am. And I will be me. No changes. I wont change… not become anorexic because my haute friends thinks I should lose 20 kilos right away, not change my attitude though people might think I am slow and stupid… and yes, basically be exactly the way I am, and remain uncaring and unconcerned, and in general the Mary Poppins attitude I do possess.
P.S. this post was to vent the irritation. I hate losers who have nothing else to do but be nasty to others, however learned they might be. Otherwise, I’m cool.
February 14, 2007
St. Valentine's Day, 2007
In the shadows of broken images
My half-lies become truths
I fight through the valley of darkness
And gain the sordid sense of perfection
That contaminated me. I who am so imperfect,
Unsound, unsung, unheard, must hear
the Voice of those who still live, and wonder
When will my time come?
Its just me. Today, I learnt how to exist
Tomorrow, I just might learn to live.
Just might. But its all in the murky depths,
Where all is lost.
I hope to find it one day, and realize
The glory of this loss, and that fulfillment
Till then, let me lie in peace.
My half-lies become truths
I fight through the valley of darkness
And gain the sordid sense of perfection
That contaminated me. I who am so imperfect,
Unsound, unsung, unheard, must hear
the Voice of those who still live, and wonder
When will my time come?
Its just me. Today, I learnt how to exist
Tomorrow, I just might learn to live.
Just might. But its all in the murky depths,
Where all is lost.
I hope to find it one day, and realize
The glory of this loss, and that fulfillment
Till then, let me lie in peace.
January 31, 2007
The Fare of Intellect
Well, the winter is almost off Kolkata, but the chill left around the middle of December when the first Singur issues came over, followed by the controversy of book fair to be held in Maidan.
I love book fair. When I was 9, my aunt took me to the book fair for the first time, and I was hooked. It was everything I dreamed of and everything I wished for. My only regret was that I did not get enough time to browse through every bookstall.
I go to the book fair every year, without fail. Most of the time I go alone. I enter and get lost in the immense number of people moving in snail’s pace all over. What do I love the most? The books, of course. And yes, I like bumping into a celebrity and utter a half-muffled “sorry” before realizing that “Hallo, This is-------!!”
But this time it was to be shifted. The High Court believes that the book fair will be a great source of pollution, so it is to be shifted somewhere other than the Kolkata Maidan, right at the heart of the city. Yes, that's actually something I support. Despite the fact that I want the Book Fair to be held, I believe that it can be held anywhere… the “Sanskritik Paribesh” (Cultural Environment) is an essence that can be achieved anywhere, given the right attitude.
It is not fair anyway for any fair to be held in the Kolkata Maidan. But for three years our chief minister had literally bullied the law to gain permission for the book fair to be held in Maidan. Why is this?? Because the chief minister does not want to ruin the “culture” of the Bengalis.
What culture?? Is the culture not ruined when Bengali language is compromised in the schoolbooks?? Is the culture not ruined when Bengali filmmakers directly copy and paste Hindi movies, word & action and all?? Is culture not ruined when in the name of protest a farce is played out right at the heart of the city??
I shall not vent my wrath on this issue further. It makes me wonder why do the media make such a big deal out of the shift of the book fair. There has been shifts and changes all the time, and in time, acceptance shall come. To tell the truth, I know that only about 5% of the vast population that streams through the book fair actually come for the books. Most of them give an appearance to –
a. meet celebrities,
b. appear intellectual and well-read,
c. meet and hang out with friends,
d. sample food from the numerous stalls,
e. look with wonder what a huge funny Disneyland type thing is on, without the Disney bit hanging out.
And I love book fair. Yes I do. But this is not the way it should be held. It is becoming an issue of grave political power play and that is where the line should be drawn. I as a book lover would not ever support that.
Now for the other bit. I was watching the debate today after the high court passed the decision, and in the news channel, they were holding a sort of opinion poll. SMS after SMS came in favour of the book fair, and most of them have horrid errors. From the Cultured, Educated Bengalis who are trying to promote book fair in Maidan, here are a few gems:
1. Certainly it must be held in Maidan. We wan our bo ok far. (Ok-ay)
2. This is very humiliating for the books. (It is?)
3. We want proper athurity to juge. On it is not cultural program. It is only buisness (Go tell that to the authority)
4. Great decision. Its high time someone care about envoirnment. (Yep… we care about it too)
5. Congratulations to the high court for such a high decisions (oh, the lofty heights!!)
6. Bai Mela ekhon tarunder prem korar jayga hochhe. [yep. Bai Bai Baby]
7. If no book fair we deprive. Why we deprive? (what an intellectual question. Answers anyone?)
8. Yes kolkata book fare(?) should not be change. Maidan court of book fare. (ummmm………)
9. Maidane bhoy mela hog ager moto. (OOH, I am scared!!)
10. Book fair must must be allowed allowed in Maidan only. (I don’t don’t think so!)
And the winner is:
11. It is a very Sade case this loss of position.
By the way, the book fair is being held. At Yubabharati Krirangan ( Am too lazy to give you the link here.... go look up wikimapia for it) ..... and I am as happy as a lark because its less than 5 minutes from my home. By auto.
I love book fair. When I was 9, my aunt took me to the book fair for the first time, and I was hooked. It was everything I dreamed of and everything I wished for. My only regret was that I did not get enough time to browse through every bookstall.
I go to the book fair every year, without fail. Most of the time I go alone. I enter and get lost in the immense number of people moving in snail’s pace all over. What do I love the most? The books, of course. And yes, I like bumping into a celebrity and utter a half-muffled “sorry” before realizing that “Hallo, This is-------!!”
But this time it was to be shifted. The High Court believes that the book fair will be a great source of pollution, so it is to be shifted somewhere other than the Kolkata Maidan, right at the heart of the city. Yes, that's actually something I support. Despite the fact that I want the Book Fair to be held, I believe that it can be held anywhere… the “Sanskritik Paribesh” (Cultural Environment) is an essence that can be achieved anywhere, given the right attitude.
It is not fair anyway for any fair to be held in the Kolkata Maidan. But for three years our chief minister had literally bullied the law to gain permission for the book fair to be held in Maidan. Why is this?? Because the chief minister does not want to ruin the “culture” of the Bengalis.
What culture?? Is the culture not ruined when Bengali language is compromised in the schoolbooks?? Is the culture not ruined when Bengali filmmakers directly copy and paste Hindi movies, word & action and all?? Is culture not ruined when in the name of protest a farce is played out right at the heart of the city??
I shall not vent my wrath on this issue further. It makes me wonder why do the media make such a big deal out of the shift of the book fair. There has been shifts and changes all the time, and in time, acceptance shall come. To tell the truth, I know that only about 5% of the vast population that streams through the book fair actually come for the books. Most of them give an appearance to –
a. meet celebrities,
b. appear intellectual and well-read,
c. meet and hang out with friends,
d. sample food from the numerous stalls,
e. look with wonder what a huge funny Disneyland type thing is on, without the Disney bit hanging out.
And I love book fair. Yes I do. But this is not the way it should be held. It is becoming an issue of grave political power play and that is where the line should be drawn. I as a book lover would not ever support that.
Now for the other bit. I was watching the debate today after the high court passed the decision, and in the news channel, they were holding a sort of opinion poll. SMS after SMS came in favour of the book fair, and most of them have horrid errors. From the Cultured, Educated Bengalis who are trying to promote book fair in Maidan, here are a few gems:
1. Certainly it must be held in Maidan. We wan our bo ok far. (Ok-ay)
2. This is very humiliating for the books. (It is?)
3. We want proper athurity to juge. On it is not cultural program. It is only buisness (Go tell that to the authority)
4. Great decision. Its high time someone care about envoirnment. (Yep… we care about it too)
5. Congratulations to the high court for such a high decisions (oh, the lofty heights!!)
6. Bai Mela ekhon tarunder prem korar jayga hochhe. [yep. Bai Bai Baby]
7. If no book fair we deprive. Why we deprive? (what an intellectual question. Answers anyone?)
8. Yes kolkata book fare(?) should not be change. Maidan court of book fare. (ummmm………)
9. Maidane bhoy mela hog ager moto. (OOH, I am scared!!)
10. Book fair must must be allowed allowed in Maidan only. (I don’t don’t think so!)
And the winner is:
11. It is a very Sade case this loss of position.
By the way, the book fair is being held. At Yubabharati Krirangan ( Am too lazy to give you the link here.... go look up wikimapia for it) ..... and I am as happy as a lark because its less than 5 minutes from my home. By auto.
January 27, 2007
I think, therefore I Ask
I don’t know why the last few posts have been pathetically, wistfully, gloomy. I think I need to get laid… this is getting way too far. I mean, look at me.
I AM AN ABSOLUTE DISHRAG. I mean, What Am I? A Woman or a Wimp?
I AM A WIMP.
Damn.
This is what I hate. I am a Wimp. A total wimp when it matters. In my life, everyone thinks I am all brave and stuff (Kaichu being one such unfortunate), but I am not. Not really. I am a wimp when the Aunty next seat in BCL raps at me to be quiet, and I don’t turn to her to say, “excuuuuse me Madam, but BCL is not your father’s house, understood?” rather, be content after mouthing a silent “beeyach” to Kamalika (JUDE, UGII)… and a wimp when the auto rickshaw wallah spanks my thighs while “attempting” to start the self-start (fucker) and I discreetly make the indistinct noise, ”Tchah!”. I am a wimp when a damn professor is glaringly incorrect but I refuse to open my mouth to correct him, I am a wimp when I refuse to make a rumpus when the heavy breather behind me presses his arousal against my buttock (I do stamp down hard with my ‘killer’ 4-inch spikes though… asshole!), and I am a wimp when the man who made me a mockery scraps me on orkut and tries to be all sweetness and light, because he needs to keep a clean reputation.
So this new-year, although a bit too late, I have decided not to be a wimp any more. I hereby solemnly swear, no more Miss I-Cant-Speak-Out-Coz-I’m-the-Reincarnation-of-Pollyanna-in-Real-Life.
And I need to ask one question… “Is a hot chick cool or a cool chick hot?” (As asked by SRK in a song promoting KBC)
Just emni.
And er, yes, I know I am basically hopeless and really, no post matches no post in content and action or stuff, but you keep coming back because you like/love/hate me, na? Don’t be indifferent. I hate it. All the time.
*Dhoosh*
I AM AN ABSOLUTE DISHRAG. I mean, What Am I? A Woman or a Wimp?
I AM A WIMP.
Damn.
This is what I hate. I am a Wimp. A total wimp when it matters. In my life, everyone thinks I am all brave and stuff (Kaichu being one such unfortunate), but I am not. Not really. I am a wimp when the Aunty next seat in BCL raps at me to be quiet, and I don’t turn to her to say, “excuuuuse me Madam, but BCL is not your father’s house, understood?” rather, be content after mouthing a silent “beeyach” to Kamalika (JUDE, UGII)… and a wimp when the auto rickshaw wallah spanks my thighs while “attempting” to start the self-start (fucker) and I discreetly make the indistinct noise, ”Tchah!”. I am a wimp when a damn professor is glaringly incorrect but I refuse to open my mouth to correct him, I am a wimp when I refuse to make a rumpus when the heavy breather behind me presses his arousal against my buttock (I do stamp down hard with my ‘killer’ 4-inch spikes though… asshole!), and I am a wimp when the man who made me a mockery scraps me on orkut and tries to be all sweetness and light, because he needs to keep a clean reputation.
So this new-year, although a bit too late, I have decided not to be a wimp any more. I hereby solemnly swear, no more Miss I-Cant-Speak-Out-Coz-I’m-the-Reincarnation-of-Pollyanna-in-Real-Life.
And I need to ask one question… “Is a hot chick cool or a cool chick hot?” (As asked by SRK in a song promoting KBC)
Just emni.
And er, yes, I know I am basically hopeless and really, no post matches no post in content and action or stuff, but you keep coming back because you like/love/hate me, na? Don’t be indifferent. I hate it. All the time.
*Dhoosh*
January 17, 2007
L is for the way...
“I’m not free. I never was and I never will be.”
“I know your flaws, but I can’t stop thinking of you.”
"Please, baby."
"Baby, please."
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well. Please stop lying. Please.”
“I can’t stay. Not any longer. I can’t stay, baby.”
“Please, baby.”
“I am sorry.”
"This is not working out."
“I am so sorry.”
“Sorry.”
The pen falls, the lamps dim, and thin hearts stop beating. Love dies. Suddenly.
Do you know what loneliness is like?? It is worse, far worse than dying. Because death is a surety. You never know when loneliness hits you with the vast acres of open land inside you, and you suddenly realize how tired you are, how exhausted. All you want to do is have a night’s sleep… sleep that you need, sleep that you covet. But sleep eludes you. You stare hollow-eyed at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything. But nothing comes. Nothing happens. Nothing.
Love you. Love you. Love you so much. Its like dying, sometimes it hurts so bad that it feels like there is nothing beyond the pain. And beyond the pain, lies the peace. The peace that soothes and calms. The peace that comes after letting go. The peace that dulls the ache, and loosens the strings.
It did not work. It was not meant to, perhaps.
Good bye my darling. I will remember. But good bye for now.
“I know your flaws, but I can’t stop thinking of you.”
"Please, baby."
"Baby, please."
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well. Please stop lying. Please.”
“I can’t stay. Not any longer. I can’t stay, baby.”
“Please, baby.”
“I am sorry.”
"This is not working out."
“I am so sorry.”
“Sorry.”
The pen falls, the lamps dim, and thin hearts stop beating. Love dies. Suddenly.
Do you know what loneliness is like?? It is worse, far worse than dying. Because death is a surety. You never know when loneliness hits you with the vast acres of open land inside you, and you suddenly realize how tired you are, how exhausted. All you want to do is have a night’s sleep… sleep that you need, sleep that you covet. But sleep eludes you. You stare hollow-eyed at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything. But nothing comes. Nothing happens. Nothing.
Love you. Love you. Love you so much. Its like dying, sometimes it hurts so bad that it feels like there is nothing beyond the pain. And beyond the pain, lies the peace. The peace that soothes and calms. The peace that comes after letting go. The peace that dulls the ache, and loosens the strings.
It did not work. It was not meant to, perhaps.
Good bye my darling. I will remember. But good bye for now.
December 24, 2006
I'm Posting This Everywhere...
Disclaimer : This message contains certain comments that at best should be overlooked... and at worst, should be undermined... offended christmas lovers please delete this message at this ripe point cause the Grinchess is going to go "Glingle Glingle" over all that overflowing Christmas spirit...
Well, Mother Mary's Mistake was born on 25th to provide the world with a semi-holy Ghost who walked freely among us and turned water into wine and died because nobody else could do that and they all wanted free booze but couldnt make any... so year after year we celebrate the day that marked this great man's birthday, who was the world's first one-man insta-distillery...
And then there was the other guy, Nick, who gave away free gifts to kids, and spoilt them beyond their bratty pants, and their poor parents were supposed to provide gifts, because the brats would not stop until they did... St. Nick just started the tradition, who cares where those poor parents might end up on their way to the toy/chocolate/gift/other goodies shop... cursing their dwindling bank accounts and wallets for being so slim and trim (well, FAT is in, at least when it comes to this)...
And then there are the songs and the traditional cakes and chicken (in lieu of the Turkey or Ham).... yada yada.... Yes, fine, and all that. I just want to tell everyone that it all adds up to the Spirit... the Booze that is...
So there. I had to get that out of my system. For those who reside in this world, Happy Christmas... for those who reside in this world and the Disc, Happy Hogswatch... may all pigs fly.
Panu.
Disclaimer : This message contains certain comments that at best should be overlooked... and at worst, should be undermined... offended christmas lovers please delete this message at this ripe point cause the Grinchess is going to go "Glingle Glingle" over all that overflowing Christmas spirit...
Well, Mother Mary's Mistake was born on 25th to provide the world with a semi-holy Ghost who walked freely among us and turned water into wine and died because nobody else could do that and they all wanted free booze but couldnt make any... so year after year we celebrate the day that marked this great man's birthday, who was the world's first one-man insta-distillery...
And then there was the other guy, Nick, who gave away free gifts to kids, and spoilt them beyond their bratty pants, and their poor parents were supposed to provide gifts, because the brats would not stop until they did... St. Nick just started the tradition, who cares where those poor parents might end up on their way to the toy/chocolate/gift/other goodies shop... cursing their dwindling bank accounts and wallets for being so slim and trim (well, FAT is in, at least when it comes to this)...
And then there are the songs and the traditional cakes and chicken (in lieu of the Turkey or Ham).... yada yada.... Yes, fine, and all that. I just want to tell everyone that it all adds up to the Spirit... the Booze that is...
So there. I had to get that out of my system. For those who reside in this world, Happy Christmas... for those who reside in this world and the Disc, Happy Hogswatch... may all pigs fly.
Panu.
December 21, 2006
My Way
I stand here in the empty darkness,
Waiting for the first chord of the bass to fall
Behind me lies the distant dreams that I forgot,
In my fingers lie the silken chords of silence.
I can choose but my choices make no move
They melt in the depths of the darker shades,
They rustle through the wind like dry leaves,
They split the dry ground and eases within.
So many memories of mythical madness
My presumptions, my illusions, all fall down
Frequent mistakes I have made, but I
Never thought of the consequences to come.
Now they have come back to haunt
The depths of darkness that stretch in front,
But I must walk this path, although I can feel
It is fading away into the dark abyss.
Waiting for the first chord of the bass to fall
Behind me lies the distant dreams that I forgot,
In my fingers lie the silken chords of silence.
I can choose but my choices make no move
They melt in the depths of the darker shades,
They rustle through the wind like dry leaves,
They split the dry ground and eases within.
So many memories of mythical madness
My presumptions, my illusions, all fall down
Frequent mistakes I have made, but I
Never thought of the consequences to come.
Now they have come back to haunt
The depths of darkness that stretch in front,
But I must walk this path, although I can feel
It is fading away into the dark abyss.
December 17, 2006
A Farewell to Cell....
Well, so I lost it. Finally.
For those who does not know, its my new Mobile Phone!!
Well, not so old maybe, but it was only 6 months I had it. I bought it with my own money, hard earned own money.... thats what makes the absence of the fat little piggy so bad. It was my baby, my pillow for comfort. My Nokia 6600.
I will miss you, my bloated buddy. You were there when I needed to video record, or listen to music, or something equally important. Nothing will replace you.
*Audience shall excuse me now while I bang my head against the keyboard.*
For those who does not know, its my new Mobile Phone!!
Well, not so old maybe, but it was only 6 months I had it. I bought it with my own money, hard earned own money.... thats what makes the absence of the fat little piggy so bad. It was my baby, my pillow for comfort. My Nokia 6600.
I will miss you, my bloated buddy. You were there when I needed to video record, or listen to music, or something equally important. Nothing will replace you.
*Audience shall excuse me now while I bang my head against the keyboard.*
December 09, 2006
Two Poems.... for the mists of an Autumnal Dawn
Arka, this is because I was too lazy to mail.
The Retreat
I've stopped loving you.
Whatever courses through my veins now are aftershocks,
Denied moments of paralysed thoughts,
Unbearably familiar.
Oh, I have stopped.
Waving, wading towards the unreachable horizon of Eternal Belief
When I once perhaps could unite
But now the straining drops of molten wariness
Chase the futile fragments;
My memories float in the shallow pool
Of numb distorted moments of fragmented vision.
Yes, I have stopped it. Finally...
The Partition
My fingers creep towards the door
And unlatches the lock
And then freezes in the distant discord
Of melifluous harmony.
In the roots of my aching bones
Something wake up to call forth
So many dried-up memories
Born again, from the drugged
Hole inside the rusty depths
Of this chaotic vision.
My spirits hover over my head,
Crooning, caressing, craving
The necessity to give in
To shameless, wanton discourses
Of dissected emotions,
Laying them moments apart from
Where I stand, hands frozen
On the doorknob,
Waiting for an entrance
To my divided portions.
The Retreat
I've stopped loving you.
Whatever courses through my veins now are aftershocks,
Denied moments of paralysed thoughts,
Unbearably familiar.
Oh, I have stopped.
Waving, wading towards the unreachable horizon of Eternal Belief
When I once perhaps could unite
But now the straining drops of molten wariness
Chase the futile fragments;
My memories float in the shallow pool
Of numb distorted moments of fragmented vision.
Yes, I have stopped it. Finally...
The Partition
My fingers creep towards the door
And unlatches the lock
And then freezes in the distant discord
Of melifluous harmony.
In the roots of my aching bones
Something wake up to call forth
So many dried-up memories
Born again, from the drugged
Hole inside the rusty depths
Of this chaotic vision.
My spirits hover over my head,
Crooning, caressing, craving
The necessity to give in
To shameless, wanton discourses
Of dissected emotions,
Laying them moments apart from
Where I stand, hands frozen
On the doorknob,
Waiting for an entrance
To my divided portions.
November 29, 2006
The DOSE
So there are talks and there are talks… and then there’s my family. Modest gentle folks would surely get a heart attack after an hour with them in full throttle, and its even worse than Him-mesh Reshammiyyaa-yaa doing a moviee with two ‘e’s and even more songs that can be categorized under ‘u’ with a nasal twang.
In fact, I sometimes wonder why I am with them. I mean, they are rude, arrogant, mentally and emotionally challenged, exceptionally blunt, vengeful and filled with deceit, and crude about most of the things in life and all in all, pains in the butt cheeks.
Oh, that's me.
Part of the time, of course. When I am not being an overly sensitive diva-dolly about something or not moaning about my life, or being agony aunty to my near and dear ones.
So for the last four days I am receiving little doses. I would like to share them and add to your blog-reading pain.
Chapter One
Sister arrives home, exceptionally excited.
Panu takes heed. The fifth bite to the five-star is wisely not made, and is carefully tucked away behind the pile of books she was attempting to read but never really got further than the flyleaf.
N.B. transcreation from Bengali by Panu.
Meghna (enter room door): DIDI!! (Sister!!)
Oh, a small pause. Meghna is 12 years of age.
Panu (cautiously covering leftover five star with the Xerox on Eliot): Ki? (What?)
Meghna (Excitement pours round her vein like bolts of blue lightning): Tui janish sex mane ki? (Do you know what sex means?)
Panu (Gasp! Sacrilege! Gasp! Or according to fish interpreted by Peep, Vulva! Labia!) : Um-
Meghna (know she is on to something prick-y, so becomes real insistent): Janish kina bol??
Panu (still struggling with her 23 year old understanding of life and everything and her sister’s mental status for grasping the major equation and skipping details): Mane—er… (Meaning, er…)
Meghna (wide-eyed with ecstatic energy that courses through her veins every time she lets her poor sister suffer a trick question): Janish na to? (You don’t know, right?)
Panu (at this point chooses the wisest course and gives up): Na, mane…(no, I mean…)
Meghna: Tui kichhu janish na. Sex mane holo f*cking. (You don’t know anything. Sex means the abbreviation for Fornicating Under the Consent of the King... you dig??)
Panu (faintly): Oh. Okay.
Chapter Two
Early morn. Very early. Like five o’clock in the morning. Panu is going to sleep after a hard night of chatting and orkutting. Yawn yawn and beddy bye… just a little formality of closing the door after the father’s left for his three-mile morning walk.
So enter parent’s bedroom to see how long will she have to stay up before the brawny beast (i.e. daddy darling) left for the fields.
Mum sleeps with cheerful disarray, legs bared artfully, her pale skin glistening like pearl under the early morning sun (yeah, yeah, I don’t have a life…). Panu stops to admire the view.
Dad enters.
Dad: Pronam koro. (Pay respect)
Panu: Er, keno? Kake? (Er, why? To whom?)
Dad (indicates the pearly skinned beauty gracing the bed): Pronam koro… tomar jonmosthan ar tomar babar kormosthan. (Pay respect to your birthplace and your father’s workplace).
Panu had NOT seen that coming so early in the morning.
Chapter Three
Mother in the room watching ATN Bangla (probably… or one of those Bangladesh-i channels). Panu sits down.
Onscreen:
Fat woman wearing violent green frump-top with carrot coloured leather-look skirt revealing her fat thighs and wobbly belly-flesh and huge 70s show sunglasses to indicate MODERN MAGI (Modern Woe on Mankind). Fire engine red high heels try to attempt some semblance of movement, but gasp here comes the Hero!
Hero enters with James Bond’s gracefulness without the grace bits hanging out, shaky head and revolving body in virulent shades of red and purple retro material. Yellow trousers and blue boots complete the ensemble together with ruffled hair gelled and colored in the front to resemble an ice-cream cone with chocolate sauce on top.
Hero enters. Kills most of the cast and crew, gets hit by a baddy (who had better dress sense than the previous two… only flaw was that golden waistcoat), kills him and falls.
Heroine (heaving bosom and Bangladeshi English accent): Ponti! Ponti!!!! PONTIIIIII!!! (calls hero’s name)
Throws herself on the hero. Hero suitably mollified and out of breath after having a 60-plus kilo woman fall on top of her lets out a groan.
Heroine (wails): PONNNTIIIII!!!
Panu wonders if the poor man has a death wish/ his body insured against unsuspected falling objects. And moreover, all that screeching is bound to make any man deaf. Wishes for a pair of earplugs for herself and the poor fashion disaster on the loose.
Hero: groan!
Heroine: PPPPONNNTIIIIII (boo hoo)… PPPPONTIIIIIII!! (gasp sob GASP) I LUUUURRRBHHH IUUUU!! I LUUUURRRVV IUUUUU!!!(GAASP!!)
Hero has miraculous recovery. Tears glisten on my mother’s eyes and she wipes them off with the back of her palm. Day saved, superman switches channel.
And here I draw the curtains.
In fact, I sometimes wonder why I am with them. I mean, they are rude, arrogant, mentally and emotionally challenged, exceptionally blunt, vengeful and filled with deceit, and crude about most of the things in life and all in all, pains in the butt cheeks.
Oh, that's me.
Part of the time, of course. When I am not being an overly sensitive diva-dolly about something or not moaning about my life, or being agony aunty to my near and dear ones.
So for the last four days I am receiving little doses. I would like to share them and add to your blog-reading pain.
Chapter One
Sister arrives home, exceptionally excited.
Panu takes heed. The fifth bite to the five-star is wisely not made, and is carefully tucked away behind the pile of books she was attempting to read but never really got further than the flyleaf.
N.B. transcreation from Bengali by Panu.
Meghna (enter room door): DIDI!! (Sister!!)
Oh, a small pause. Meghna is 12 years of age.
Panu (cautiously covering leftover five star with the Xerox on Eliot): Ki? (What?)
Meghna (Excitement pours round her vein like bolts of blue lightning): Tui janish sex mane ki? (Do you know what sex means?)
Panu (Gasp! Sacrilege! Gasp! Or according to fish interpreted by Peep, Vulva! Labia!) : Um-
Meghna (know she is on to something prick-y, so becomes real insistent): Janish kina bol??
Panu (still struggling with her 23 year old understanding of life and everything and her sister’s mental status for grasping the major equation and skipping details): Mane—er… (Meaning, er…)
Meghna (wide-eyed with ecstatic energy that courses through her veins every time she lets her poor sister suffer a trick question): Janish na to? (You don’t know, right?)
Panu (at this point chooses the wisest course and gives up): Na, mane…(no, I mean…)
Meghna: Tui kichhu janish na. Sex mane holo f*cking. (You don’t know anything. Sex means the abbreviation for Fornicating Under the Consent of the King... you dig??)
Panu (faintly): Oh. Okay.
Chapter Two
Early morn. Very early. Like five o’clock in the morning. Panu is going to sleep after a hard night of chatting and orkutting. Yawn yawn and beddy bye… just a little formality of closing the door after the father’s left for his three-mile morning walk.
So enter parent’s bedroom to see how long will she have to stay up before the brawny beast (i.e. daddy darling) left for the fields.
Mum sleeps with cheerful disarray, legs bared artfully, her pale skin glistening like pearl under the early morning sun (yeah, yeah, I don’t have a life…). Panu stops to admire the view.
Dad enters.
Dad: Pronam koro. (Pay respect)
Panu: Er, keno? Kake? (Er, why? To whom?)
Dad (indicates the pearly skinned beauty gracing the bed): Pronam koro… tomar jonmosthan ar tomar babar kormosthan. (Pay respect to your birthplace and your father’s workplace).
Panu had NOT seen that coming so early in the morning.
Chapter Three
Mother in the room watching ATN Bangla (probably… or one of those Bangladesh-i channels). Panu sits down.
Onscreen:
Fat woman wearing violent green frump-top with carrot coloured leather-look skirt revealing her fat thighs and wobbly belly-flesh and huge 70s show sunglasses to indicate MODERN MAGI (Modern Woe on Mankind). Fire engine red high heels try to attempt some semblance of movement, but gasp here comes the Hero!
Hero enters with James Bond’s gracefulness without the grace bits hanging out, shaky head and revolving body in virulent shades of red and purple retro material. Yellow trousers and blue boots complete the ensemble together with ruffled hair gelled and colored in the front to resemble an ice-cream cone with chocolate sauce on top.
Hero enters. Kills most of the cast and crew, gets hit by a baddy (who had better dress sense than the previous two… only flaw was that golden waistcoat), kills him and falls.
Heroine (heaving bosom and Bangladeshi English accent): Ponti! Ponti!!!! PONTIIIIII!!! (calls hero’s name)
Throws herself on the hero. Hero suitably mollified and out of breath after having a 60-plus kilo woman fall on top of her lets out a groan.
Heroine (wails): PONNNTIIIII!!!
Panu wonders if the poor man has a death wish/ his body insured against unsuspected falling objects. And moreover, all that screeching is bound to make any man deaf. Wishes for a pair of earplugs for herself and the poor fashion disaster on the loose.
Hero: groan!
Heroine: PPPPONNNTIIIIII (boo hoo)… PPPPONTIIIIIII!! (gasp sob GASP) I LUUUURRRBHHH IUUUU!! I LUUUURRRVV IUUUUU!!!(GAASP!!)
Hero has miraculous recovery. Tears glisten on my mother’s eyes and she wipes them off with the back of her palm. Day saved, superman switches channel.
And here I draw the curtains.
November 25, 2006
COME AWAY, COME AWAY!
Peter Pan came into Wendy’s life and changed it… he took her away to Neverland and made sure that she never forgot the adventure.
But then Wendy had to grow up. She had to grow old. She had to remember her duties and her self.
And so she did.
But she never forgot what it was like to be gay and innocent and heartless.
Away, away… far, far away to the distant dream of forgetfulness… and then back to reality and duties.
And this too, shall pass.
Shall be a grain of sand in the infinite beach of time.
But then Wendy had to grow up. She had to grow old. She had to remember her duties and her self.
And so she did.
But she never forgot what it was like to be gay and innocent and heartless.
Away, away… far, far away to the distant dream of forgetfulness… and then back to reality and duties.
And this too, shall pass.
Shall be a grain of sand in the infinite beach of time.
November 08, 2006
Woe is Me
Okay, so the matriarchs just shot three brand new troubles at me that goes by the common name prospective husbands at me... and gave them my cell phone number....
Damn me for going to Patna in the first place. Looks like this country is getting too little for one overweight person.
And my neck is in a brace because flu struck and I struck the steel bucket. See, theory of cause and effect at work.
And now I must leave. I am supposed to study for tomorrow's exam. Only, I haven't done a thing.
Damn me for going to Patna in the first place. Looks like this country is getting too little for one overweight person.
And my neck is in a brace because flu struck and I struck the steel bucket. See, theory of cause and effect at work.
And now I must leave. I am supposed to study for tomorrow's exam. Only, I haven't done a thing.
November 02, 2006
You
The mid-autumnal depression settled down on Panu’s weary soul… filled with the temporal gloom that she was habituated by the 23rd year of her life. It was always this way. It will always be this way. But it is not this way. Not this year.
Behold the madness that comes with the forbidden! Panu feels the pangs of her conscience strike her unblemished behind with guttural force, but still she stalls, still she is unable to give up the call of temptation that drags her away from her peaceful deluge.
And then she sings out in the depth of fading darkness. She sings out her fear. Her doubts. What has she done? What is she doing?
What are you doing to me?
I can’t rest I can’t work
I cant move, I cant sit still
All comes round when the time approaches
And as your voice pours in
The indescribable joy that
Infuses my very soul.
Damn you! I wish
You did not have the power
To do this to me.
To make me weak and carefree
Spilling all of myself
Right out to your waiting ears
Your taunting face
Flashes in a vision, lips
Curled into a cruel smirk
Standing, shifting right beyond me,
Watching my folly with unbidden delight.
My soul twists up in conscientious knots
But waits for your call
When you let me soar high up,
My body rocking with pleasurable pain
Of your absence.
Behold the madness that comes with the forbidden! Panu feels the pangs of her conscience strike her unblemished behind with guttural force, but still she stalls, still she is unable to give up the call of temptation that drags her away from her peaceful deluge.
And then she sings out in the depth of fading darkness. She sings out her fear. Her doubts. What has she done? What is she doing?
What are you doing to me?
I can’t rest I can’t work
I cant move, I cant sit still
All comes round when the time approaches
And as your voice pours in
The indescribable joy that
Infuses my very soul.
Damn you! I wish
You did not have the power
To do this to me.
To make me weak and carefree
Spilling all of myself
Right out to your waiting ears
Your taunting face
Flashes in a vision, lips
Curled into a cruel smirk
Standing, shifting right beyond me,
Watching my folly with unbidden delight.
My soul twists up in conscientious knots
But waits for your call
When you let me soar high up,
My body rocking with pleasurable pain
Of your absence.
October 27, 2006
Once there was a Cow...
And that was fattened and cut up.
And poor Panu was stuck with the calf.
So at this point if anyone wonders what the heck is this sadly demented woman screeching about, I daresay, the calf is a symbol. A symbol for dewy-eyed susceptibility and an unerring nose for trouble.
This has been my punishment, my sorrow, my unfortunateness that there was once a DON, who was ze Great Boss....
And then there was the calf. The Clone. The deceptive little thing that was nigh on impossible to make out from outside what it was going to be. That thrill of anticipation was so great that even Panu decided to place a bet on the outcome.
RESULT : Ah, clones are never the same. Just look at Dolly. And look at Rampal trying to be Pran, OH THE DISGUST it fills me with {together with a healthy dose of lust to see those gorgeous mass-scale muscles on the move.... thanks Mr. Almighty for still keeping thick-skinned men whom women(and of course, the occassional male as well) ogle}.
And then came that stutterer whom I expected to say "d-d-d-d-donji!!" any moment in the film, and somewhere in the first half-an-hour, I started to regret not going to see "Jaan-e-Mann" (where there were a lot of long-haired bare-chested crying men, from those reports I heard.... and nicer songs).
So all in all, NO, I WAS NOT HAPPY To Spend hard-earned money on something that was a cross between Duplicate and Manikchand Ad.
And advice to all who will be spending their hard-earned cash in the near future for it : Please. You'll get the CD of the real thing for a few rupees... stick to it.
Nobody, but nobody can beat the Big B.
And poor Panu was stuck with the calf.
So at this point if anyone wonders what the heck is this sadly demented woman screeching about, I daresay, the calf is a symbol. A symbol for dewy-eyed susceptibility and an unerring nose for trouble.
This has been my punishment, my sorrow, my unfortunateness that there was once a DON, who was ze Great Boss....
And then there was the calf. The Clone. The deceptive little thing that was nigh on impossible to make out from outside what it was going to be. That thrill of anticipation was so great that even Panu decided to place a bet on the outcome.
RESULT : Ah, clones are never the same. Just look at Dolly. And look at Rampal trying to be Pran, OH THE DISGUST it fills me with {together with a healthy dose of lust to see those gorgeous mass-scale muscles on the move.... thanks Mr. Almighty for still keeping thick-skinned men whom women(and of course, the occassional male as well) ogle}.
And then came that stutterer whom I expected to say "d-d-d-d-donji!!" any moment in the film, and somewhere in the first half-an-hour, I started to regret not going to see "Jaan-e-Mann" (where there were a lot of long-haired bare-chested crying men, from those reports I heard.... and nicer songs).
So all in all, NO, I WAS NOT HAPPY To Spend hard-earned money on something that was a cross between Duplicate and Manikchand Ad.
And advice to all who will be spending their hard-earned cash in the near future for it : Please. You'll get the CD of the real thing for a few rupees... stick to it.
Nobody, but nobody can beat the Big B.
October 15, 2006
*hem hem*
The Theory of Relativity
And no, it aint Einstein.
So, on an uncertain evening of October, the grandparents of a cousin land on our pujo-Aching backs, just as we were recovering from seeing off one set of Grand-Parents (By Grand, I DO MEAN Grand, I.E. Ma Durga and her Brats.... they were quite demanding I dare say, Looking for brand new benarashi sarees and blisters on poor big toes... ) on and with truckloads of maniacs who waylaid anyone who got in the way....
Anyway, they are mean, and they are here to stay. For the next six days. Just when I had all the intents to work on my TERM PAPERS. THREE TERM PAPERS. And at the verge of it, my poor room gets ransacked (I.E. I have to clean it because clearly those grandparents will go with a magnifying glass to find specks of dusts on unsuspecting places and then go home and tell all about uncivilized women who keep their room according to their convenience. As a result, prospective mother-in-laws in HYDERABAD will turn their faces from the evil woman who will ruin their poor son's life by breathing the same air and therefore leave Panu a very miserable spinster desperate enough to date girls and whatnot).
SO my room is not mine anymore. Those two will lay their bald and black hair on my pillows, totally disregard my raggedy pillow that I just have to smother my face in, in order to go to a restful and much desired slumber, after a night of insomnia. They will be mutilating my racks of books for a bangla thriller (while all they find is a banged up Gitobitan, a Tenida Samagra, my Parashuram and Tarashankar collection) and lament that "P=== r joto Jadobpurer aantlaami.... apasanaskriti"(Panu suffers from false Jadavpurian intellectual pangs... signs of unculture) . And this from people who spell my name with the greatest amount of incorrectness possible.
And on top of them, I cant say a word. I must run now.... Gotta cook up something for them.
WAAAAHHH!!
My room! MY POOR POOR ROOM!!! WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU!!!
And no, it aint Einstein.
So, on an uncertain evening of October, the grandparents of a cousin land on our pujo-Aching backs, just as we were recovering from seeing off one set of Grand-Parents (By Grand, I DO MEAN Grand, I.E. Ma Durga and her Brats.... they were quite demanding I dare say, Looking for brand new benarashi sarees and blisters on poor big toes... ) on and with truckloads of maniacs who waylaid anyone who got in the way....
Anyway, they are mean, and they are here to stay. For the next six days. Just when I had all the intents to work on my TERM PAPERS. THREE TERM PAPERS. And at the verge of it, my poor room gets ransacked (I.E. I have to clean it because clearly those grandparents will go with a magnifying glass to find specks of dusts on unsuspecting places and then go home and tell all about uncivilized women who keep their room according to their convenience. As a result, prospective mother-in-laws in HYDERABAD will turn their faces from the evil woman who will ruin their poor son's life by breathing the same air and therefore leave Panu a very miserable spinster desperate enough to date girls and whatnot).
SO my room is not mine anymore. Those two will lay their bald and black hair on my pillows, totally disregard my raggedy pillow that I just have to smother my face in, in order to go to a restful and much desired slumber, after a night of insomnia. They will be mutilating my racks of books for a bangla thriller (while all they find is a banged up Gitobitan, a Tenida Samagra, my Parashuram and Tarashankar collection) and lament that "P=== r joto Jadobpurer aantlaami.... apasanaskriti"(Panu suffers from false Jadavpurian intellectual pangs... signs of unculture) . And this from people who spell my name with the greatest amount of incorrectness possible.
And on top of them, I cant say a word. I must run now.... Gotta cook up something for them.
WAAAAHHH!!
My room! MY POOR POOR ROOM!!! WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU!!!
October 06, 2006
Sheempel Plejaarsh.
Well, I have been tagged by Miss Peep and therephore, I have begun a deep search deep within my heart and realized that I love a lot of things in life, but most of that is kind of twisted and extremely un-simple... er... I mean, they are complulukated.
So ten simple pleasures of myn lyf.
10. Rain. The first drops on the dry earth and the musky smell and the wet spots on my schoolclothes to the day after day drops of Jupiter, and moving through knee-deep water. Come to think about it, I also love the sound of Thunder and the Blinding Lightning. Sometimes I go upstairs just before a storm and stand there till rain drench me.
9. Working with my pets. They are so trusting, they love me for exactly what I am, not for what I have or who I am going to be. I feel so content when Ghotu perches on my shoulder and playfully pull my glasses or my earlobe.
8. Cooking. It relaxes me after a hard day's work to let some of the tensions on an unsuspecting alur dom or chicken teriyaki.
7. Music. My kind of mushic. When I want to hear them.
6. A good Mills and Boon. To cry my eyes out at the brink when I am drowning in Derrida or fouling up Foucault.
5. Chocolates. I think I am an addict. I love caramel-filled, Butterscotchy chocolates, oozing calories. as they melt in my mouth.
4. Weightloss. Ah... the moments when someone says I have lost weight, or that I look good. Ah puppy fat. GOOD RIDDANCE.
3. Walking miles and miles with Andro. Anywhere.
2. My room. I love my room. I love my bed and all the junk on it, my bookcases bulging with book, my casette player that refuses to play casettes, my mountain of xeroxes and most of all my pillows. My small, thin pillow that I refuse to let go of.
1. Reading before sleeping. Almost anything goes there, but I remember once I was desperate enough to read my accountancy book. I daresay I had a very restless night.
Fine
I tag others. Just you unsuspecting creatures wait.
So ten simple pleasures of myn lyf.
10. Rain. The first drops on the dry earth and the musky smell and the wet spots on my schoolclothes to the day after day drops of Jupiter, and moving through knee-deep water. Come to think about it, I also love the sound of Thunder and the Blinding Lightning. Sometimes I go upstairs just before a storm and stand there till rain drench me.
9. Working with my pets. They are so trusting, they love me for exactly what I am, not for what I have or who I am going to be. I feel so content when Ghotu perches on my shoulder and playfully pull my glasses or my earlobe.
8. Cooking. It relaxes me after a hard day's work to let some of the tensions on an unsuspecting alur dom or chicken teriyaki.
7. Music. My kind of mushic. When I want to hear them.
6. A good Mills and Boon. To cry my eyes out at the brink when I am drowning in Derrida or fouling up Foucault.
5. Chocolates. I think I am an addict. I love caramel-filled, Butterscotchy chocolates, oozing calories. as they melt in my mouth.
4. Weightloss. Ah... the moments when someone says I have lost weight, or that I look good. Ah puppy fat. GOOD RIDDANCE.
3. Walking miles and miles with Andro. Anywhere.
2. My room. I love my room. I love my bed and all the junk on it, my bookcases bulging with book, my casette player that refuses to play casettes, my mountain of xeroxes and most of all my pillows. My small, thin pillow that I refuse to let go of.
1. Reading before sleeping. Almost anything goes there, but I remember once I was desperate enough to read my accountancy book. I daresay I had a very restless night.
Fine
I tag others. Just you unsuspecting creatures wait.
A community thank you note
This I sent to all my friends at Orkut. I had to post it here as well.
Shubho Bijoya to you. May this year be as great as physically and spiritually plausible.
Thank you thank you whoever sent me birthday greetings. I mathapete take JAP's Ayush'man' bhava.... HOW THOUGHT(?)FUL.
Aritra - I shall put myself in the third position.
Rimi - Saatkhun maaf.
Rashidi Gargidi Amritadi Kurry - Thank you so much
School Friends - Thanks Satu, Arps, Raws, Goru,Priyanki, Idrisha, Arjun,Arunava, debipriya, surupa, Kamu, and everyone of you who wished me. Whoever did not, I magnanimously forgive you all.
Swayam - bhaier underwear Sujan ferot diyechhe??
Jennifer - ah thanks babe.
Sriram, subhankar, Alone in the dark, debashis, Dev, sujoy, Abhik, Sudip, Zesporking, soumen, jhilom, Shiv - thank you so much
Suchismita didi - birthday went well, got a bit mussed by pujos.
Antara shaoli srimoyee priyanka - I love you all and really sorry about nabami. I shall tell you the horror story later.
Lagnajita - thank you
Rosy - Ahh, you sweetie.
Kaichu - Sikkim theke fire amar oi boita dhar chai bole rakhlam.
Shutapa - Love you hun.
Somak dada - thank you, sediner surprise kemon chhilo??
Pritam - ah you know I would save you for last. Thanks for the card, you thoughtful thing.
And all who forgot, I forgive you.
Shubho bijoya ebong samabeto kolakuli.
Shubho Bijoya to you. May this year be as great as physically and spiritually plausible.
Thank you thank you whoever sent me birthday greetings. I mathapete take JAP's Ayush'man' bhava.... HOW THOUGHT(?)FUL.
Aritra - I shall put myself in the third position.
Rimi - Saatkhun maaf.
Rashidi Gargidi Amritadi Kurry - Thank you so much
School Friends - Thanks Satu, Arps, Raws, Goru,Priyanki, Idrisha, Arjun,Arunava, debipriya, surupa, Kamu, and everyone of you who wished me. Whoever did not, I magnanimously forgive you all.
Swayam - bhaier underwear Sujan ferot diyechhe??
Jennifer - ah thanks babe.
Sriram, subhankar, Alone in the dark, debashis, Dev, sujoy, Abhik, Sudip, Zesporking, soumen, jhilom, Shiv - thank you so much
Suchismita didi - birthday went well, got a bit mussed by pujos.
Antara shaoli srimoyee priyanka - I love you all and really sorry about nabami. I shall tell you the horror story later.
Lagnajita - thank you
Rosy - Ahh, you sweetie.
Kaichu - Sikkim theke fire amar oi boita dhar chai bole rakhlam.
Shutapa - Love you hun.
Somak dada - thank you, sediner surprise kemon chhilo??
Pritam - ah you know I would save you for last. Thanks for the card, you thoughtful thing.
And all who forgot, I forgive you.
Shubho bijoya ebong samabeto kolakuli.
September 25, 2006
And then there were Some...
Tune: London bridge is falling down-
Silicone tits are hanging out
Hanging out, Hanging Out,
Silicone Tits are hanging Out,
Of my F*cking Bytches
Ah, those days when I would get away screaming *Misbegotten Freakingchoos* at all and sundry on a sultry summer afternoon while lazing away at Allen's Park near my beloved Xavier's. Oh I miss you so... I miss being a responsible member of the English Academy pinching the odd fifty bucks off Professor Biswas, I miss P.Lal's Saturday classes of incredible fun (because he used to give us books if we got his answers right), I miss Bertie's brand of super-charming Twelfth Night classes. I miss the canteen, I miss the library, I miss the classrooms, I miss Father Eton, because he was so nice.
And I miss Sir. I miss you. I miss Araby. I miss The Fly. I miss Paradise Lost. I miss Cricket Scores.
I miss my innocence when I believed that I was a cynical beeyach, overly confident on oversized feet. When I look back now, I know I can never go back to what I was once upon a time. Dear readers, who are at this point wondering what the f--- am I doing drowning in nostalgia, I suggest you take a hike because I would continue in this vein for a few more posts. Just to get all this off my bosom, impressive as it is.
Silicone tits are hanging out
Hanging out, Hanging Out,
Silicone Tits are hanging Out,
Of my F*cking Bytches
Ah, those days when I would get away screaming *Misbegotten Freakingchoos* at all and sundry on a sultry summer afternoon while lazing away at Allen's Park near my beloved Xavier's. Oh I miss you so... I miss being a responsible member of the English Academy pinching the odd fifty bucks off Professor Biswas, I miss P.Lal's Saturday classes of incredible fun (because he used to give us books if we got his answers right), I miss Bertie's brand of super-charming Twelfth Night classes. I miss the canteen, I miss the library, I miss the classrooms, I miss Father Eton, because he was so nice.
And I miss Sir. I miss you. I miss Araby. I miss The Fly. I miss Paradise Lost. I miss Cricket Scores.
I miss my innocence when I believed that I was a cynical beeyach, overly confident on oversized feet. When I look back now, I know I can never go back to what I was once upon a time. Dear readers, who are at this point wondering what the f--- am I doing drowning in nostalgia, I suggest you take a hike because I would continue in this vein for a few more posts. Just to get all this off my bosom, impressive as it is.
September 18, 2006
The Power of Discretion
I have recently found out that discretion gets me stuffs. For discretion read anything that does not involve screaming at the top of my lungs.
So there on the sultry afternoon of one fine September day, sun sets and birdshit on the background, my friend asked me the eternal question:
So....
What do you want for your Birthday??
Needless to say, Panu was speechless with happiness. This selfsame friend, who cringes at the sight of creditors, runs at the mention of a treat, and faints at the thought of an upcoming birthday actually stood up to Panu's impressive bosom and dared to ask....
And Panu went for the kill.
Therefore all was well. Panu dropped discreet hints all over.
Result, two weeks before her birthday, Panu was the proud owner of two brand new books - Terry Pratchett's Hogfather and Moving Pictures, a brand new Blondie's Greatest Hits CD, a new pair of super stylish shoes in pale cream, two new pairs of earrings, a wristwatch, a bracelet, a lipgloss, a lovely pale green hand bag and a game called Taboo.
Nasty little cutthroat.
Thats what I Like myself to be called.
Anyway, the other day, Peep, Teleute and the JUDE pee-pal were acting in this play called Laxman Shell-shocked at Gyan Manch.
Needless to say, I reached too late, I left too early, but I saw all concerned.
On another note, I daresay I am extremely dissatisfied with myself. Its impossible to change myself, Its impossible to be what I want to be.
So I have decided to be me for a change and drive the world out with my madness.
In the ancient days 0f loneliness, once a little spot of blood called for love and the young girl grew up in a second of momentlessness.
Is there such a word? Momentlessness? I do wonder what I will do with all these spare moments going to waste and momentlessness creeping over like a silent assasin, waiting for the right time.
And though this post began on a note of discretion, its no longer a meaningless piece of nothingness, it has great potentials to become something that just might change your life, and become a milestone for future generations.
But no, why waste my time to do this??
Its impossible to make sense of what I say, because no one is like me and no one can be like me just as I cant be anyone else, and I am too annoyed about it because no one knows what its like to be me.
Am I feeling sorry for my self?
No, I am annoyed.
Only way I can describe myself right now.
I dont have time, but the wasted moments crowd behind my eyelids, waiting to erupt, and stream down my cheeks. I dont have time, but still the smell of wet ground after the first rains on a hot summer day remind me of my ways and days and how I wasted myself away, wasted my potentials, and destroyed what I needed the most.
I am sorry. Oh God, so sorry. Forgive me.
So there on the sultry afternoon of one fine September day, sun sets and birdshit on the background, my friend asked me the eternal question:
So....
What do you want for your Birthday??
Needless to say, Panu was speechless with happiness. This selfsame friend, who cringes at the sight of creditors, runs at the mention of a treat, and faints at the thought of an upcoming birthday actually stood up to Panu's impressive bosom and dared to ask....
And Panu went for the kill.
Therefore all was well. Panu dropped discreet hints all over.
Result, two weeks before her birthday, Panu was the proud owner of two brand new books - Terry Pratchett's Hogfather and Moving Pictures, a brand new Blondie's Greatest Hits CD, a new pair of super stylish shoes in pale cream, two new pairs of earrings, a wristwatch, a bracelet, a lipgloss, a lovely pale green hand bag and a game called Taboo.
Nasty little cutthroat.
Thats what I Like myself to be called.
Anyway, the other day, Peep, Teleute and the JUDE pee-pal were acting in this play called Laxman Shell-shocked at Gyan Manch.
Needless to say, I reached too late, I left too early, but I saw all concerned.
On another note, I daresay I am extremely dissatisfied with myself. Its impossible to change myself, Its impossible to be what I want to be.
So I have decided to be me for a change and drive the world out with my madness.
In the ancient days 0f loneliness, once a little spot of blood called for love and the young girl grew up in a second of momentlessness.
Is there such a word? Momentlessness? I do wonder what I will do with all these spare moments going to waste and momentlessness creeping over like a silent assasin, waiting for the right time.
And though this post began on a note of discretion, its no longer a meaningless piece of nothingness, it has great potentials to become something that just might change your life, and become a milestone for future generations.
But no, why waste my time to do this??
Its impossible to make sense of what I say, because no one is like me and no one can be like me just as I cant be anyone else, and I am too annoyed about it because no one knows what its like to be me.
Am I feeling sorry for my self?
No, I am annoyed.
Only way I can describe myself right now.
I dont have time, but the wasted moments crowd behind my eyelids, waiting to erupt, and stream down my cheeks. I dont have time, but still the smell of wet ground after the first rains on a hot summer day remind me of my ways and days and how I wasted myself away, wasted my potentials, and destroyed what I needed the most.
I am sorry. Oh God, so sorry. Forgive me.
September 01, 2006
Ahem... I said
All this time I have been not recognising my power of writing nonsense that makes perfect sense.
August 27, 2006
Well................
A huge thought is whooshing around the surface of my ever-imposing brain that I just cant seem to forget....
No no, its not anything to do with my nearly non-existent social life... nearly extinct blog life, or disgruntlingly short Orkut life....
It has something to do with Monty Python. This is a sketch on pornographic bookstore...
The cast:
SECOND ASSISTANT
Eric Idle
NID
John Cleese
FIRST ASSISTANT
Terry Jones
MAN
Terry
GASKELL
Michael Palin
FATHER
Terry Jones
MESSENGER
Terry Jones
ELIZABETH GENT
Eric Idle
SPANIARD
Terry Jones
VOICE OVER
Terry Jones
WIFE
Carol Cleveland
MADDOX
Graham Chapman
The sketch:
(We see a bare room with a counter and magazines in racks on the walls at eye-level. Three drably dressed men are thumbing through books. One of them is a vicar, one of them is gathering a huge pile. Behind the counter is a Soho toughie in Tudor gear showing books to Mr Nid a tweedy, rather academic, respectable-looking man of senior years. The customer goes through, and the wall slides back.)
Second Assistant: There's a 'Bridget - Queen of the Whip'.
Nid: Yes..,
Second Assistant: Or 'Naughty Nora'... or there's this one: 'Doug, Bob and Gordon Visit the Ark Royal'. Or there's 'Sister Teresa - The Spanking Nun'.
Nid: Mmmm... I see ... you don't have anything specially about Devon and Cornwall?
Second Assistant: No. I'm afraid not, sir.
Nid: The one I was really after was Arthur Hotchkiss's 'Devonshire Country Churches'.
Second Assistant: Well how about this, sir: 'Bum Biters'.
Nid: No ... not really ... I don't suppose you have any general surveys of English Church architecture?
Second Assistant: No, it's not really our line, sir.
Nid: No, I see. Well, never mind I'll just take the 'Lord Lieutenant in Nylons' then, and these two copies of 'Piggie Parade'. Thank you.
Second Assistant: Right, sir.
First Assistant: (voice over) My Lord of Warwick.
Second Assistant: 'Allo?
First Assistant: (voice over) Raise high the drawbridge. Gloucester's troops approach!
Second Assistant: Right.
(He presses a button below counter and the wall slides back. The man with the big pile of books comes up to counter.)
Man: Just these, then.
(Enter Gaskell in Tudor gear. The wall closes up behind him.)
Gaskell: All right. This is a raid. My name is Superintendent Gaskell and this is Sergeant Maddox.
Second Assistant: Ah! Sir Philip Sidney. 'Tis good to see thee on these shores again.
Gaskell: Shut up.
Second Assistant: Your suit is fair and goodly cut. Was't from Antwerp?
Gaskell: Shut up. It's a disguise. Right! Confiscate the smutty books, Maddox.
Second Assistant: Sir Philip!. Prithee nay!
Gaskell: Listen, mate! Don't come that Philip Sidney bit with me. I'm not a bloody Tudor at all. I'm Gaskell of the Vice Squad and this is Sergeant Maddox. ',
(They all look at him blankly. He looks to Maddox for support and realize he isn't there.)
Gaskell: Maddox! Where's he gone?
Second Assistant: Sir Philip, prithee rest awhile.
Gaskell: Look. This is the last time. I'm warning you, I'm not Sir Philip Bleeding Sidney. I am Superintendent Harold Gaskell and this is a raid.
(Everybody resumes their book-buying and ignores him. At the counter the assistant is still totaling up the huge pile of books.)
Second Assistant: That'll be 540 quid sir.
Man: Oh, I'll just have this one then. (takes top one)
Gaskell: Maddox! (addressing everyone in shop; they ignore him) Look, this is a raid. (no reaction) Honestly, I promise you. (people start to leave through the rear door of the shop; Gaskell blocks it) Where are you going?
Customer: I'm going home.
Gaskell: Right. (looks for his notebook but it's not in his Tudor clothing) I'll remember you. Don't you worry. I'n remember you...
Customer: Pray good, Sir Philip, that you...
Gaskell: Don't you start! Maddox! (the customer leaves; other customers start to leave) Listen, I can prove to you I'm a policeman. I can give the names of all the men down in 'F' division at Acton: Inspector Arthur Perry, Superintendent Charles Frodwell, my best friend, police dogs, Batch, Wolf, Panther, Maudling. How would I know those names if I was Sir Philip Sidney? (the vicar comes up to counter) Look, vicar, you know me. The Gargoyle Club - I got you off the charge. (the vicar leaves guiltily)
Second Assistant: Farewell, good Sir Philip.
(He goes out carrying a pile of magazines. Then the vicar goes, followed by the Tudor man.)
Gaskell: Hey, stop! (the door slams; Gaskell turns and looks round the empty shop; pause) Maddox!
(He rushes up to the sliding wall and beats on it. Then he turns and makes for the little back door and goes through.)
Gaskell: You'll never get away with this, you porn merchant. Blimey!
(He stops and gapes. We cut to his eye-line to see he is standing in a beautiful, green, Tudor garden. In the distance a Tudor house. A girl is sitting on a stone bench, sobbing. Gaskell walks towards her, bewildered.)
Gaskell: Maddox!
(The girl looks up at him with beseeching eyes. She is young and beautiful.)
Girl: Oh good sir, how glad I am to see thee come. Forgive me weeping, but my love has gone.
Gaskell: Er, listen. My name is Caskell ... Superintendent Caskell of Vice Squad. Myself and Sergeant Maddox are on a raid. We are not Tudor people. We are the police.
(An Elizabethan gentleman appears through the trees.)
Father: Frances, what idleness is this? Why, good Sir Philip Sidney, (he bows extravagantly to Gaskell) What hast thee here?
Girl: (turning to Caskell with bated breath) You are Sir Philip Sidney?
Gaskell: ... Possibly... but I may be Superintendent Gaskell of the Vice Squad.
Father: Ah good, Sir Philip, thy sharp-tongued wit has not deserted thee. Come. Let us eat and drink. Stay with us awhile.
Gaskell: All right, sir. I think I will.
(They walk off together am in am into the idyllic country garden. The girl looks after them with hope in her eyes. Bring up Elizabethan music......)
SUPERIMPOSED CAPTION: 'THE LIFE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'
(Mix through to a Tudor dining room. At the table a group of Tudor gentry are sitting listening to Gaskell. Evidence of a banquet, and two minstrels in attendance. Gaskell has obviously just finished a story. Applause and laughter.)
Gaskell: . .. then did we bust the Harry Tony mob, who did seek to import Scandinavian filth via Germany. For six years they cleaned up a packet - the day I got whiff of them through a squealer and within one week did a mop-up right good. They're now languishing doing five years bird in Parkhurst.
(Applause. They are all very impressed. Cut to exterior. A messenger on a horse rides full pelt straight towards the camera. It is dusk. He stops outside the Elizabethan house, leaps off and dashes into the house. Cut to interior again. They are still all laughing from his last story. The messenger bunts into room.)
Messenger: Sir Philip. The Spaniards have landed in the Netherlands. My Lord Walsingham needs you there forthwith.
Gaskell: Let's go.
(Cut to exterior. Gaskell is seated on the back of the messenger's horse and they gallop off. The dinner crowd are standing waving on the doorstep.)
Dinner Crowd: Good luck, Sir Philip!
(Cut to a British standard fluttering in the breeze against the blue sky. Fanfare. Two Elizabethan gentlemen, and four men dressed as Elizabethan soldiers are standing on a cliff top. Gaskell strides up to them, and takes up position on topmost point of the knoll.)
Gaskell: Where are the Spaniards?
Elizabethan Gent: Down below Sir Philip, their first boats are landing even now.
(Shot of a sailing-galley seen from above.)
Gaskell: Right, you stay here, I'll go and get them.
Elizabethan Gent: Sir Philip! Not alone!
(Cut to the beach. Suspense music. Gaskell strides up to the camera, until he is towering over it. The music reaches crescendo.)
Gaskell: Allo allo! What's going on here?
(Cut to beached rowing boat piled high with bundles of dirty magazines. Two Spaniards are unloading it.)
Spaniard: Ees nothing, Senor, ees just some literature.
Gaskell: I know what literature is, you dago dustbin. I also know what porn is. (pulls out a loose magazine and brandishes it) What's this then eh?
Spaniard: It is one of Lope De Vega's latest play, Senor.
Gaskell: 'Toledo Tit Parade'? What sort of play's that?
Spaniard: It's very visual, Senor.
Gaskell: Right. I'm taking this lot in the name of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth.
Spaniard: Oh, but Senor.
Gaskell: Don't give me any trouble. Just pile up these baskets of filth and come with me.
(The second Spaniard leaps out of the boat with a drawn sword and they both engage Gashell in a fight. Then we start to draw away from them, leaving them tiny dots in the distance fighting. Fight music over all this and voice over.)
Voice Over: The battle raged long and hard, but as night fell Sidney overcame the Spaniards. 6,000 copies of 'Tits and Bums' and 4,000 copies of 'Shower Sheila' were seized that day. The tide of Spanish porn was stemmed. Sir Philip Sidney returned to London in triumph.
(Cut to stock film of Elizabethan London street during celebrations.)
SUPERIMPOSED CAPTION: 'LONDON 1583'
(Cut to side on close up of Gaskell riding hard through woodland)
Voice Over: Covered in glory, Sir Philip rode home to Pensburst to see. his beloved wife... but all was not well.
(Gaskell runs up outside another Tudor house and strides in. Cut to interior of an Elizabethan room - paneled walls, log fire, latticed windows, etc. Sir Philip's wife is sitting reading. Gaskell enters.)
Gaskell: Good evening all, my love. I have returned safe from the Low Countries. (she hurriedly hides the book she is reading under some knitting and starts whistling) What an thou reading, fair one?
Wife: Oh, 'tis nothing, husband.
Gaskell: I can see 'tis something.
Wife: 'Tis one of Shakespeare's latest works.
(Gaskell picks up the book and reads the title.)
Gaskell: Oh ... 'Gay Boys in Bondage' What, is't - tragedy? Comedy?
Wife: 'Tis a... er... 'tis a story of man's great love for his... fellow man.
Gaskell: How fortunate we are indeed to have such a poet on these shores.
Wife: Indeed. How was the war, my lord?
Gaskell: The Spaniards were defeated thrice. Six dozen chests of hardcore captured.
Wife: (trying to look innocent) Hast thee brought home any spoils of war?
Gaskell: Yes, good my wife, this fair coat trimmed with ermine.
Wife: (without enthusiasm) Oh, lovely, nowt else?
Gaskell: No, no fair lady. The rest was too smutty.
(He settles himself down in front of his lady's feet and the fire.)
Gaskell: Now, my good wife. Whilst I rest, read to me a while from Shakespeare's 'Gay Boys in Bondage'.
(The wife looks a trifle taken aback but reluctantly opens the book and starts to read with a resigned air.)
Wife: Yes... my lord ... 'Gay Boys in Bondage' . .. Ken, 25, is a mounted policeman with a difference... and what a difference. Even Roger is surprised and he's... (she looks slightly, sick with guilt) he's used to real men ...
Gaskell: 'Tis like 'Hamlet' ... what a genius!
Wife: 'But who's going to do the cooking tonight? Roddy's got a mouthful...'
(Enter Maddox - a modern-day plain-clothed policeman.)
Maddox: All right, this is a raid.
(The wife screams, Gaskell leaps to his feet.)
Wife: Oh! We are disgraced!
Gaskell: There you are, Maddox!
Maddox: Cut the chat... and get in the van.
Gaskell: Maddox! You recognize me...
Maddox: Indeed I do, Sir Philip Sidney, and sad I am to see you caught up in this morass of filth, (he picks up the book) ooh - that's a long one.
Wife: Oh oh... the glorious name of Sidney is besmirched ... all is lost ... oh alas the day.
Gaskell: Shut upl I know this man - this is my old mate Sergeant Maddox...
Maddox: You'll do time for this.
Gaskell: Oh Maddox - it's me - Gaskell ... 'F' division down at Acton ... Inspector Arthur Frodwell.
Maddox: Come on Sidney. (he bundles them both out) And you, miss.
Gaskell: I'm not Sir Philip bleedin' Sidney .... and where were you? We could have mopped up that Tudor shop...
(They are bundled out. Maddox pauses only to pick a book from the bookcase near the door.)
Maddox: Ooht That's a good onel
(Cut to outside a modern theatre stage-door Gaskell, still protesting, and wife are bundled out and into a police van. As it drives off, it reveals on the side of the theatre a poster saying: 'The Aldwych Theatre, The Royal Shakespeare Company Presents "Gay Boys In Bondage" By William Shakespeare'.)
I Guess the Bard never perhaps thought of it so well....
No no, its not anything to do with my nearly non-existent social life... nearly extinct blog life, or disgruntlingly short Orkut life....
It has something to do with Monty Python. This is a sketch on pornographic bookstore...
The cast:
SECOND ASSISTANT
Eric Idle
NID
John Cleese
FIRST ASSISTANT
Terry Jones
MAN
Terry
GASKELL
Michael Palin
FATHER
Terry Jones
MESSENGER
Terry Jones
ELIZABETH GENT
Eric Idle
SPANIARD
Terry Jones
VOICE OVER
Terry Jones
WIFE
Carol Cleveland
MADDOX
Graham Chapman
The sketch:
(We see a bare room with a counter and magazines in racks on the walls at eye-level. Three drably dressed men are thumbing through books. One of them is a vicar, one of them is gathering a huge pile. Behind the counter is a Soho toughie in Tudor gear showing books to Mr Nid a tweedy, rather academic, respectable-looking man of senior years. The customer goes through, and the wall slides back.)
Second Assistant: There's a 'Bridget - Queen of the Whip'.
Nid: Yes..,
Second Assistant: Or 'Naughty Nora'... or there's this one: 'Doug, Bob and Gordon Visit the Ark Royal'. Or there's 'Sister Teresa - The Spanking Nun'.
Nid: Mmmm... I see ... you don't have anything specially about Devon and Cornwall?
Second Assistant: No. I'm afraid not, sir.
Nid: The one I was really after was Arthur Hotchkiss's 'Devonshire Country Churches'.
Second Assistant: Well how about this, sir: 'Bum Biters'.
Nid: No ... not really ... I don't suppose you have any general surveys of English Church architecture?
Second Assistant: No, it's not really our line, sir.
Nid: No, I see. Well, never mind I'll just take the 'Lord Lieutenant in Nylons' then, and these two copies of 'Piggie Parade'. Thank you.
Second Assistant: Right, sir.
First Assistant: (voice over) My Lord of Warwick.
Second Assistant: 'Allo?
First Assistant: (voice over) Raise high the drawbridge. Gloucester's troops approach!
Second Assistant: Right.
(He presses a button below counter and the wall slides back. The man with the big pile of books comes up to counter.)
Man: Just these, then.
(Enter Gaskell in Tudor gear. The wall closes up behind him.)
Gaskell: All right. This is a raid. My name is Superintendent Gaskell and this is Sergeant Maddox.
Second Assistant: Ah! Sir Philip Sidney. 'Tis good to see thee on these shores again.
Gaskell: Shut up.
Second Assistant: Your suit is fair and goodly cut. Was't from Antwerp?
Gaskell: Shut up. It's a disguise. Right! Confiscate the smutty books, Maddox.
Second Assistant: Sir Philip!. Prithee nay!
Gaskell: Listen, mate! Don't come that Philip Sidney bit with me. I'm not a bloody Tudor at all. I'm Gaskell of the Vice Squad and this is Sergeant Maddox. ',
(They all look at him blankly. He looks to Maddox for support and realize he isn't there.)
Gaskell: Maddox! Where's he gone?
Second Assistant: Sir Philip, prithee rest awhile.
Gaskell: Look. This is the last time. I'm warning you, I'm not Sir Philip Bleeding Sidney. I am Superintendent Harold Gaskell and this is a raid.
(Everybody resumes their book-buying and ignores him. At the counter the assistant is still totaling up the huge pile of books.)
Second Assistant: That'll be 540 quid sir.
Man: Oh, I'll just have this one then. (takes top one)
Gaskell: Maddox! (addressing everyone in shop; they ignore him) Look, this is a raid. (no reaction) Honestly, I promise you. (people start to leave through the rear door of the shop; Gaskell blocks it) Where are you going?
Customer: I'm going home.
Gaskell: Right. (looks for his notebook but it's not in his Tudor clothing) I'll remember you. Don't you worry. I'n remember you...
Customer: Pray good, Sir Philip, that you...
Gaskell: Don't you start! Maddox! (the customer leaves; other customers start to leave) Listen, I can prove to you I'm a policeman. I can give the names of all the men down in 'F' division at Acton: Inspector Arthur Perry, Superintendent Charles Frodwell, my best friend, police dogs, Batch, Wolf, Panther, Maudling. How would I know those names if I was Sir Philip Sidney? (the vicar comes up to counter) Look, vicar, you know me. The Gargoyle Club - I got you off the charge. (the vicar leaves guiltily)
Second Assistant: Farewell, good Sir Philip.
(He goes out carrying a pile of magazines. Then the vicar goes, followed by the Tudor man.)
Gaskell: Hey, stop! (the door slams; Gaskell turns and looks round the empty shop; pause) Maddox!
(He rushes up to the sliding wall and beats on it. Then he turns and makes for the little back door and goes through.)
Gaskell: You'll never get away with this, you porn merchant. Blimey!
(He stops and gapes. We cut to his eye-line to see he is standing in a beautiful, green, Tudor garden. In the distance a Tudor house. A girl is sitting on a stone bench, sobbing. Gaskell walks towards her, bewildered.)
Gaskell: Maddox!
(The girl looks up at him with beseeching eyes. She is young and beautiful.)
Girl: Oh good sir, how glad I am to see thee come. Forgive me weeping, but my love has gone.
Gaskell: Er, listen. My name is Caskell ... Superintendent Caskell of Vice Squad. Myself and Sergeant Maddox are on a raid. We are not Tudor people. We are the police.
(An Elizabethan gentleman appears through the trees.)
Father: Frances, what idleness is this? Why, good Sir Philip Sidney, (he bows extravagantly to Gaskell) What hast thee here?
Girl: (turning to Caskell with bated breath) You are Sir Philip Sidney?
Gaskell: ... Possibly... but I may be Superintendent Gaskell of the Vice Squad.
Father: Ah good, Sir Philip, thy sharp-tongued wit has not deserted thee. Come. Let us eat and drink. Stay with us awhile.
Gaskell: All right, sir. I think I will.
(They walk off together am in am into the idyllic country garden. The girl looks after them with hope in her eyes. Bring up Elizabethan music......)
SUPERIMPOSED CAPTION: 'THE LIFE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'
(Mix through to a Tudor dining room. At the table a group of Tudor gentry are sitting listening to Gaskell. Evidence of a banquet, and two minstrels in attendance. Gaskell has obviously just finished a story. Applause and laughter.)
Gaskell: . .. then did we bust the Harry Tony mob, who did seek to import Scandinavian filth via Germany. For six years they cleaned up a packet - the day I got whiff of them through a squealer and within one week did a mop-up right good. They're now languishing doing five years bird in Parkhurst.
(Applause. They are all very impressed. Cut to exterior. A messenger on a horse rides full pelt straight towards the camera. It is dusk. He stops outside the Elizabethan house, leaps off and dashes into the house. Cut to interior again. They are still all laughing from his last story. The messenger bunts into room.)
Messenger: Sir Philip. The Spaniards have landed in the Netherlands. My Lord Walsingham needs you there forthwith.
Gaskell: Let's go.
(Cut to exterior. Gaskell is seated on the back of the messenger's horse and they gallop off. The dinner crowd are standing waving on the doorstep.)
Dinner Crowd: Good luck, Sir Philip!
(Cut to a British standard fluttering in the breeze against the blue sky. Fanfare. Two Elizabethan gentlemen, and four men dressed as Elizabethan soldiers are standing on a cliff top. Gaskell strides up to them, and takes up position on topmost point of the knoll.)
Gaskell: Where are the Spaniards?
Elizabethan Gent: Down below Sir Philip, their first boats are landing even now.
(Shot of a sailing-galley seen from above.)
Gaskell: Right, you stay here, I'll go and get them.
Elizabethan Gent: Sir Philip! Not alone!
(Cut to the beach. Suspense music. Gaskell strides up to the camera, until he is towering over it. The music reaches crescendo.)
Gaskell: Allo allo! What's going on here?
(Cut to beached rowing boat piled high with bundles of dirty magazines. Two Spaniards are unloading it.)
Spaniard: Ees nothing, Senor, ees just some literature.
Gaskell: I know what literature is, you dago dustbin. I also know what porn is. (pulls out a loose magazine and brandishes it) What's this then eh?
Spaniard: It is one of Lope De Vega's latest play, Senor.
Gaskell: 'Toledo Tit Parade'? What sort of play's that?
Spaniard: It's very visual, Senor.
Gaskell: Right. I'm taking this lot in the name of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth.
Spaniard: Oh, but Senor.
Gaskell: Don't give me any trouble. Just pile up these baskets of filth and come with me.
(The second Spaniard leaps out of the boat with a drawn sword and they both engage Gashell in a fight. Then we start to draw away from them, leaving them tiny dots in the distance fighting. Fight music over all this and voice over.)
Voice Over: The battle raged long and hard, but as night fell Sidney overcame the Spaniards. 6,000 copies of 'Tits and Bums' and 4,000 copies of 'Shower Sheila' were seized that day. The tide of Spanish porn was stemmed. Sir Philip Sidney returned to London in triumph.
(Cut to stock film of Elizabethan London street during celebrations.)
SUPERIMPOSED CAPTION: 'LONDON 1583'
(Cut to side on close up of Gaskell riding hard through woodland)
Voice Over: Covered in glory, Sir Philip rode home to Pensburst to see. his beloved wife... but all was not well.
(Gaskell runs up outside another Tudor house and strides in. Cut to interior of an Elizabethan room - paneled walls, log fire, latticed windows, etc. Sir Philip's wife is sitting reading. Gaskell enters.)
Gaskell: Good evening all, my love. I have returned safe from the Low Countries. (she hurriedly hides the book she is reading under some knitting and starts whistling) What an thou reading, fair one?
Wife: Oh, 'tis nothing, husband.
Gaskell: I can see 'tis something.
Wife: 'Tis one of Shakespeare's latest works.
(Gaskell picks up the book and reads the title.)
Gaskell: Oh ... 'Gay Boys in Bondage' What, is't - tragedy? Comedy?
Wife: 'Tis a... er... 'tis a story of man's great love for his... fellow man.
Gaskell: How fortunate we are indeed to have such a poet on these shores.
Wife: Indeed. How was the war, my lord?
Gaskell: The Spaniards were defeated thrice. Six dozen chests of hardcore captured.
Wife: (trying to look innocent) Hast thee brought home any spoils of war?
Gaskell: Yes, good my wife, this fair coat trimmed with ermine.
Wife: (without enthusiasm) Oh, lovely, nowt else?
Gaskell: No, no fair lady. The rest was too smutty.
(He settles himself down in front of his lady's feet and the fire.)
Gaskell: Now, my good wife. Whilst I rest, read to me a while from Shakespeare's 'Gay Boys in Bondage'.
(The wife looks a trifle taken aback but reluctantly opens the book and starts to read with a resigned air.)
Wife: Yes... my lord ... 'Gay Boys in Bondage' . .. Ken, 25, is a mounted policeman with a difference... and what a difference. Even Roger is surprised and he's... (she looks slightly, sick with guilt) he's used to real men ...
Gaskell: 'Tis like 'Hamlet' ... what a genius!
Wife: 'But who's going to do the cooking tonight? Roddy's got a mouthful...'
(Enter Maddox - a modern-day plain-clothed policeman.)
Maddox: All right, this is a raid.
(The wife screams, Gaskell leaps to his feet.)
Wife: Oh! We are disgraced!
Gaskell: There you are, Maddox!
Maddox: Cut the chat... and get in the van.
Gaskell: Maddox! You recognize me...
Maddox: Indeed I do, Sir Philip Sidney, and sad I am to see you caught up in this morass of filth, (he picks up the book) ooh - that's a long one.
Wife: Oh oh... the glorious name of Sidney is besmirched ... all is lost ... oh alas the day.
Gaskell: Shut upl I know this man - this is my old mate Sergeant Maddox...
Maddox: You'll do time for this.
Gaskell: Oh Maddox - it's me - Gaskell ... 'F' division down at Acton ... Inspector Arthur Frodwell.
Maddox: Come on Sidney. (he bundles them both out) And you, miss.
Gaskell: I'm not Sir Philip bleedin' Sidney .... and where were you? We could have mopped up that Tudor shop...
(They are bundled out. Maddox pauses only to pick a book from the bookcase near the door.)
Maddox: Ooht That's a good onel
(Cut to outside a modern theatre stage-door Gaskell, still protesting, and wife are bundled out and into a police van. As it drives off, it reveals on the side of the theatre a poster saying: 'The Aldwych Theatre, The Royal Shakespeare Company Presents "Gay Boys In Bondage" By William Shakespeare'.)
I Guess the Bard never perhaps thought of it so well....
August 16, 2006
Its all in my Head...
"I repeat, is there anyone home???
Silence.
Claustrophobia drag me down. Inside myself, there is so little space.
So I try to summon my others to find the way out... unfortunately they were all covered with a brown mass of semi-solidity."
Inside every fat girl there is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Mine is called Panu.
And Panu comes out as a vivacious redhead, with a temper to match her inclination to have sex on the kitchen table during dinner. With Matt Damon or Hugh Jackman. Unfortunately, the mirror tells her another story. The mirror never lies. It just points out that though she might have been all the rage in an Arabic Harem, they are not really in high fash now...
So Panu decided to be bisexual to accomodate all her needs.
Hey presto! Flocks of females flocked around her... she promised love to all.... and at the end of the day realized, she was becoming as sleazy as any man. By the way, she loved it.
Butt then, reality check was necessary. One day, a handu gandu prince drove in his white innova and decided to make the woman, in which Panu recided, his bride.
And then he decided (poor doctor that he was) to give Panu a lecture on Hamlet.
Well... needless to say, all the bull he doled out led Panu to disagree. The woman tried to stop her, but Panu could not stop speaking.....
And well, they did not live happily ever after. No one really does, actually. Trouble was, Panu was too outspoken for their taste.
And the beat went on, the search continued..... And Panu was glad she was alone.
Silence.
Claustrophobia drag me down. Inside myself, there is so little space.
So I try to summon my others to find the way out... unfortunately they were all covered with a brown mass of semi-solidity."
Inside every fat girl there is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Mine is called Panu.
And Panu comes out as a vivacious redhead, with a temper to match her inclination to have sex on the kitchen table during dinner. With Matt Damon or Hugh Jackman. Unfortunately, the mirror tells her another story. The mirror never lies. It just points out that though she might have been all the rage in an Arabic Harem, they are not really in high fash now...
So Panu decided to be bisexual to accomodate all her needs.
Hey presto! Flocks of females flocked around her... she promised love to all.... and at the end of the day realized, she was becoming as sleazy as any man. By the way, she loved it.
Butt then, reality check was necessary. One day, a handu gandu prince drove in his white innova and decided to make the woman, in which Panu recided, his bride.
And then he decided (poor doctor that he was) to give Panu a lecture on Hamlet.
Well... needless to say, all the bull he doled out led Panu to disagree. The woman tried to stop her, but Panu could not stop speaking.....
And well, they did not live happily ever after. No one really does, actually. Trouble was, Panu was too outspoken for their taste.
And the beat went on, the search continued..... And Panu was glad she was alone.
August 08, 2006
Ah the Pains of being Alive....
I did not see you today
Reclining in the shade of the tree
Rings of cigarette smoke swirling around
The white shirt clinging wetly to your sweat-soaked skin.
On a more prosaic mode, I dare say I have been extremely busy trying to avoid an ex-flame whom I have met up in JU.... Buggerit! As if I care!!
Reclining in the shade of the tree
Rings of cigarette smoke swirling around
The white shirt clinging wetly to your sweat-soaked skin.
On a more prosaic mode, I dare say I have been extremely busy trying to avoid an ex-flame whom I have met up in JU.... Buggerit! As if I care!!
August 02, 2006
And we begin the Pujo Countdown
Panu the shameless bargainer has yet again begun her Eternal Quest for the Perfect Top. Those who come to their workplace everyday in the same pair of torn jeans with a scratchy crotch never knows what a buxom lady with an eye for Gucchi goes through before the ten-armed Goddess appears with her four semi-freak kids (one of them semi-bestial, I daresay).
On a cold day in end July, Panu was wandering lonely as a cloud near Gariahat, Kolkata, minding her own way, being delicately groped by an elderly uncle whose left foot was dangerously near her stilettos, when lo and behold! She spied from yon bus window the word Sale and 50% off on the doors of Pantaloons.
Oh Joy! Oh Glory! Oh Joyful Glory! What gratifying sight that was! A place to shop without the hassle of people pushing her sideways, no worry of a picked pocket, a safe place to keep her heavy bag, and above all-----------
On a cold day in end July, Panu was wandering lonely as a cloud near Gariahat, Kolkata, minding her own way, being delicately groped by an elderly uncle whose left foot was dangerously near her stilettos, when lo and behold! She spied from yon bus window the word Sale and 50% off on the doors of Pantaloons.
Oh Joy! Oh Glory! Oh Joyful Glory! What gratifying sight that was! A place to shop without the hassle of people pushing her sideways, no worry of a picked pocket, a safe place to keep her heavy bag, and above all-----------
the changing room where she could try out all the stuffs she carried.
YAY!
The very next day brought Panu to Pantaloons.
Oh no! How can this be?? Only yesterday did the sale begin... how come so many people stood before her, waiting for their baggages to be hefted in by the security people???
The interior looked no better.
People here, people there. People virtually everywhere.
She ran towards the Kurta section. Pantaloons (till very recently) sported a fab-u-lous kurtis. She had espied one a mere week ago. Oh please God! Let there be top.
No sign of the damn thing. Who was the dumbass who said God is great? Take it from me dude, he is'nt.
Suddenly, a glimmer of burnt orange beckoned from a faraway corner. Panu whirled.
Ohdearlord!!!
You ARE there!!
Thank you lord... thank you thankyou thankyou----
Oh damn, who's that fat-arsed cow and whats she doing staring at me like that there?? Why is she glaring at me??
Oh!
That was the mirror.
Well, she snatched the desired kurta and ran towards the changing room...
Twenty metres to touchdown...
Fifteen.....
Ten.....
Eight.......
Oh damn!!! Whats that line?
Caught!
A long line befell Panu. Saree clad women preceeded Panu. She stared helplessly at the long queue. Women glared. It would take at least an hour to get to the changing room.
Reluctantly she turned around.... resignedly she called the valiant Andromeda, her trusty sidekick.
So here I have a great question that I must ask you....
And here the eternal question of womanhood is asked----
Is it looking good on me?? Am I looking good in this??
Two questions with fabulously different senses....
Anyway, Andromeda shook her head and decided to be diplomatic.
You look good in both.
Just when I dont need diplomacy.
One desperate attempt was made. Panu picked up one and headed for the cash counter.
Payments made, she came out.
And Andromeda had to open her mouth.
You know, I think the other one was better.
OH Darn it!!
July 16, 2006
Three Weddings, a Cell, and a Name
Those of you were thinking Panu would take another year to recover from the horror of Kriish, guess again! Here is the one and only, everyone’s truly... ambling on with her rambling self again. And this time there is plenty to ramble about.
I always thought that naming people could be eminently easy… here in Kolkata, a name is one of the easiest thing to find. I found mine with my great-paternal-aunt-grandmother (i.e. she was my father’s great-paternal aunt) Rajlakshmi Devi. Unfortunately, the name also brought its side effects, one of which is the direct result of my blog name, given to me by my aunt, S***** B********… I mean, imagine yourself being called Panu (means ‘Porn’ in Bengali, for the advantage of those who didn’t know) all your school, college and University life… especially when your family did not know the meaning of Panu, though they are Bengali sods through and through. But put yourself in my position, and imagine you being called by that name all over an amusement park by your uncle, and people looking with scandalous amusement at the defaulter of civil laws, not to mention some parents who put both their palms over their children’s ears… and at the end of the days just going and telling your uncle what exactly the implication of your name was. And then watch him blush despite his Brown-skinned complexion.
Well, er, where were we?? Oh right… the naming.
So dear professor asked… What should be she named… My little daughter… what Identity should I give her?
Name. Name. Name.
They came by bags, by dozens, by thousands and hundreds. I looked and looked over… and finally chose a few that I wanted him to contemplate.
The final five were -
Srutipriya, Spriha, Taijasa, Shaipatri, Supoorna.
And then came the selection time.
Srutipriya (Someone who loves listening)
Advantage: Knowing my professor, I would say that will have to be an essential virtue for those who live with him.
Disadvantage: She wont be able to spell it (both in Bengali and English) before class V.
Spriha (Zeal)
Advantage: same as above
Disadvantage: too short. And it can be shortened to Spree… that sounds like a new cold drink.
Taijasa (According to the Upanishads, the second last stage of the greater consciousness)
Advantage: lovely meaning. Very deep and all that.
Disadvantage: can be shortened to Taijash… and then taijashpatra… that is the sanskrit for Bay leaf.
Shaipatri (Erm… meaning unsure… something to do with a friend)
Advantage: sounds lovely.
Disadvantage: can be shortened to shoi… that’s the Bengali for autograph.
Supoorna (Well completed)
Advantage: lovely meaning. Completed in a good way and all that.
Disadvantage: will be shortened to Supu in school and soup in college. I really don’t think someone wants to get stuck with a name that's compatible with ‘sweet corn chicken’.
On another note, after 117 days of rigorous saving and scraping her precious money, Panu is now the proud owner of a new NOKIA 6600. Yay! Future blog posts will be hopefully a bit more scenic.
And finally, on to the BIG NEWS!!
Firstly, I shall warn you people who still are patiently reading this post that the following things happened on the span of 29 hours… from 2.00 a.m. of 12th July to 7.00 a.m. of 13th July. Off we go!
2.00 a.m. Panu gets a call from a very odd number.
“Hello.”
“Hello this is S***** here hon, guess what I am doing now“
“Huh! Oh yeah, you’re at San Francisco???”
“Yes… and I am Married!!”
Panu sits up on the bed. At wide alert mode.
“Married?? To whom?”
“B*** stupid! Who else?”
“Congrats!! I am so glad for you two.”
“Here, he wants to talk to you.”
Phone is handed over to B***
“Hey”
“Hi!”
“So you are the famous Panu who’s been bringing my S***** to sense. All I can say is Thanks.”
“No probs… treat S***** right or else!”
“Sure! Anyway, we owe you a big deal, Panu.”
“Oh please---“
“No really…”
Panu at this point of time hears the phone being snatched over. The voice of S***** comes back.
“Hon, would have chatted more… but you see…”
“No No! You guys… please… put the phone down… your phone bill… must be skyrocketing.”
“I’ll call you later. And I owe you one.”
“Yeah, enjoy babe.”
“BYE!!”
-click-
S***** was the first crush I had. When I was in class 6, and he was in class 12. After 6 years, I found out he was gay. Early last year, he was cut up about his break-up with a married man, who used him abominably, and for which he attempted to commit suicide, and would have succeeded perhaps. I am no Mother Teresa, but I cant see a guy hurting. So I counseled him for a while and he left for USA. Later last year, he met B*** and fell in love all over again. Brad’s a bit older, but I know they will be happy. Don’t ask me why. I just do.
That day, I was supposed to attend a distant cousin’s marriage. So I fell asleep planning what to wear with my sari.
9.00 a.m.
Phone rings again. A groggy Panu picks it up.
“H’lo”
“Panu I’m getting married, come over right now.”
“Yeah right” -–slam—
Phone rings again. Irritation laces Panu as she picks up the damn cell.
“Hello??”
“Hello, I’m Sayanti’s Mother speaking.”
Panu knows this voice.
“Hello Kakima”
“I think you should come over. Sayanti’s getting married.”
“Huh!??!”
“No joke my dear. The marriage was fixed Sunday night at 3.00 a.m. We are still calling people up. Come over please… I need more helpers right away.”
The day closed into night with a strange sense of unreality. I saw a dear friend getting married to a man she had known for only three days. She was so mature all of a sudden. Was this the same Sayanti who had been wearing a pair of shorts and a spaghetti top only a fortnight back? I looked and searched for the girl, and found the woman, chanting along with the priest in a strange, heavy voice. At night we joked, we made comments to the new bridegroom who was equally cool and casual. And when she left, I felt empty. The ruins of the marquee in the community hall was strangely bare, and I who had always been a jewel for making comments realized I had nothing to say to all that went on for the day and the night. Nothing at all. I just felt… strangely… relieved. As if, there was hope for me too.
I always thought that naming people could be eminently easy… here in Kolkata, a name is one of the easiest thing to find. I found mine with my great-paternal-aunt-grandmother (i.e. she was my father’s great-paternal aunt) Rajlakshmi Devi. Unfortunately, the name also brought its side effects, one of which is the direct result of my blog name, given to me by my aunt, S***** B********… I mean, imagine yourself being called Panu (means ‘Porn’ in Bengali, for the advantage of those who didn’t know) all your school, college and University life… especially when your family did not know the meaning of Panu, though they are Bengali sods through and through. But put yourself in my position, and imagine you being called by that name all over an amusement park by your uncle, and people looking with scandalous amusement at the defaulter of civil laws, not to mention some parents who put both their palms over their children’s ears… and at the end of the days just going and telling your uncle what exactly the implication of your name was. And then watch him blush despite his Brown-skinned complexion.
Well, er, where were we?? Oh right… the naming.
So dear professor asked… What should be she named… My little daughter… what Identity should I give her?
Name. Name. Name.
They came by bags, by dozens, by thousands and hundreds. I looked and looked over… and finally chose a few that I wanted him to contemplate.
The final five were -
Srutipriya, Spriha, Taijasa, Shaipatri, Supoorna.
And then came the selection time.
Srutipriya (Someone who loves listening)
Advantage: Knowing my professor, I would say that will have to be an essential virtue for those who live with him.
Disadvantage: She wont be able to spell it (both in Bengali and English) before class V.
Spriha (Zeal)
Advantage: same as above
Disadvantage: too short. And it can be shortened to Spree… that sounds like a new cold drink.
Taijasa (According to the Upanishads, the second last stage of the greater consciousness)
Advantage: lovely meaning. Very deep and all that.
Disadvantage: can be shortened to Taijash… and then taijashpatra… that is the sanskrit for Bay leaf.
Shaipatri (Erm… meaning unsure… something to do with a friend)
Advantage: sounds lovely.
Disadvantage: can be shortened to shoi… that’s the Bengali for autograph.
Supoorna (Well completed)
Advantage: lovely meaning. Completed in a good way and all that.
Disadvantage: will be shortened to Supu in school and soup in college. I really don’t think someone wants to get stuck with a name that's compatible with ‘sweet corn chicken’.
On another note, after 117 days of rigorous saving and scraping her precious money, Panu is now the proud owner of a new NOKIA 6600. Yay! Future blog posts will be hopefully a bit more scenic.
And finally, on to the BIG NEWS!!
Firstly, I shall warn you people who still are patiently reading this post that the following things happened on the span of 29 hours… from 2.00 a.m. of 12th July to 7.00 a.m. of 13th July. Off we go!
2.00 a.m. Panu gets a call from a very odd number.
“Hello.”
“Hello this is S***** here hon, guess what I am doing now“
“Huh! Oh yeah, you’re at San Francisco???”
“Yes… and I am Married!!”
Panu sits up on the bed. At wide alert mode.
“Married?? To whom?”
“B*** stupid! Who else?”
“Congrats!! I am so glad for you two.”
“Here, he wants to talk to you.”
Phone is handed over to B***
“Hey”
“Hi!”
“So you are the famous Panu who’s been bringing my S***** to sense. All I can say is Thanks.”
“No probs… treat S***** right or else!”
“Sure! Anyway, we owe you a big deal, Panu.”
“Oh please---“
“No really…”
Panu at this point of time hears the phone being snatched over. The voice of S***** comes back.
“Hon, would have chatted more… but you see…”
“No No! You guys… please… put the phone down… your phone bill… must be skyrocketing.”
“I’ll call you later. And I owe you one.”
“Yeah, enjoy babe.”
“BYE!!”
-click-
S***** was the first crush I had. When I was in class 6, and he was in class 12. After 6 years, I found out he was gay. Early last year, he was cut up about his break-up with a married man, who used him abominably, and for which he attempted to commit suicide, and would have succeeded perhaps. I am no Mother Teresa, but I cant see a guy hurting. So I counseled him for a while and he left for USA. Later last year, he met B*** and fell in love all over again. Brad’s a bit older, but I know they will be happy. Don’t ask me why. I just do.
That day, I was supposed to attend a distant cousin’s marriage. So I fell asleep planning what to wear with my sari.
9.00 a.m.
Phone rings again. A groggy Panu picks it up.
“H’lo”
“Panu I’m getting married, come over right now.”
“Yeah right” -–slam—
Phone rings again. Irritation laces Panu as she picks up the damn cell.
“Hello??”
“Hello, I’m Sayanti’s Mother speaking.”
Panu knows this voice.
“Hello Kakima”
“I think you should come over. Sayanti’s getting married.”
“Huh!??!”
“No joke my dear. The marriage was fixed Sunday night at 3.00 a.m. We are still calling people up. Come over please… I need more helpers right away.”
The day closed into night with a strange sense of unreality. I saw a dear friend getting married to a man she had known for only three days. She was so mature all of a sudden. Was this the same Sayanti who had been wearing a pair of shorts and a spaghetti top only a fortnight back? I looked and searched for the girl, and found the woman, chanting along with the priest in a strange, heavy voice. At night we joked, we made comments to the new bridegroom who was equally cool and casual. And when she left, I felt empty. The ruins of the marquee in the community hall was strangely bare, and I who had always been a jewel for making comments realized I had nothing to say to all that went on for the day and the night. Nothing at all. I just felt… strangely… relieved. As if, there was hope for me too.
July 01, 2006
Kr-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiish
Down the rivers of Baby-lone this porno-loving beeyach went to spend her hard earned money on yet another muscle-bound flick because it was a boring saturday afternoon and she had nothing else to do.
So she was snared by fellow wannabe profess-whore Anni who dragged her to the nearest sleaze-theatre where every song was greeted by dudes dancing on the seats, and the first sight of the STAR earned him roars of appreciation and Sities (I.E. Long, pronounced whistles). Twice Panu's coke was spilled because the arse-jerk beside her had to scream "Hrithik!!!"
This Offended Panu. Seriously, did he think Panu was so ignorant as to not know whose flick it was?
Please!
And though I know Indian blogsphere is protected by a certain jock-slapping-fat-arsed-haute-beeyach with fabulous complexion (enough to give me a complex), but someone had to take up the position Shaktiman left off and Hatim wasnt really cutting it. Places like tank.com called Kriish the most awaited Hrithik movie, the sequel to the famous spastic superdream Koi Mil Gaya, that made the word alien second famous in the hindi dictionary, the first one being Jaggu.... erm Jaadoo (name of that particular alien who was featured there, means magic).
And after seeing it I can say that those of us who love hindi films taken to the levels of absurdity by copy-paste should go and see Kriish.
Remember Paycheck?? The Ben Affleck flick?? A computer that can see the future?? There.
Remember Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon??? Those IMPOSSIBLE leaps made by Chow Yun Fat, Michelle Yeoh and Zang Ziyi?? There too.
Remember Spiderman?? The spider-walks and hangs??? There as well.
Enough Remembering. All in all, the morale of this story is never cross no spastic papa who has a wannabe superhero at home.
But anyhow, the only saving grace of this movie was the star. It was enough to see that Hrithik's long absence from the movie world has not lessened his ability to act. He still can. Very well indeed. And he was the sole reason why I did not walk away after viewing the first half. And maybe because I loved the cinematography.
And perhaps because I loved the muscles.... what flesh...
I should get laid. I should.
I mean, I have been reduced to watching Chunkey Pandey on filmy channel on a sunday evening!!
Help....
So she was snared by fellow wannabe profess-whore Anni who dragged her to the nearest sleaze-theatre where every song was greeted by dudes dancing on the seats, and the first sight of the STAR earned him roars of appreciation and Sities (I.E. Long, pronounced whistles). Twice Panu's coke was spilled because the arse-jerk beside her had to scream "Hrithik!!!"
This Offended Panu. Seriously, did he think Panu was so ignorant as to not know whose flick it was?
Please!
And though I know Indian blogsphere is protected by a certain jock-slapping-fat-arsed-haute-beeyach with fabulous complexion (enough to give me a complex), but someone had to take up the position Shaktiman left off and Hatim wasnt really cutting it. Places like tank.com called Kriish the most awaited Hrithik movie, the sequel to the famous spastic superdream Koi Mil Gaya, that made the word alien second famous in the hindi dictionary, the first one being Jaggu.... erm Jaadoo (name of that particular alien who was featured there, means magic).
And after seeing it I can say that those of us who love hindi films taken to the levels of absurdity by copy-paste should go and see Kriish.
Remember Paycheck?? The Ben Affleck flick?? A computer that can see the future?? There.
Remember Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon??? Those IMPOSSIBLE leaps made by Chow Yun Fat, Michelle Yeoh and Zang Ziyi?? There too.
Remember Spiderman?? The spider-walks and hangs??? There as well.
Enough Remembering. All in all, the morale of this story is never cross no spastic papa who has a wannabe superhero at home.
But anyhow, the only saving grace of this movie was the star. It was enough to see that Hrithik's long absence from the movie world has not lessened his ability to act. He still can. Very well indeed. And he was the sole reason why I did not walk away after viewing the first half. And maybe because I loved the cinematography.
And perhaps because I loved the muscles.... what flesh...
I should get laid. I should.
I mean, I have been reduced to watching Chunkey Pandey on filmy channel on a sunday evening!!
Help....
June 22, 2006
To My First Best Friend...
Roshun,
*I am writing this down because you gave me virtually no warning of your departure to Hyderabad.*
This is not a letter where I would be all nostalgic and dippy and sobby sobby, and recall all the times we got each other into deep shit. This is not a letter where I would give you old counsel like the Ladki ki ma and say ta ta to you and go off in a merry manner.
This letter is to tell you that we won't perhaps be meeting again as we did, be happy in that innocent manner that we were, or even have the same surname (what with you getting married and all).... but baby, you were the first ever friend I had, and thats why you hold a very verrry verrrrrry special place in my bloated soul, and you will have that for as long as I live and breathe (until and unless I have alzheimer's or go into a coma.... disasters not to be taken into cosequence). We have had 20 long years of friendship.... and I wish for many more... even if we do not see each other as often as school, or even college.
When I kept the phone down the other day, and realized that this is perhaps the last time before you begin a new life in another city, I felt so damn sad, not exactly because my friend was going away, but because it was you. And I was worried. 'What if's crowded my mind. I have looked out for you for so long now, I feel bereft because you are gone.
I sound like a damn funeral march. But I am actually happy for you. Very happy. Finally you are gone to a place where they wont hurt you anymore. I am so damn relieved. I love you, you know. Right down to your not-so-fat arse.....
Come on baby, you Know I will never stop making fun of you, I mean, I will commit suicide the very day I fail to respond to a jibe from you.
With muh blessings, fly away. By the time you read this, it will probably be an old post in my blog. But you know what they say, about gold, old and other rhyming words...my poetess.
Keep being the way you are,
Peyaj.
*I am writing this down because you gave me virtually no warning of your departure to Hyderabad.*
This is not a letter where I would be all nostalgic and dippy and sobby sobby, and recall all the times we got each other into deep shit. This is not a letter where I would give you old counsel like the Ladki ki ma and say ta ta to you and go off in a merry manner.
This letter is to tell you that we won't perhaps be meeting again as we did, be happy in that innocent manner that we were, or even have the same surname (what with you getting married and all).... but baby, you were the first ever friend I had, and thats why you hold a very verrry verrrrrry special place in my bloated soul, and you will have that for as long as I live and breathe (until and unless I have alzheimer's or go into a coma.... disasters not to be taken into cosequence). We have had 20 long years of friendship.... and I wish for many more... even if we do not see each other as often as school, or even college.
When I kept the phone down the other day, and realized that this is perhaps the last time before you begin a new life in another city, I felt so damn sad, not exactly because my friend was going away, but because it was you. And I was worried. 'What if's crowded my mind. I have looked out for you for so long now, I feel bereft because you are gone.
I sound like a damn funeral march. But I am actually happy for you. Very happy. Finally you are gone to a place where they wont hurt you anymore. I am so damn relieved. I love you, you know. Right down to your not-so-fat arse.....
Come on baby, you Know I will never stop making fun of you, I mean, I will commit suicide the very day I fail to respond to a jibe from you.
With muh blessings, fly away. By the time you read this, it will probably be an old post in my blog. But you know what they say, about gold, old and other rhyming words...my poetess.
Keep being the way you are,
Peyaj.
June 18, 2006
Bus Stop Blues
Whenever I need sonmething God refuses point blank to give it to me. And the glaring example is a bus in time.
Today, Adt called up.
"Darling I need so-and-so-cream from A*** please get it for me I need it byebye[click]"
Okay. The cream's worth a bunch, so I had to go.
In the heat of the afternoon at 4.00 p.m. kolkata time, Panu stands in the deserted bus stop waiting for a bus to arrive.
No Bus.
5 minutes later
NO BUS.
5 more minutes pass by
NO FREAKING BUS.
Panu looks up to the shade of the tree over her.
Now the equivocation begins...
Oh please crow, dont shit on me. Oh Lord, get that Goddamn Bus!
Oh please crow, nice crow.
Sweet crow.
5 more minutes
Panu gets desperate. No freaking Bus still.
O No, something gleam in the distant horizon. A bus!! A BUS!! Oh LORD, thou Exist!
Route 45. O no, God is dead. Bleeding Nietzche!!!
The first commandment in Bus Bible comes to mind at this point to Panu's heat-encrusted brain.
thou shalt not get up on a route 45 bus until it is a matter of life and death
This Was a matter of life and death.
The reason why I hate this bus.
- Groping by extremely uncool people, most of them over the age 45.
- Glares from overdressed Marus who go into constant boob-comparison.
- Constant leers from the conductor who acts as if he has never seen someone over 130 pounds/60kgs in jeas and kurta.
- The Lebulojensaala... dont wanna explain this one.
- Bus moves in extremities... either extremely fast or...
- Pickpockets and con artists who has taken the level of pinching goods to the height of artistry.
No FREAKING WAY!
Panu gets up on the bus. A moment later, zooms past the Bus of her dreams. CRAP!
Panu gets down. Takes an auto to the destination. Zooms past another bus. Crap repeated. Panu gets real turdy by this point.
SO THERE!!
Off my chest...
P.S. here's the pictures promised of HUGH.
Today, Adt called up.
"Darling I need so-and-so-cream from A*** please get it for me I need it byebye[click]"
Okay. The cream's worth a bunch, so I had to go.
In the heat of the afternoon at 4.00 p.m. kolkata time, Panu stands in the deserted bus stop waiting for a bus to arrive.
No Bus.
5 minutes later
NO BUS.
5 more minutes pass by
NO FREAKING BUS.
Panu looks up to the shade of the tree over her.
Now the equivocation begins...
Oh please crow, dont shit on me. Oh Lord, get that Goddamn Bus!
Oh please crow, nice crow.
Sweet crow.
5 more minutes
Panu gets desperate. No freaking Bus still.
O No, something gleam in the distant horizon. A bus!! A BUS!! Oh LORD, thou Exist!
Route 45. O no, God is dead. Bleeding Nietzche!!!
The first commandment in Bus Bible comes to mind at this point to Panu's heat-encrusted brain.
thou shalt not get up on a route 45 bus until it is a matter of life and death
This Was a matter of life and death.
The reason why I hate this bus.
- Groping by extremely uncool people, most of them over the age 45.
- Glares from overdressed Marus who go into constant boob-comparison.
- Constant leers from the conductor who acts as if he has never seen someone over 130 pounds/60kgs in jeas and kurta.
- The Lebulojensaala... dont wanna explain this one.
- Bus moves in extremities... either extremely fast or...
- Pickpockets and con artists who has taken the level of pinching goods to the height of artistry.
No FREAKING WAY!
Panu gets up on the bus. A moment later, zooms past the Bus of her dreams. CRAP!
Panu gets down. Takes an auto to the destination. Zooms past another bus. Crap repeated. Panu gets real turdy by this point.
SO THERE!!
Off my chest...
P.S. here's the pictures promised of HUGH.
June 14, 2006
The HUNK OF THE MONTH
As promised to the few webpests who trawl through this blog, I have a spread of Jackman.
But first............
Sorry. Had to get that out.
Where were we?? Ah, Hugh Jackman.
Sod! Lost the Jackman Pics.
Well, lets change it to Heath Ledger... HJ to HL. Cause.... MMMMMM he is HAWT!
Ah, there's my Honey Pumpkin.
Ah.... scrumptious in Black and white.
And this one's ... Ummm..
And this one... Here is a close-up on Heath.
I Just soooo love straight men who play Gay!! This one is for you Jay!!
June 07, 2006
OKAY
Before I begin the post, I believe I will be starting a Hunk-of-the-month thingy .... and the first one is Hugh Jackman!!
this post was a mishap. Why else would dear Panu sit up at the late hours to pour out bitter misery and murderous passions to the unsuspecting handful of poor creatures that make the mistake of entering the rightful space she owns in the blogsphere?
Panu can give very simple reasons for this mishap.
a. She was under the delusion that she was Liz Taylor after her 6th divorce and therefore this whole post was a sign of the old gal finally going off her rockers.
Panu can give very simple reasons for this mishap.
a. She was under the delusion that she was Liz Taylor after her 6th divorce and therefore this whole post was a sign of the old gal finally going off her rockers.
b. She had a bout of stomach flu after the three humungous scoops of Bavarian Dark Chocolate Chip Ice cream with chocolate sauce, wafers in a chocolate and nut covered waffle cone that she shamelessly wangled out of a poor, unsuspecting creature who didn’t even guess what hit him till he was paying the bill.
c. She had finally read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time By Mark Haddon and My Name Is Red By Orhan Pamuk on the very same day when she was supposed to study Foucault’s The History of Sexuality II and was thus suffering a massive attack of guilty conscience.
d. The aforementioned 1st book in c. was the direct reason for her to believe that she was detached from the rest of the world and a math freak (as if!! Panu suffers everlasting Mathophobia to its full extent).
e. She was swamped by old familiar faces and was swamped by nostalgia as she joined Orkut and made 84 friends in 1 week and 3 days flat, and realized she was virtually the last person to know about it, everyone else(other bloggers, that is) were talking about it since ages.
f. The particular guy mentioned in the post was featured in one community in Orkut that she too joined.
g. She found out that her biological parents still went at it like rabbits, for she discovered their condom supply (and this is the end of this point).
h. She received a large box of Belgian Non-Industrial Chocolates from her cousin Big Brother along with Yves Saint Laurent’s Paris perfume which resulted in a late-night -drinking party with father and the Brother, directly inducing all of the long-buried pains to emerge from the darkest parts of personal wastelands of Panu’s consciousness.
i. The exams. Bloody buggers. And still bugging the hell out of her poor, pious soul and ass.
j. Old diaries that came out with the annual room cleaning. This room clearance thingy is Panu’s greatest grievance every year. Panu hates a clean room. A room is just not a room unless it’s down and dirty.
k. A and her boyfriend’s intimacy. Jealous Panu sneaks around, unable to express her own grief at seeing unworthy hands maul her precious Andromeda.
l. Her second blind date and third marriage proposal.
m. The aforementioned Belgian Big Brother’s revelation of living together with a Belgian Girl friend (to the utter consternation of the parents) who is six feet tall. Brother and Girlfriend look like Ken and Barbie, reminding Panu (poor darkling that she is) how Even Undateable creatures ( Own admission, mind you... here Panu is being a bitch and loving it.... back off Helen, Bindoo, Dholakia) are getting adoring drools and she getting nothing. No loving. Nada. Nil. Zip. Zilch.
n. She has been lost in The Waste Land, drowning in Death in Venice, sweating with Sappho, fighting with Prufrock (not JAP the blogger), simplifying Symposium, courting Kureshi, screwing Sula, massacring Murder in the Cathedral, Sexing the 'Peare, Snorting at Sade, Hammering at The Hollow Men to no avail. She is still grappling with her syllabus and ending with nothing.
o. A visit to a Medical College Fest (Zephyr, 06) and screaming one’s head off with Bhoomi’s songs.
p. And this is the end of it, Panu has just discovered that http://aibbappsss.blogpot.com (mark the lack of the ' s' in blogspot spelling) leads to a Mega Site for Bible.
Lots of mishaps are going on in Panu’s otherwise nonexistent life. Simultaneously. Panu hates doing so many things together. Even Superwoman needs rest. But it seems this lazy ass is doomed to an existence of misguided activities, doing things that she should not, saying things that get her into trouble. Panu tries to control these wayward emotions, but just when she believes that she’s got them under her thumb, out pops a new one. And then the eternal, flaming racket repeats again.
Well you who has passed all these barriers of broken bits of my life, know now, what exactly have you been doing reading my post.
Lots of mishaps are going on in Panu’s otherwise nonexistent life. Simultaneously. Panu hates doing so many things together. Even Superwoman needs rest. But it seems this lazy ass is doomed to an existence of misguided activities, doing things that she should not, saying things that get her into trouble. Panu tries to control these wayward emotions, but just when she believes that she’s got them under her thumb, out pops a new one. And then the eternal, flaming racket repeats again.
Well you who has passed all these barriers of broken bits of my life, know now, what exactly have you been doing reading my post.
Correct. You have been reading what I went through in one single day of existence.
“Beauty is truth; truth beauty”
“Beauty is truth; truth beauty”
Or, in the immortal words of Porky Pig:
"That's all, folks."
June 02, 2006
Cameras Back to Me!!
Ah!! the sweet smell of freedom. Though the poor nose is blocked, and head still aches like shit, this babe's back on the track to waste blogspace with absolutely nothing else to write about but herself.
So, I would like you guys to turn your attention here before you move on. Jay has written this lovely post on Art and Digicams, ( and several other unmentionable things), that take me back to my favourite artist in the small screen...
RICHARD KARINSKY!!!
And talking of Artists, here is one more whom I like... rather, this one's a picture by him.
And before I go off track to do something else, I better tell you that I too am aspiring to be an artist. And I shall be specializing in Blog Blobs.
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