umm..for anyone confused by my last two posts this one's a filler...from a comment left by a sensational junior I realize I've been rambling a bit much, so here goes and anyone who's not interested in hearing the specifics of university politics hehe, this is where you tiptoe towards the nearest exit and run!
Right.
Our university has three faculties, arts, engineering and science. Each faculty has a union which is primarily responsible for addressing students issues. The union elections of the arts faculty were held last wednesday and the outcome of those elections is we have a mixed union held by a supposedly commie Students Federation of India (SFI) and a staunchly anti-left Forum for Arts Students (FAS). My only contribution to the union election was to try and persuade people to come and vote because every vote does count. Oh yeah, and I voted. Very strongly anti-left. I'm not sure if that makes me a right wing extremist because in the past few weeks all those not sympathizing with the left front have been labelled as naxalites and maoists and accused of wanting to introduce revolutionary measures in student politics. And some bright red spark accused a friend of mine of wanting to blow up the university. Drama and all of that.
Anyhow union elections drama ended on February 23rd. Now comes my dramatic entrance into the world of politics. Well, not that dramatic really. I'm contesting something called the E.C. elections.
Basically our university has an Executive Council which is comprised of representatives from teachers, students, non-teaching staff and oh local committe people and lots of hot shots. There are just two student representatives on this council, one from engineering and one from either science or arts. These two student reps are elected by a three phase electoral process. Each department of the university elects a limited number of representatives who in turn elect six people who form the court council. Out of these six, two are them elected to the executive council. umm..does that make any sense? It's a bit like a pyramid, or the rajya sabha elections. Given I've never studied anything like political science I'm not the best person to explain these things. But basically therefore, on march 3rd our department will be electing it's representatives. And I'm contesting as an independent candidate. JUDEan to the core, so if you're looking for party affiliations wrong stop.
But this is where I do my hoimoi part. The date of elections is bang in the middle of mid-sem exams. There are just too many people who will not come and vote because they'd rather study. And I don't blame the students. I do blame the authorities. Excuse me while I formulate my own conspiracy theory.
*dramatic pause*
There's a conspiracy against me!!!
*double sigh. quadruple sigh.*
Sunday, February 26, 2006
I was going to write something profound on elections in general and student politics in particular, but then I came across this. And this. And since we're on the topic this. The last you can ignore. If you're looking for something profound that is. It has the funny bits which have stopped seeming funny to me because right now, short of a bullet in the brain nothing seems particularly entertaining. Not my brain necessarily, although that would be the best place. My head is full of memories tonight. Gah, this post is going to be sappy. Here's the standard self-censorship suggestion.
*ahem*
All ye likely to be offended by a post singularly devoid of humour, sex and such like things please go away. Right.
*begin ramble*
I was in class X the year didi entered college, but she refused to let me step into her campus until my board exams ended. I think it was June 2000, when I stepped into Presidency College properly. I remember didi telling me once that the only reason she chose to study history in Presi was because she fell in love with the main building the day she went for the admission test.
I fell in love with the place about five minutes after entering the canteen. In the next two years I watched my sister throw herself headlong into politics and then retreat just as rapidly into studies. The year didi left Presi I entered JU. And one of the first things she told me was to stay away from student politics.
Except, somehow, with my sterling knack for being completely insignificant and unnoticable, within approximately two months of college, I'd been approached by what seemed like every bloody political outfit there was on campus. And completely self-centred and egotisitical though this may sound, the reason I remained detached from it all was because there was no party I could identify with.
There were about four small parties on campus three years back, apart from the one large one we'll leave aside for later.
AISA, which was made up of three old men *and when I say old I mean forty*. These three have hung around the campus for years on end, getting admitted into a variety of courses. One of them holds about four masters degrees, including subjects like physics and bengali. But the reason I have no respect for him or any of them is because dammit a degree is not a joke, and having four of them does not justify sitting on the same steps year in and year out talking, passing comments on others and pretending to contribute greatly to social welfare.
Then there was PDSF and RSF, both partially revolutionary, both to be passed over barely mentioned because between them they have fewer members than I have fingers.
And there was AIDSO. Which at least had a more presentable number of members but still failed to accomplish anything significant for the students.
That leaves the SFI. sigh. Ideally I'd rather not talk about that party. It happens to consist a bunch of no good losers I pretty much dislike. I do have a few friends who are staunch left-ists, or claim to be, but we keep our political beliefs out of our friendship and pretend the grass is green everywhere.
I find it hard to come up with a comprehensive explanation of why I am not willing to lay a red carpet and embrace all those who wish to hail me as a comrades. Maybe it's because I find it unbelievably pointless that right now their biggest hoarding on campus reads as follows, stop bush, say no to war. Admittedly I would not touch a member of the george bush fan club with a ten foot long barge pole. The man's a moron and an idjit to boot. But wouldn't it be far more relevant if they'd put up a poster which read say no to the new controller of examinations appointed by the university board because he graduated with a bloody 43%.
The again maybe all this ire is because I am sick and tired of the fact that everytime I've passed members of that party over the past week or so comments have been passed in unecessarily raised voices. Of course being red-blooded staunch believers in the need for communal living they find courage in numbers. Normally I revel in the attention and when people come up with threats like dekhe nebo I'm more than happy to invite them to look long and hard because I'm a sight for sore eyes. But sometimes they go too far. A few days back I stepped into the Dean's office for some work. There were twenty of them. I was alone. That they would be obnoxious and loud was expected. That they would say offensive things questioning my parentage was not. Let us draw a curtain gently over the scene of pointless wrath.
I've been rambling pretty pointlessly. Ideally I should be happy right now. This year's election saw one of the biggest turn-arounds in the past ten year history of JU arts. For the last ten years the union has been held by SFI. Last year, 1200 students voted and the margin between the sfi and their nearest competitor was 600 votes. This year, 1500 students voted and FAS *which is the newest thing around* won the highest post in the union and lost the other two offices by a mere margin of forty votes. There's a hung union right now and as I told Tintinda when he asked me what the implications of that were, simply put, roj bawal hobe. both sfi and fas are in charge of the union at present and needless to say there'll be plenty of fireworks in the coming year.
Right now though the euphoria of watching red asses getting kicked has died down. I spent my saturday holiday, which would've been better employed studying, in college, writing posters. I didn't do the writing bit, that involved delicate art work type thingys. I painted the general backdrop and stuck endless sheets of white paper onto cardboard and sliced through immense quantities of cardboard with a very flimsy knife. Na, that sounds like I did a lot of work. Not really. I did next to nothing but my fingers ache like hell. And the reason I'm not particularly happy is because I know that even if we put up the posters on monday, with the elections on friday there is an immense chance that somewhere in the interim the posters will be torn, damaged or simply removed permanently.
I don't like it when people don't play fair. That' a childish thing to say but at the end of the day the reason I don't like politics is simple. I don't have a vested interest. I can't make a career out of this, I'm not even going to make money running for this election. If we could leave behind all pretensions to ideology and then leave behind all th dirty tricks like brain washing and slandering wouldn't life be simpler?
P.S : incidentally did you note the tone of pompous self-righteousness? also the tendency to be a saintly martyr, or a stuffed toad, whichever you prefer. and the fact that by speaking ill of everyone but myself in the entire damn post I have effectively been indulging in some slandering myself. damn. damn. damn. where's the bloody bullet when my brain needs it anyway?
*ahem*
All ye likely to be offended by a post singularly devoid of humour, sex and such like things please go away. Right.
*begin ramble*
I was in class X the year didi entered college, but she refused to let me step into her campus until my board exams ended. I think it was June 2000, when I stepped into Presidency College properly. I remember didi telling me once that the only reason she chose to study history in Presi was because she fell in love with the main building the day she went for the admission test.
I fell in love with the place about five minutes after entering the canteen. In the next two years I watched my sister throw herself headlong into politics and then retreat just as rapidly into studies. The year didi left Presi I entered JU. And one of the first things she told me was to stay away from student politics.
Except, somehow, with my sterling knack for being completely insignificant and unnoticable, within approximately two months of college, I'd been approached by what seemed like every bloody political outfit there was on campus. And completely self-centred and egotisitical though this may sound, the reason I remained detached from it all was because there was no party I could identify with.
There were about four small parties on campus three years back, apart from the one large one we'll leave aside for later.
AISA, which was made up of three old men *and when I say old I mean forty*. These three have hung around the campus for years on end, getting admitted into a variety of courses. One of them holds about four masters degrees, including subjects like physics and bengali. But the reason I have no respect for him or any of them is because dammit a degree is not a joke, and having four of them does not justify sitting on the same steps year in and year out talking, passing comments on others and pretending to contribute greatly to social welfare.
Then there was PDSF and RSF, both partially revolutionary, both to be passed over barely mentioned because between them they have fewer members than I have fingers.
And there was AIDSO. Which at least had a more presentable number of members but still failed to accomplish anything significant for the students.
That leaves the SFI. sigh. Ideally I'd rather not talk about that party. It happens to consist a bunch of no good losers I pretty much dislike. I do have a few friends who are staunch left-ists, or claim to be, but we keep our political beliefs out of our friendship and pretend the grass is green everywhere.
I find it hard to come up with a comprehensive explanation of why I am not willing to lay a red carpet and embrace all those who wish to hail me as a comrades. Maybe it's because I find it unbelievably pointless that right now their biggest hoarding on campus reads as follows, stop bush, say no to war. Admittedly I would not touch a member of the george bush fan club with a ten foot long barge pole. The man's a moron and an idjit to boot. But wouldn't it be far more relevant if they'd put up a poster which read say no to the new controller of examinations appointed by the university board because he graduated with a bloody 43%.
The again maybe all this ire is because I am sick and tired of the fact that everytime I've passed members of that party over the past week or so comments have been passed in unecessarily raised voices. Of course being red-blooded staunch believers in the need for communal living they find courage in numbers. Normally I revel in the attention and when people come up with threats like dekhe nebo I'm more than happy to invite them to look long and hard because I'm a sight for sore eyes. But sometimes they go too far. A few days back I stepped into the Dean's office for some work. There were twenty of them. I was alone. That they would be obnoxious and loud was expected. That they would say offensive things questioning my parentage was not. Let us draw a curtain gently over the scene of pointless wrath.
I've been rambling pretty pointlessly. Ideally I should be happy right now. This year's election saw one of the biggest turn-arounds in the past ten year history of JU arts. For the last ten years the union has been held by SFI. Last year, 1200 students voted and the margin between the sfi and their nearest competitor was 600 votes. This year, 1500 students voted and FAS *which is the newest thing around* won the highest post in the union and lost the other two offices by a mere margin of forty votes. There's a hung union right now and as I told Tintinda when he asked me what the implications of that were, simply put, roj bawal hobe. both sfi and fas are in charge of the union at present and needless to say there'll be plenty of fireworks in the coming year.
Right now though the euphoria of watching red asses getting kicked has died down. I spent my saturday holiday, which would've been better employed studying, in college, writing posters. I didn't do the writing bit, that involved delicate art work type thingys. I painted the general backdrop and stuck endless sheets of white paper onto cardboard and sliced through immense quantities of cardboard with a very flimsy knife. Na, that sounds like I did a lot of work. Not really. I did next to nothing but my fingers ache like hell. And the reason I'm not particularly happy is because I know that even if we put up the posters on monday, with the elections on friday there is an immense chance that somewhere in the interim the posters will be torn, damaged or simply removed permanently.
I don't like it when people don't play fair. That' a childish thing to say but at the end of the day the reason I don't like politics is simple. I don't have a vested interest. I can't make a career out of this, I'm not even going to make money running for this election. If we could leave behind all pretensions to ideology and then leave behind all th dirty tricks like brain washing and slandering wouldn't life be simpler?
P.S : incidentally did you note the tone of pompous self-righteousness? also the tendency to be a saintly martyr, or a stuffed toad, whichever you prefer. and the fact that by speaking ill of everyone but myself in the entire damn post I have effectively been indulging in some slandering myself. damn. damn. damn. where's the bloody bullet when my brain needs it anyway?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
For the longest time ever, about three and a half new-york seconds* that is, the b'fiss considered using this blog as a means of political campaigning. So the way you have microphones blaring at every roadside corner in the run up to every major election this blog for the next ten days or so would only have posts blaring out in all caps and block quotes views on the political sagacity of voting for me, me and ahem me.
But then sanity took over.
*sigh*
I realized this blog is a little too fissy to be used to campaign for votes butbutbut gentle reader, dearest reader and all ye readers who may or may not be part of my university and my department bear with me for a little because the run-up to this election will only see me whining, whining and whining some more.
Why the whine you wonder. Well, firstly because whining is an acquired art perfected over millenia by accomplished politicians. It's somewhat imperfectly practised on our campus of course but it's there. Now the tragedy of my life is that given I'd perfected the art of whining on this blog months back anyone would think I'd make a perfect politician but well, sigh. double sigh.
So until the 3rd of march, which is the date of elections I shall use this blog to gust wheezily and sigh frequently. And if I don't post for days on end kind reader do bear with me. It won't be because I have a happening love life or a whirling social existence *on my check list of two, neither of those things will ever be ticked off* but there's always a fair chance that someone will do away with me. Which would be a nice thing considering it'd save me the hassle of canvassing votes and writing my eggjams.
*Incidentally the New York Second is the shortest unit of time in the multiverse. hehe. It's defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.
LATER CLARIFICATION : It's been brought to my notice that the above footnote is worded in such a way as to suggest I'm hoping people would think the New York Second is my invention. Gentle reader, bably is distraught at the thought that people think she'd take credit for something as brilliant as the New York Second, so this is just to let you know it's from Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett, originally published by Victor Gollancz in 1992.
But then sanity took over.
*sigh*
I realized this blog is a little too fissy to be used to campaign for votes butbutbut gentle reader, dearest reader and all ye readers who may or may not be part of my university and my department bear with me for a little because the run-up to this election will only see me whining, whining and whining some more.
Why the whine you wonder. Well, firstly because whining is an acquired art perfected over millenia by accomplished politicians. It's somewhat imperfectly practised on our campus of course but it's there. Now the tragedy of my life is that given I'd perfected the art of whining on this blog months back anyone would think I'd make a perfect politician but well, sigh. double sigh.
So until the 3rd of march, which is the date of elections I shall use this blog to gust wheezily and sigh frequently. And if I don't post for days on end kind reader do bear with me. It won't be because I have a happening love life or a whirling social existence *on my check list of two, neither of those things will ever be ticked off* but there's always a fair chance that someone will do away with me. Which would be a nice thing considering it'd save me the hassle of canvassing votes and writing my eggjams.
*Incidentally the New York Second is the shortest unit of time in the multiverse. hehe. It's defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.
LATER CLARIFICATION : It's been brought to my notice that the above footnote is worded in such a way as to suggest I'm hoping people would think the New York Second is my invention. Gentle reader, bably is distraught at the thought that people think she'd take credit for something as brilliant as the New York Second, so this is just to let you know it's from Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett, originally published by Victor Gollancz in 1992.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
post phone prattle
There are moments, when I sincerely wonder why it is that I am friends with the people I'm friends with. This will not be a contemplative post on friendship and such like things. Anyone who's hanging around reading this blog in hopes of philosophical musings, uh sorry we don't do such things; kinda short supply of brains and sentiments out here. Unless I'm drunk or doped out, in which case there's likely to be no coherence. Sad toss up that. But, to return to the point of the post. This post is about the last post. Vaguely. It's an almost verbatim transcript of the bfiss and cassmortmain on the phone this morning. I've left out the not-interesting-to-the-general-public bits of course, hi-falutin stuff about personal oracles and not aantel stuff about the men on whose brothers women have crushes, but these snippets had to be recorded.
cassy : I don't see what you've gone on about. Kunal Kapoor's handome.
me : *silent gasp*
cassy (not noticing stunned silence on other end of the line) : Oh, Abhishek Bachhan's getting married. I'm so heart-broken!!
me : *gasp, gasp, shudder* What on earth! Why?!
cassy : Oh, but he's so handsome.
me (in the original UI style) : whaaaaaaaaaaaat?
cassy : What? Well, ok, maybe he's not handsome but he's hot. And Kunal Kapoor is handsome
me : What? What. The. No, he's not. Kunal Kapoor is not even hot.
cassy (stern voice of retribution) : Do you even know who Kunal Kapoor is?
me (after a hasty revision of memory, coming back all snooty voiced) : Of corse I do. He's that random guy from Rang De Basanti that random females drools over. Hah! He's not hot. Wait, I have my comp on, lemme google.
*One search later, I come up with this and return anguished to the phone*
me : Cassandra, he's greasy!
cassy : So? Just because he's greasy in Rang De Basanti doesn't mean he's greasy in real life.
me : He's greasy in the damn photograph!
cassy : Well, everyone's greasy in photographs. You think we're not?
me : (swearing under my breath...you certainly aren't woman!!) I may be, but I'm not an actor. He's greasy. And Cassy if you're going to moan about Abhishek Bachhan getting married I'm going to have to disown you.
cassy : oof, ki aantel snobbery. People don't disown friends just because they find other men hot. Besides I don't know who you are to say anything. (unbelievably accusing voice) You find Sean Connery hot.
me : *aggrieved gasp* But he is!
cassy : *verbal shrug* No he's not. And you think what's-his-name is good-looking.
(cassy, since you're reading this, I'm not accusing you of ever forgetting whatzzisname's name but let us be the discreet).
me : But he is!
cassy : *silent giggle* Whatever. But Sean Connery's not hot, he's annoying.
me : *gasp, stutter, double gasp*
cassy : And he hasn't made any decent movies recently. Have you seen Avengers? god. And he was the worst James Bond ever. He had a lisp.
me : *strangulated whisper* It wasn't a lisp. He's Shcottish.
cassy (returning to her unjustified stern voice of retribution) : Ewan McGregor's Scottish. Have you heard him speak? Sean Connery just needs speech therapy. (sound of b'fiss almost fainting) Double o sheven on hish majheshty'z shecret shervice, how ridiculous.
*At this point the mother wanders innocently into the room. All this while I've been stuttering speechless in the face of such blasphemy on behalf of best bud. Helpless I now turn with an anguished cry to the mother.*
me : Ma, I give you Sean Connery.
ma : eh? *silly grin instantly in place*
me : na mane, I didn't mean give give but the way presenters on shows do; presenting Sean Connery. What would you say to that?
*mother with pile of clothes in arms stands there gazing into distance looking faintly bemused but with a very definite silly grin on face...incidentally the women in my family are a bit like that, confront us suddenly with people we adore and overtly handsome men and we grin and look silly...but I digress, let us leave mother standing there and return to the phone*
cassy : At least that other guy you go on about is ok, what's 'is name...Yul Brynner.
*by now I'm beyond gasping. imagine fish, if you will, lying in desert, flailing tail against the terrible sandstorm and going "water, somebody get me water or at least a picture of sean connery". still this one was too much to endure*
me : What d'ya mean he's ok? He's god. Dead god but god. Immortally handsome god too.
(Incidentally I could go on about this forever but I won't. Let's just say, Yul Brynner is beyond handsome the limits of mortal fantasy. And the reason I'm not going on about this is because it would amount to perverted necrophilia of sorts. Let's just say the reason I like the thought of dying is because my heaven will have the King.)
cassy : Yes, yes; but Sean Connery I find insufferable. I tell you he needs speech therapy.
me : How dare you? Speech therapy. I ask you, speech therapy?! The man is god, you hear me. Sean Connery is bloody unforgivably handsome; he does not and I repeat he doesh not need shpeech therapy!!
*ma at this point gathers upshot of conversation and puts her silly grin on hold to say, ki bollo? speech therapy bollo? ki oshobhyo!*
(Fortunately cassandra's other manifold virtues pulled her through but for one precarious moment there I thought she'd really fallen headlong down the mother's popularity charts, for life..the mother of the fiss tends to be a bit unforgiving about these things!)
*but the mother merely sighed, shook her head evidently much aggrieved at the revelation of these unsuspected, unexpected flaws in miss mortmain's otherwise spotless-as-an-undertaker-inner-vest character and returned to her work.*
*sigh* I leave you dear reader to draw your conclusions.
Just one last clarification in small print. Irrespective of whether right now I'm mad enough at cassy to almost disown her, gentle reader, anyone speaking one word against her is likely to be found at the bottom of the ju jheel stabbed sixty five times with a very sharp kitchen knife. hehe.
cassy : I don't see what you've gone on about. Kunal Kapoor's handome.
me : *silent gasp*
cassy (not noticing stunned silence on other end of the line) : Oh, Abhishek Bachhan's getting married. I'm so heart-broken!!
me : *gasp, gasp, shudder* What on earth! Why?!
cassy : Oh, but he's so handsome.
me (in the original UI style) : whaaaaaaaaaaaat?
cassy : What? Well, ok, maybe he's not handsome but he's hot. And Kunal Kapoor is handsome
me : What? What. The. No, he's not. Kunal Kapoor is not even hot.
cassy (stern voice of retribution) : Do you even know who Kunal Kapoor is?
me (after a hasty revision of memory, coming back all snooty voiced) : Of corse I do. He's that random guy from Rang De Basanti that random females drools over. Hah! He's not hot. Wait, I have my comp on, lemme google.
*One search later, I come up with this and return anguished to the phone*
me : Cassandra, he's greasy!
cassy : So? Just because he's greasy in Rang De Basanti doesn't mean he's greasy in real life.
me : He's greasy in the damn photograph!
cassy : Well, everyone's greasy in photographs. You think we're not?
me : (swearing under my breath...you certainly aren't woman!!) I may be, but I'm not an actor. He's greasy. And Cassy if you're going to moan about Abhishek Bachhan getting married I'm going to have to disown you.
cassy : oof, ki aantel snobbery. People don't disown friends just because they find other men hot. Besides I don't know who you are to say anything. (unbelievably accusing voice) You find Sean Connery hot.
me : *aggrieved gasp* But he is!
cassy : *verbal shrug* No he's not. And you think what's-his-name is good-looking.
(cassy, since you're reading this, I'm not accusing you of ever forgetting whatzzisname's name but let us be the discreet).
me : But he is!
cassy : *silent giggle* Whatever. But Sean Connery's not hot, he's annoying.
me : *gasp, stutter, double gasp*
cassy : And he hasn't made any decent movies recently. Have you seen Avengers? god. And he was the worst James Bond ever. He had a lisp.
me : *strangulated whisper* It wasn't a lisp. He's Shcottish.
cassy (returning to her unjustified stern voice of retribution) : Ewan McGregor's Scottish. Have you heard him speak? Sean Connery just needs speech therapy. (sound of b'fiss almost fainting) Double o sheven on hish majheshty'z shecret shervice, how ridiculous.
*At this point the mother wanders innocently into the room. All this while I've been stuttering speechless in the face of such blasphemy on behalf of best bud. Helpless I now turn with an anguished cry to the mother.*
me : Ma, I give you Sean Connery.
ma : eh? *silly grin instantly in place*
me : na mane, I didn't mean give give but the way presenters on shows do; presenting Sean Connery. What would you say to that?
*mother with pile of clothes in arms stands there gazing into distance looking faintly bemused but with a very definite silly grin on face...incidentally the women in my family are a bit like that, confront us suddenly with people we adore and overtly handsome men and we grin and look silly...but I digress, let us leave mother standing there and return to the phone*
cassy : At least that other guy you go on about is ok, what's 'is name...Yul Brynner.
*by now I'm beyond gasping. imagine fish, if you will, lying in desert, flailing tail against the terrible sandstorm and going "water, somebody get me water or at least a picture of sean connery". still this one was too much to endure*
me : What d'ya mean he's ok? He's god. Dead god but god. Immortally handsome god too.
(Incidentally I could go on about this forever but I won't. Let's just say, Yul Brynner is beyond handsome the limits of mortal fantasy. And the reason I'm not going on about this is because it would amount to perverted necrophilia of sorts. Let's just say the reason I like the thought of dying is because my heaven will have the King.)
cassy : Yes, yes; but Sean Connery I find insufferable. I tell you he needs speech therapy.
me : How dare you? Speech therapy. I ask you, speech therapy?! The man is god, you hear me. Sean Connery is bloody unforgivably handsome; he does not and I repeat he doesh not need shpeech therapy!!
*ma at this point gathers upshot of conversation and puts her silly grin on hold to say, ki bollo? speech therapy bollo? ki oshobhyo!*
(Fortunately cassandra's other manifold virtues pulled her through but for one precarious moment there I thought she'd really fallen headlong down the mother's popularity charts, for life..the mother of the fiss tends to be a bit unforgiving about these things!)
*but the mother merely sighed, shook her head evidently much aggrieved at the revelation of these unsuspected, unexpected flaws in miss mortmain's otherwise spotless-as-an-undertaker-inner-vest character and returned to her work.*
*sigh* I leave you dear reader to draw your conclusions.
Just one last clarification in small print. Irrespective of whether right now I'm mad enough at cassy to almost disown her, gentle reader, anyone speaking one word against her is likely to be found at the bottom of the ju jheel stabbed sixty five times with a very sharp kitchen knife. hehe.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Shome men should be shot jusht for looking sho good...umm, with a camera pleashe, not a gun!
I'm not pretending to be high or drunk, jesht thiking of Sean Connery. The double o sheven-esht of all the 007's there ever was or will be. I've just spent fifteen minutes that should have been constructively spent deconstructing old english texts in googling names and running image searches. And I came to the following conclusions :
a) Neil Gaiman is an author. Being such, he should write. He should not go around looking like the goddess Czol's gift to women. Or if he insists on looking so good he should stop writing so bloody brilliantly. gah!
b) Sean Connery being an actor, we cannot obvously accuse him of looking too good to be legal but *and this is the all important but* why can't he just stop. Or shtop if you will. So he was drop. dead. gorgeous when he was twenty. And he continued to look amazingly sexay through his thirties and forties but man, draw a line somewhere. Does anyone realize the man was born in 1930? I didn't know this, I googled for it. Good grief, I have a thing for a man who's just about old enough to be my grand-father. Some men, just don't know when to stop looking handsome. double gah this time!!
And while we're on the topic, there is not a single indian man who can be called handsome. Not one single living Indian man.
I'm not looking for distinguished or dignified or oh-so-cute or even attractive and hunky. I'm looking for handsome. Raise your hands if you must differ but last heard, this is the verdict until the cows come home, or the gai-mans (if only they would). There is. Not. One. Handsome. Living. Indian . Man.
After Thought : Fathers don't count. If you say your father is the most handsome man around, you're obviously biased because that post goes to my dad, thank you very much.
After The After Thought : Neither for that matter is anyone allowed to say their boyfriend is handsome. I'm sorry, if you think so, in the words of the last truly good-looking man I saw, you clearly need glasses.
One of those hanging over thoughts : I think cassy and I decided once that Saif Ali Khan came close...umm...if enough women agree on this one, maybe, we'll count him as one then. But hello?! One out of more than fifty percent of one billion? Is it just me or is something wrong with this country???
And before anyone yells at me for misguided perceptions of beauty, let's have a little clarification. This post is about Sean Connery. Who is handsome. It's also in passing about Neil Gaiman. Let's not get touchy just becuase none of you will ever look that good.
I'm not pretending to be high or drunk, jesht thiking of Sean Connery. The double o sheven-esht of all the 007's there ever was or will be. I've just spent fifteen minutes that should have been constructively spent deconstructing old english texts in googling names and running image searches. And I came to the following conclusions :
a) Neil Gaiman is an author. Being such, he should write. He should not go around looking like the goddess Czol's gift to women. Or if he insists on looking so good he should stop writing so bloody brilliantly. gah!
b) Sean Connery being an actor, we cannot obvously accuse him of looking too good to be legal but *and this is the all important but* why can't he just stop. Or shtop if you will. So he was drop. dead. gorgeous when he was twenty. And he continued to look amazingly sexay through his thirties and forties but man, draw a line somewhere. Does anyone realize the man was born in 1930? I didn't know this, I googled for it. Good grief, I have a thing for a man who's just about old enough to be my grand-father. Some men, just don't know when to stop looking handsome. double gah this time!!
And while we're on the topic, there is not a single indian man who can be called handsome. Not one single living Indian man.
I'm not looking for distinguished or dignified or oh-so-cute or even attractive and hunky. I'm looking for handsome. Raise your hands if you must differ but last heard, this is the verdict until the cows come home, or the gai-mans (if only they would). There is. Not. One. Handsome. Living. Indian . Man.
After Thought : Fathers don't count. If you say your father is the most handsome man around, you're obviously biased because that post goes to my dad, thank you very much.
After The After Thought : Neither for that matter is anyone allowed to say their boyfriend is handsome. I'm sorry, if you think so, in the words of the last truly good-looking man I saw, you clearly need glasses.
One of those hanging over thoughts : I think cassy and I decided once that Saif Ali Khan came close...umm...if enough women agree on this one, maybe, we'll count him as one then. But hello?! One out of more than fifty percent of one billion? Is it just me or is something wrong with this country???
And before anyone yells at me for misguided perceptions of beauty, let's have a little clarification. This post is about Sean Connery. Who is handsome. It's also in passing about Neil Gaiman. Let's not get touchy just becuase none of you will ever look that good.
It has been said of a certain first year sweetheart that she is a walking phuchka. A certain third year junior who claims to have brotherly feelings for the greater percentage of the cute female population of JU *and this you must admit is deeply suspicious* waxed eloquent over this description and said, oh but she's so cute!!
Srin, my dear, I'm not sure why, but it seems people want to eat you up.
In other news I have a guilty confession to make.
Guilty Confession : I wish I hadn't promised to post every day, I don't have anything funny to say, and soon all my readers will go away *the more so if I continue this absurd rhyme play*.
umm, make the above G.C. number one; I have another one to add.
G.C. no. two : I don't like stalkers. Correction, hate 'em to be 'onest.
ummetty umm, actually while we're at it, this one's a continuation of the last thing we were talking of when I left college today, so let's just make this Guilty Confession number three and final.
G.C. no. three and final of course : I'm incredibly happy being out of this prem korchhi thingy. Planted in my singleton state. That's me. Happy.
Srin, my dear, I'm not sure why, but it seems people want to eat you up.
In other news I have a guilty confession to make.
Guilty Confession : I wish I hadn't promised to post every day, I don't have anything funny to say, and soon all my readers will go away *the more so if I continue this absurd rhyme play*.
umm, make the above G.C. number one; I have another one to add.
G.C. no. two : I don't like stalkers. Correction, hate 'em to be 'onest.
ummetty umm, actually while we're at it, this one's a continuation of the last thing we were talking of when I left college today, so let's just make this Guilty Confession number three and final.
G.C. no. three and final of course : I'm incredibly happy being out of this prem korchhi thingy. Planted in my singleton state. That's me. Happy.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Ladies and gentlemen, the B'fiss returns from the her twagic state of rigor one-step-away-from-mortis-and-din'-you-wish-i-was-dead in the brightest and chirpiest of moods *so let's be nice and pretend there's a bit of wild applause and cheers here shall we!*
For one thing I've stopped throwing up, which is a wonderfully cheering thing *the stopping that is, not the throwing up*.
For another I went to college and while I only had a single class that class was superb enough in itself to make up for a week of being unwell. After today's class I re-realized why it was that Tintinda apparently declared once in all seriousness, "if he were teaching the life history of barge poles, you should still do his classes".
*And anyone who can't guess who he in this case might be, nebhar mind. Suffice to say, he is the goods or the gods, whatever tickles your fancy*
But just so you, gentle and dear reader, who-will-hopefully-still-be-with-me-at-the-end-of-this-post, get an idea of why college can make me so chirpy here's a bit of today, nice and fresh, unvarnished and ungarnished and untarnished.
*drumroll*
Presenting The Kanti...the one and hopefully the only Soumyak Kanti De Biswas. *the man at whose name even election officers who have been registering multisyllabic complicated Inidan names for decades on end stop, draw a deep breath and comment, "naam-er kono shesh nai?" ...."doesn't his name end?!"*
And this is Kanti's idea of a joke :
question : There was a girl who whenever she met her father used to push him. What was her name?
answer : Pushpa.
(non bharatiyas who fail to get the humour of this joke please do not panic, us residential jud-indians didn't find it funny either.)
*of course he also has a good one about what you'd call a blue cow with super heroic powers but the answer to that one is funny bordering on blasphemy and this-might-get-me-sued-for-libel so let's not go into such things on this 'ere public blog shall we.*
And then, there's Deep...who has been mentioned previously on this blog in a variety of distinguishing roles and special appearances but let me just clarify that he is best known among my friends at present as the man who on being invited to spend the night with some very hot women insisted he had to go home to walk his dog. Quite.
He's the same young man who this very afternoon was adressed by a young (awright dammit not-so-young) woman with the following words : "Deep, I'm seducing your best friend in the back seat of your car. Do you have nothing to say?"
To which he replied, in clipped precise tones : "Be clean."
So what happens when these two sterling (if somewhat junior) specimens of JUDE meet...
scene, three months back, around the table at monida's canteen :
The object of attention being a half skull *borrowed incidentally from the back seat seducee of this afternoon, not that it's of any importance or anyone notices trivial details or it's even grammatically correct as a sentence but whatever*
The question being, what should this skull, which was due to make a special appearance in a play, to be called.
A variety of names were proposed. Bush it seemed, was a favorite. *though why people insisted that an evidently brain-less skull with a demonic grin and no normal human emotions apparent in its ivory visage should resemble George Bush might, of course, elude the average majority of American voters.*
But the selection of names after a point gave way to the more interesting debate of whether the skull, had been that of a man or a woman. The majority of those present said it must have been a man (the cranial space was rather small you see) but Kanti single-mindedly and vehemently stuck to his guns and insisted it was the skull of a woman.
Whereupon Deep burst out with, *in the most pedantic finger wagging style you can imagine* "The reason Kanti insists it's a woman is because he finds in this skull the objective correlative of his frustrated psycho-sexual desires."
*whereupon the rest of the people looked left and right and vacated the premises hastily*
scene, today, at a similar table in the same place.
Kanti having delivered a series of *and since we know that he too blogs and might someday find this post, let us be polite* wonderful jokes starts with : "what did the big black man say to the tiny white man?"
*for the rest of the exchange imagine if you will Sidharth Basu firing questions at an extremely nervous mastermind participant who is pretending to be confident*
Deep : "where did they meet?"
Kanti : "Delhi"
Deep : "which year?"
Kanti : "1985, incidentally you don't get it..."
Deep : "why did they meet?"
Kanti : "no, see. The big black man was in a car and he was passing by the tiny white man and the question is what did the big black man say to the tiny white man?"
Deep : "what car was it?"
Kanti *barely noticable sigh* : "Bentley"
Deep : "which year"
Kanti : "1982"
Me : *for lack of anything better to do* "what was a 1982 bentley doing in delhi in 1985?"
*Kanti recognizing the question for the meaningless piffle that it is shrugs it off with great discernment*
Deep : "you chauvanist. why were they both men? why are you discriminating against the female gender, why was it not a big black woman"
Sweet Fresher : "why wasn't one of them a transvestite, you can't be discriminatory."
Other Sweet Fresher : "was the driver a woman?"
Confused Outsider : "was the driver a transvestite?"
Someone Inbetween : "why was the black man big and the white man tiny?"
Me : "what colour was the bentley?"
Kanti *recognizing with true discretion the value of the question* : "black"
Me : "but you said yellow"
*I was just being mean and trying to confuse him, oh ye already possibly confused reader, the issue of colour hadn't come up then*
Kanti *trying to pull off smart politicial backtrack* : "oh, in that case yellow"
Me *trying to pull off smarter journalistic one-track type questioning*: "are you sure you mean yellow or do you mean black?"
Another Outsider *simply trying to be smart* : "it was a yellow bentley being used as a taxi"
Kanti : "can I just finish my joke?"
all, lean back in evident anticipation....
Kanti : "so-o-o...what did the big black man sitting in a yellow bentley of 1982, say to the tiny white man when he crossed him on the road in delhi in 1985?"
all, lean forward in anticipation....
Kanti : "hi."
Ladies and gentlemen, drumroll again, I leave you with JUDE.
For one thing I've stopped throwing up, which is a wonderfully cheering thing *the stopping that is, not the throwing up*.
For another I went to college and while I only had a single class that class was superb enough in itself to make up for a week of being unwell. After today's class I re-realized why it was that Tintinda apparently declared once in all seriousness, "if he were teaching the life history of barge poles, you should still do his classes".
*And anyone who can't guess who he in this case might be, nebhar mind. Suffice to say, he is the goods or the gods, whatever tickles your fancy*
But just so you, gentle and dear reader, who-will-hopefully-still-be-with-me-at-the-end-of-this-post, get an idea of why college can make me so chirpy here's a bit of today, nice and fresh, unvarnished and ungarnished and untarnished.
*drumroll*
Presenting The Kanti...the one and hopefully the only Soumyak Kanti De Biswas. *the man at whose name even election officers who have been registering multisyllabic complicated Inidan names for decades on end stop, draw a deep breath and comment, "naam-er kono shesh nai?" ...."doesn't his name end?!"*
And this is Kanti's idea of a joke :
question : There was a girl who whenever she met her father used to push him. What was her name?
answer : Pushpa.
(non bharatiyas who fail to get the humour of this joke please do not panic, us residential jud-indians didn't find it funny either.)
*of course he also has a good one about what you'd call a blue cow with super heroic powers but the answer to that one is funny bordering on blasphemy and this-might-get-me-sued-for-libel so let's not go into such things on this 'ere public blog shall we.*
And then, there's Deep...who has been mentioned previously on this blog in a variety of distinguishing roles and special appearances but let me just clarify that he is best known among my friends at present as the man who on being invited to spend the night with some very hot women insisted he had to go home to walk his dog. Quite.
He's the same young man who this very afternoon was adressed by a young (awright dammit not-so-young) woman with the following words : "Deep, I'm seducing your best friend in the back seat of your car. Do you have nothing to say?"
To which he replied, in clipped precise tones : "Be clean."
So what happens when these two sterling (if somewhat junior) specimens of JUDE meet...
scene, three months back, around the table at monida's canteen :
The object of attention being a half skull *borrowed incidentally from the back seat seducee of this afternoon, not that it's of any importance or anyone notices trivial details or it's even grammatically correct as a sentence but whatever*
The question being, what should this skull, which was due to make a special appearance in a play, to be called.
A variety of names were proposed. Bush it seemed, was a favorite. *though why people insisted that an evidently brain-less skull with a demonic grin and no normal human emotions apparent in its ivory visage should resemble George Bush might, of course, elude the average majority of American voters.*
But the selection of names after a point gave way to the more interesting debate of whether the skull, had been that of a man or a woman. The majority of those present said it must have been a man (the cranial space was rather small you see) but Kanti single-mindedly and vehemently stuck to his guns and insisted it was the skull of a woman.
Whereupon Deep burst out with, *in the most pedantic finger wagging style you can imagine* "The reason Kanti insists it's a woman is because he finds in this skull the objective correlative of his frustrated psycho-sexual desires."
*whereupon the rest of the people looked left and right and vacated the premises hastily*
scene, today, at a similar table in the same place.
Kanti having delivered a series of *and since we know that he too blogs and might someday find this post, let us be polite* wonderful jokes starts with : "what did the big black man say to the tiny white man?"
*for the rest of the exchange imagine if you will Sidharth Basu firing questions at an extremely nervous mastermind participant who is pretending to be confident*
Deep : "where did they meet?"
Kanti : "Delhi"
Deep : "which year?"
Kanti : "1985, incidentally you don't get it..."
Deep : "why did they meet?"
Kanti : "no, see. The big black man was in a car and he was passing by the tiny white man and the question is what did the big black man say to the tiny white man?"
Deep : "what car was it?"
Kanti *barely noticable sigh* : "Bentley"
Deep : "which year"
Kanti : "1982"
Me : *for lack of anything better to do* "what was a 1982 bentley doing in delhi in 1985?"
*Kanti recognizing the question for the meaningless piffle that it is shrugs it off with great discernment*
Deep : "you chauvanist. why were they both men? why are you discriminating against the female gender, why was it not a big black woman"
Sweet Fresher : "why wasn't one of them a transvestite, you can't be discriminatory."
Other Sweet Fresher : "was the driver a woman?"
Confused Outsider : "was the driver a transvestite?"
Someone Inbetween : "why was the black man big and the white man tiny?"
Me : "what colour was the bentley?"
Kanti *recognizing with true discretion the value of the question* : "black"
Me : "but you said yellow"
*I was just being mean and trying to confuse him, oh ye already possibly confused reader, the issue of colour hadn't come up then*
Kanti *trying to pull off smart politicial backtrack* : "oh, in that case yellow"
Me *trying to pull off smarter journalistic one-track type questioning*: "are you sure you mean yellow or do you mean black?"
Another Outsider *simply trying to be smart* : "it was a yellow bentley being used as a taxi"
Kanti : "can I just finish my joke?"
all, lean back in evident anticipation....
Kanti : "so-o-o...what did the big black man sitting in a yellow bentley of 1982, say to the tiny white man when he crossed him on the road in delhi in 1985?"
all, lean forward in anticipation....
Kanti : "hi."
Ladies and gentlemen, drumroll again, I leave you with JUDE.
Monday, February 06, 2006
this isn't a post. it's a whine. i'm feeling bad. no that's an understatement but I have absolutely no words to express how bad I'm feeling, so let's just leave it at, I'm feeling bad. For nicer brighter chirpier posts please come back a day or so later, if there isn't anything like a bright bably post up it means I'm dead.
This wasn't the whine. That comes now. What have I got to whine about, you ask. Hah, I say and hah again.
a) nobody loves me
b) I don't care even if people insist they love me because right now I feel totally unloved.
c) thank you world who insists that discrete portions of your animate population is deeply in love with me but I sincerely wish I was dead.
does any of that make sense? no.
is it supposed to make sense? no.
is there a point to this post. yes.
I feel like throwing up when I lie down, I feel sick when I'm not lying down, I'm hoping mindlessly typing away is going to make me feel a lot less ill. It's faintly working but now I'm too tired to type any more.
I'm generally feeling very sorry for myself. Tomorrow I'll probably feel guilty because there are lots of people who genuinely care and well the parents are sincerely worried and running from post to pillar and doctor to doctor and hoping I get well soon but right now, excuse me world while I go lie down, feel very sick and proceed to howl my eyes out in the general conviction that nobody loves me.
World. I hate you.
update : concerned or not so concerned professor messages to ask : are you still among the living?
damn it, wish I wasn't.
don't take this personally people but yes, I still hate the world.
GAH!
This wasn't the whine. That comes now. What have I got to whine about, you ask. Hah, I say and hah again.
a) nobody loves me
b) I don't care even if people insist they love me because right now I feel totally unloved.
c) thank you world who insists that discrete portions of your animate population is deeply in love with me but I sincerely wish I was dead.
does any of that make sense? no.
is it supposed to make sense? no.
is there a point to this post. yes.
I feel like throwing up when I lie down, I feel sick when I'm not lying down, I'm hoping mindlessly typing away is going to make me feel a lot less ill. It's faintly working but now I'm too tired to type any more.
I'm generally feeling very sorry for myself. Tomorrow I'll probably feel guilty because there are lots of people who genuinely care and well the parents are sincerely worried and running from post to pillar and doctor to doctor and hoping I get well soon but right now, excuse me world while I go lie down, feel very sick and proceed to howl my eyes out in the general conviction that nobody loves me.
World. I hate you.
update : concerned or not so concerned professor messages to ask : are you still among the living?
damn it, wish I wasn't.
don't take this personally people but yes, I still hate the world.
GAH!
Sunday, February 05, 2006
I'm done talking about myself in the third person, I'm done talking about how traumatized I am and I'm done asking for sympathy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen and all ye betwixt and between who happen to be accidentally, incidentally, conincidentally or (horror of all unimaginable horrors) intentionally reading my blog you will no longer have to read sentences like the b'fiss is traumatized and demands sympathy for x, y, or z incident.
*sigh*
Why this change in the fissy blog did you ask gentle reader, why this sudden determination to stand strong and single-mindedly battle against all forces of illness without swimming around in circles asking for sympathy from all and sundry...because this is what happened when I turned to my near and dear ones :
Event 1 : There I am lying on the bed, weak and queasy, clutching on to my aching tommy and my one and only beloved mommy stands over me and declares "ami to jantam shob manusher pete duto boro boro worm thake". Move along Mr. Twain.
Event 2 : Junior calls, usually concerned junior who is good for endless hours of amusement. Only on this occasion when I tell him I think I'm going to die, his concerned response is "oh. really? no,no, don't worry. you won't die. if you do we'll all mourn you very sincerely. achha, can you tell me how to write a five hundred word paper on how to write a good dissertation" Those of you who know deep imagine the concern radiating from his voice and the next time you meet him kick him for my sake.
Event 3 : Finally, on yahoo messenger, my somewhat brief conversation with once beloved friend runs :
bfiss : i spent all of yesterday throwing up.
disktop : oh dear. Unprotected sex is it?
*stunned silence on my side*
disktop : Ha ha
*pointed stunned silence on my part*
disktop : sorry
And of course there's my dad who since yesterday has been jumping around in concerned agony and yelling things like, "you have to stop eating so much non-veg. only veg from now on. no meat, no, chicken, nothing except fish and vegetables. first thing tomorrow morning I will buy gourd, you will eat only bitter gourd from now on. and no canteen food."
ye gads.
If it wasn't for the ever concerned cassy and the occasionally concerned super heroic counterpart of the super villainish b'fiss, I think I'd have drowned in despair by now. As it I think I'm just going to collapse on the bed again feeling very sorry for myself.
*sigh*
Why this change in the fissy blog did you ask gentle reader, why this sudden determination to stand strong and single-mindedly battle against all forces of illness without swimming around in circles asking for sympathy from all and sundry...because this is what happened when I turned to my near and dear ones :
Event 1 : There I am lying on the bed, weak and queasy, clutching on to my aching tommy and my one and only beloved mommy stands over me and declares "ami to jantam shob manusher pete duto boro boro worm thake". Move along Mr. Twain.
Event 2 : Junior calls, usually concerned junior who is good for endless hours of amusement. Only on this occasion when I tell him I think I'm going to die, his concerned response is "oh. really? no,no, don't worry. you won't die. if you do we'll all mourn you very sincerely. achha, can you tell me how to write a five hundred word paper on how to write a good dissertation" Those of you who know deep imagine the concern radiating from his voice and the next time you meet him kick him for my sake.
Event 3 : Finally, on yahoo messenger, my somewhat brief conversation with once beloved friend runs :
bfiss : i spent all of yesterday throwing up.
disktop : oh dear. Unprotected sex is it?
*stunned silence on my side*
disktop : Ha ha
*pointed stunned silence on my part*
disktop : sorry
And of course there's my dad who since yesterday has been jumping around in concerned agony and yelling things like, "you have to stop eating so much non-veg. only veg from now on. no meat, no, chicken, nothing except fish and vegetables. first thing tomorrow morning I will buy gourd, you will eat only bitter gourd from now on. and no canteen food."
ye gads.
If it wasn't for the ever concerned cassy and the occasionally concerned super heroic counterpart of the super villainish b'fiss, I think I'd have drowned in despair by now. As it I think I'm just going to collapse on the bed again feeling very sorry for myself.
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