Various people at various points of time have asked members, honorary and otherwise, of JUDE what it is that they do all day in college. The answers, roughly summed up, are as follows :

• *half-concerned shrug* "nothing"
• *look of philosophical acceptance* "nothing"
• *look of mortified realization* "nothing"
• *vaguely embarrassed look* "nothing"
• *blank look* "nothing" (this last one I find rather unnerving because it leads me to suspect that JUDE is slowly filling up with dull half-wits of all shapes and sizes)

Of course "nothing" often includes prem kora and panu kora or wait....the two are the same right? Ahem. Never mind.

And of course, there's sitting at Monida and doing "nothing". Monida, for those glorious millions fortunate enough to be ignorant of the existence of such a glorified place, is a canteen. In the glorious (not that I know what's so glorious about it anyway) tradition of canteens on campuses across calcutta it is named after the supposed glo-nevermind proprietor.
When I say supposed of course I may be erring on the side of caution but one does so like to get these little details right and anyone sitting at Monida's for long enough will get the distinct feeling that the place is actually owned by half a dozen dead flies, a few thousand dozen live fleas and a random assortment of dogs, male and female, perpetually horny and occasionally gay. Oh and by The Smell. And the crows. By Blind Io and the crows who ate his eyeballs, how could I have forgetten to mention the crows.
Crows!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles...and well, substitute babies with innocent college-students and you've got the general idea.

This then is Monida's. A place we are all inordinately fond of. Why is not a question which should drift into the reader's mind at ths moment. The reader had best assume that the average JUDEan's love for Monida is all part of the Ineffable Plan. And in case you were wondering what the Ineffable Plan is, well, it's a bit like this you see, thereasonIcan'ttellyouwhattheIneffablePlanisisalsopartoftheIneffablePlan. Can I get on with the story now?
Oh. Except there is no story. Well, not as such. Just another random snippet from another random conversation on a random day at a random table at monida's :

babelfish (half mooney voice) : sigh. you know what, I just realized the other day he looks like a greek god.
cass (in her did-you-loan-your-brains-to-the-crows voice) : no. he doesn't.
bably (jolted out of her monida-ydreams) : b-b-bbutbut he does!
diva (in her why-did-I-ever-join-this-madhouse-I-wannawannawanna-go-back-to-delhi voice) : No!
babe(l) pouts
cass (trying to be sensible and turning out to be most condescending) : look. he's adorable but he looks like a teddy bear not an imitation apollo!
bably (small voice) : umm...what about one of the smallish greek gods, like herme-
diva : NO!
bably (barely audible voice) : but the whole look that he has...umm maybe a bit like zeu-
cass : NO!!!
babel : I shall sulk.

I'm still sulking by the way. Because whatever those disbelieving gits might say, he does look like a greek god. Does too.

And in case you're wondering who he is. Stop right there. I'm not about to tell you. So teehee to you too.

To my best-best-best-best-est friend.....
I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Really really really sorry. I didn't forget, I swear I didn't. I am just a complete, utter, inexcusable ass. I shall grovel and plead for all eternity. Pleeeeeeeeease forgive me.
I have a seminar in another two hours and a paper to present which I still haven't written and am about to write now. Stayed up all night and all of last night tao lekha hoye ni kintu mane that does not mean that I've stopped grovelling sincerely and seriously.
And you have every right to be mad at me and hate me for all eternity but please don't, mane I'll be even more heart-broken tokhon.
Thorry.
Will leave now to write paper but will also keep apologizing indefinitely.
**pleading pleading puppy dog eyes**

I have to do this. I'm sorry, I apologize most sincerely and profoundly in advance for forcing this on all my readers and all those who might accidentally stumble on my blog but I had to had to do this.

This is the warning, the final watchumacallit, that censorship stamp. I'm about to put up some umm rather uh graphic umm visuals which err happen to be about *whispered undertone* best positions in bed. But before that unfortunately I have to do this long overdue tag.....

1. Were you named after anyone?
ooh now that's a long story. I share the first half of my name with a cool twenty percent of the population of India but my parents tagged on a bit at the end which resulted in my name becoming one of the most uncommon common names ever.

2. Do you wish on stars?
No.
*insert sickly sweet voice* I think they're God's own daisies chain...barf!!!

3. When did you last cry?
I'm a fish.
Salty drops of water on my cheeks....naah, these ain't tears, they're an existential hazard!

4. Do you like your handwriting?
I prefer my hand doing a lot of other things but it's cool when it wants to grab a pen and write.

5. What is your favourite meat?
If I was being obtruse and aantel I'd talk about Freud's analysis of a certain dream in Interpretation of Dreams. But that would be downright dirty, so let's just leave this question aside shall we.

6. What is your most embarrassing CD on your shelf?
umm that depends on who's looking at it. I mean I wouldn't be embarrassed by stacks of pornography; then again you might, if the stacks existed that is. For now we'll settle for ummm the original vcd of Shrek II...bit of an inside story, suffice to say embarrassing.

7. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you?
oooh, would I be another male person or a female person. This is one hell of an important question...go figure.

8.Are you a daredevil?
This is a blog frequented by kiddies, what sort of a question is that?!! Oh wait, you're not asking why I'm a daredevil? A yes or no would do...hmm....dhuh!!! That's a yes, for those who are slow on the uptake/intake/anytake.

9. How do you release anger?
This one involves nails and teeth and a lot of passion. Let's not go there shall we, it's ugly.

10. Where is your second home?
Easy ain't it...JU.

11. Do you trust others easily?
According to everyone else yes. According to me hell yes! Until the second i'm about to betray the other in question that is.

12. What was your favourite toy as a child?
Barbie. Oh yes, absolutely. You have the option of disbelieving me and not believing me. Wouldn't it have been easier to ask what my favorite toy is now?

13. What class in school/college do you think is totally useless?
umm....compulsory bangla *all judeans who were looking to hit dirt out here, forget it, courtesy a certain five fingered piece of fluff my blog is accessible to certain profs *polite smile* so we don't discuss these things here anymore*

14. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Who me? Sarcasm? How could you even think of such a thing? It just goes to prove, you're obviously not as stupid as you look.

15. Have you ever been in a mosh pit?
Short and sweet...NO.

16. What do you look for in a guy/girl?
In? umm in where? *scratch head..rub nose, look embarrassed* uh, maybe I should just gently move on to the next question.

17. Would you bungee jump?
Well yeah. But what's more interesting is my list of people-I-would-most-vehemently-urge-to-go-bungee-jumping, preferably without a safety rope.

18. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
I cannot answer this question as it is against my religious principles.

19. What's your favourite ice cream?
This one is against my other principles..whatchumacallit...ethical, aesthetical, i'mtooboredwithsillyquestionsical principles.

20. What are your favourite colours?
Ooh now this question is discriminatory. Seriously. It's against all principles of equality and democracy and basic decency. What kind of a question is this? What if I were colour blind? Does whoever started this tag realize that I could have been left psychologically scarred for life...harrumph!!!

21. What are your least favourite things?
Books. Absolutely. Hate them. Can't stand them. Wouldn't read one of them if you hit me on the head with ten of them.

22. How many people do you have a crush on right now?
See, it's like this. You know Pratchett? Wait, I'm not saying I have a crush on Terry Pratchett, which I might but which is irrelevant right now. The reason I mention Pratchett right now is because he writes about Trolls. And well, trolls can't count beyond many. So they say one, two, many, many many. I'm numerically challenged too. Let's just say one.

23. Who do you miss most right now?
Someone who knows it better than I do. Is that too vague as an answer? Well, it's supposed to be, it's going to save my sorry ass when fifteen people ranging from beloved best friend to beloved sister some day want to know why they aren't indisputably on top of the list. But it's also an honest answer. You know who you are and I miss you.

24. What are you listening to right now?
The imitation railway engine in the next bedroom which goes by the name of My Father.

25. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?
Pink. If you believe this after everything else clearly you deserve to believe it.

26. What is the weather like right now?
There's a volcano erupting outside my north-east window and a gentle breeze banging the south-east windows. Are you going to rush to rescue me from the hurricane that's sweeping things off my balcony?

27. Last person you talked to on the phone?
Oh, wouldn't you like to know. Next you'll be expecting me to tell you what we talked about!!! No wonder they say privacy is an outdated concept in this age of convergence technology *I didn't come up with this, Don C did*

28. The "first" thing you notice about the opposite sex?
If I was being soppy, I'd say the eyes. If I was being honest err remember the bit about this being a blog frequented by kiddies. I mentioned it a while back. Next question.

29. Do you like the person who sent you this?
Drat. He's going to be reading this ain't he. Freaky why daahling how nice of you to send it! *blows kiss, waves enthusiastically* But, it's like I luuuve his blog and like what fascinating posts he like writes and what a wonderful like soulful person he is...umm is that enough?

30. How are you today?
You're dying to know aren't you?
Well, if you're not, then why bother.

31. Favourite non alcoholic drink?
What's that? Oh, you mean like water? Can't think of anything else, so water it is.

32. Favourite alcoholic drink?
Yeah right, you want me to pick one. Fine, mutter mutter, eenie meenie...Vodka.

33. Natural hair colour?
I don't have hair, I have scales and the occasional fin..dhuh!!

34. Eye colour?
Why don't you look into my eyes and tell me?

35. Wear contacts?
See that's another of those questions which discriminate against the visually challenged, the myopic and the plain unfortunate. In other words, yes.

36. Siblings?
I copy this from Freaky......."A darling, hardly-ever-heard-of sister… married happily!"

37. Favourite month?
As and when I deicide I'll tell you but I wouldn't suggest you hold your breath in anticipation.

38. Favourite food?
I could be on a diet, you know. Not that I am, but if I were this wouldn't be a good time to talk about eating umm things.

39. Favourite day of the year?
Refer to the 37th question. Or wait. What if I tell you my least favorite day of the year? 8th December.

40. Have you ever been too shy to ask someone out?
Shy? Me? Obviously this tag was accidentally sent to me. Come to think of it when was the last time I had to do the asking?

41. Scary movies or happy endings?
What I consider a happy ending might well scare someone else out of their wits. Oh hell, go read this.

42. Summer or winter?
Air-conditioned rooms in summer and leper tola in winter.

43. Do you want your friends to write back?
If I'm taking the bloody effort to write to them in the first place, they better write back. If they don't they're obviously not my friends and I hardly care tuppence about them *huffs and tosses hair over shoulder*

44. Who is most likely to respond?
Respond to what again...

45. What book/magazine are you reading?
You don't want to know...oh wait, you do want to know...deep breath... ruthrendallunkindnessofravenspgwodehousepicadillyjimhanifkhureshiintimacythepoliticsofaristotlebeowulfanditsanalogues
So, did you really want to know?

46. What's on your mouse pad?
One of those toon figures in a flimsy yellow dress with flying auburn hair and huge brown eyes and a little snub nose and a big smile and huge umm I mean a very curvaceous figure. Also the word ALBA. Is anyone going to analyze this? Personally though I'd have preferred this...



47. What did you watch on TV last night?
Bunty or Babli. Yep. I know they showed it cos there were ads all over the papers so how about you assume I watched it.

48. Favourite Smell?
There are some smells which you think will make you gag but then you fall in love with them all over again each and every time. Like the smell of wet earth after the first rains. It's a muddy oozy smell but it's beautiful. Does that answer the question or should I have been even more explicit?

49. Have you ever regretted breaking up with someone?
Two things I learned before I even forgot how to lisp..no loothe endth, preferably no thtrings and no regretth!

50. Most tiresome thing you’ve ever experienced/done?
The most tiresome thing I've ever experienced is putting up with people who really really get on my nerves. Oh but you wanted to know fun things ain't it. Would watching the dawn break qualify as fun tiresome?

pheeew I'm done. Terrible that was.
Incidentally I'm not sure how these tag thingys work. I figure I'm supposed to tag some other people so any dearly beloved reader will please consider themselves tagged if they wish to answer these fifty questions.
Oh and belated realization...was I supposed to tell the truth back there.....ummm....right, I may have err slipped up a wee leetle bit in the general department of honesty and such like thingys. But to compensate there are pictures, as promised, of the best positions in bed. Here goes :











*sigh*

Prochur BhNaat

This isn’t a a guest post, it’s a guest quote. I’ve been dictated into posting this quote. And when I say dictated, I mean dic-ta-ted. P.B. pretty much ordered me to take out a pen and paper in the middle of class the other day and write down his golden words so I could preserve them for posterity on my blog.
Umm... for anyone who’s not from JUDE, P.B. is the professor of old english in my department. Who is utterly adorable, according to me. Utterly malevolent, according to most of the rest of the department. And is also Grendel’s mother, according to a certain dream a certain member of our department once had.
This semester I opted for the special paper he offered. And happened to be the only student doing so. Needless to say, classes have been fun. Most days we just settle back and chit chat through fifty minutes of class. Other days his conscientous alter-ego threatens to break bottles on my head for bunking classes. Or alternatively, on having it pointed out that his pursuing such a course of action might amount to sexual harrassment, his pragmatic conscientous alter-ego attempts to desperately bribe all female juniors to break aforesaid bottles on my head.
Right... does everyone have a semi clear idea of professor in question? This, then, is what he has to say about the professor with whom fifty percent of the first year population of JUDE inevitably falls in love.

"A**** is part of the Miltonic Scholars Conspiracy to deny Milton’s indebtedness to Old English poetry. And that is why he refuses to openly admit that Milton cribbed large bits of Paradise Lost from Beowulf and Genesis B."

AFTER-THOUGHT : Non-JUDEans please feel free to say eh? And move on to reading other posts.
JUDEans are given the easy options of a) killing P.B. before he gets a chance to flunk bably in her end-sems and b) killing P.B. after he flunks bfiss in her exams. There is of course c) killing A.D.G. for conspiring against Old English but well, we all know what this fiss thinks of option c.) In fact, as I see it, option c.) can go jump into the c.

CASSY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

umm, you'll have to overlook the colour scheme, i got a bit carried away. hehe. but it was all meant to convey my undying luurbh and devotion.
incidentally, if I don't come for the party it's because I'm mortally offended at the fact that you thought it necessary to invite me.
now run along and have a good day.

Traumatic things which should not happen to the b'fiss first thing in the morning.
The phone shouldn't ring.
If it does, it should not be the father.
And even it accidentally happens to be the father, the conversation should not start as follows.

bfiss : hello?
the father : yes, sugarplum.
*stunned silence*

*Moment of explanation. The father does not call me sugarplum. No one in their worst nightmares, or in my worst nightmares would dream of caling me sugarplum. Any man, woman or child thinking the words sugar plum and b'fiss in the same sentence would find themselves with a dislocated jaw and a decidely relocated friendship. Having said that it remains only to explain the obvious. That my uh father has umm embarrassing names for my erm mother. Ahem. Yes well. And since I will not reveal their little embarrassing secret names *which i discovered accidentally over the phone right now* I'm choosing sugarplum. Which is considerably less embarrassing than the actual names. Which should give you an idea of how mushy the parents are. And why I am perpetually one step away from dying of madness or diabetes. Or both. So, to return to phone conversation.*

the father, somewhat surprised at stunned silence, continues : hello? sugarplum?!
bfiss : na. babel here.

*embarrassed silence on the father's part*
**even more embarrassed silence on fissy's part**
***embarrassment having dropped in decides to camp out for a bit***

the father : oh, ahem. *embarrassed cough*
bfiss : yes *repeat action with ambarrassed cough*

the father : hehe. so. you sound the same as your mother.
bfiss : *dryly* yes
the father : could you umm give the mumble phone umm to su- er your mother?

Thereafter phone was conveyed to the mother. And I went and got an icepack.

Yes well. Bascally. The reason I shall never get married is this overwhelming, overflowing, perpetually gushy, practically adoloscent luurbh between the parents.
This dear reader is Love Fest 1976-2006.
I need a holiday.

I signed on to orkut a while back to find this 'teaser' from some random stranger : for someone so adorabel how can you be single?
Deep breath. Right. That sentence should tell you why I’m avowedly single on orkut.
I didn’t bother suggesting to the sender that he should go get himself a word processor but just opening my mail and finding that message sparked off this whole feeling of mutiny and rebellion and unpleasant-ish memories. By now I've figured there's some nascently malignant force at work whenever people sign onto messengers or chat forums.

As a brilliant example of slow murder of the english language this is the transcript of an amazing conversation I had with a complete stranger over yahoo once. Let’s call the man tb, not just because he was as unwanted as tuberculosis but because it’s the abbreviation of his name. Read on…

TB : Hw R U?

*bfiss momentarily confused, since she knows no man/woman or extra-terrestrial creature by the name of TB, remains silent*

TB : wAZZup wid u?

*bfiss continues to be silent and confused*

TB : what U R up to?

*confusion has gone for a walk, to be replaced by slight annoyance; profound silence continues though*

TB : I think U r not in a mood of....... wid me..

*slight annoyance blooms into severe irritation and quells the deep desire to remain silent*

bfiss : I don't know you.

TB : Mera naam Ting Tong Buzz hai.19/m

*m? what’s m? male/married or is he just 19 metres tall? bfiss resolutely ignores rising curiosity and continues in frigid tones meant to repel*

bfiss : L,ook knowing someone's name is not the way to know someone. I honestly don't have time to spend chatting with strangers I don't know. I would appreciate it if you quit messaging me.

TB : Thanks 4 UR advice but really I was MAD 2 chat wid U. som times can I give U wishes{dat only eys remainin wid me} cn I?I will not msg U unnesserily,OK

*who? what? whose eys remain with him?*

TB : so just leave UR 1 msg 4 me Bye.............................Gud Nite....sweet dreams,,,,,,,,,,

*just when you think, phew, good riddance, five minutes sixteen seconds later*

TB : PLEZ LAST MSG{ABOUT ''can I wish U?''}DEN PROMISE I'LL NOT NEVER DISTURB u

bfiss : What the fuck. I said I dont have the time for this. I dont think you're someone I'd ever want to chat with. Let me put it this way...I have a huge problem with people who cannot write a coherent sentence in English and insist on using inane sms short forms even when it takes a few extra seconds to be coherent. Suggestion : learn English. Then try to speak to complete strangers. Byebye.

TB : F''' ''' K u .gOOD BYE

*and the bfiss is left grinning and wondering what prompted such ire in the man. Of course these people never give up, so even after such a dramatic exit, next day there's an offliner announcing…*

TB : SORRY...............! 4 YESTERDE'S DIDS, 4RM 2DE I'll NEVER DISTURB u ,OK BYE

What does one say after this? English is dead, long live english perhaps.

I've been tagged by the once beloved cassandra and since cribbing, ignoring and outright refusing to complete the tag hasn't worked here goes.
Presumably the point of this exercise is that someday prince charming or the green-golden-hearted-ear-wax-filled version of him will drop by my blog and on reading this list will promptly realize I am the woman of his dreams and then apply the Ickenham process virtually. Of course there's also a fair chance that there is absolutely no purpose to this little tagging exercise. And more importantly that any overtly suspicious prince charming trying too much waggling is likely to get a sharp kick right where it hurts. That said I should add that people with easily offended moral sensibilities should probaby hum a little tune and head for the exit, right about now.

Eight reasons why I would want to spend the rest of my life with one man :

1) He should be drop dead gorgeous. Well, maybe not drop dead but most certainly gorgeous enough to make me drop my jaw. In case anyone feels inclined to comment that beauty is only skin deep this is where I echo Pratchett, as if a man ever fell for an attractive pair of kidneys...and...They said they wanted a soulmate and helpmeet but sooner or later the list would include a skin like silk and a chest fit for a herd of cows. Going by the same rule, this fiss demands a handsome hunk.

2) Having said that I shoul clarify I'm not demanding tall, dark and handsome. Just handsome does fine. I don't even insist on add-ons like brawn and brains. A football-toned body is a wonderful thing of course and brains are terrific in blocking the direct passage of sunlight through the ears but my focus is exclusively on good looking. In fact, tall is not good. I want that comfortable sort of height where I don't have to stand on tiptoes to kiss him.

3) I'm perfectly cool with all socially defined vices, hell I don't think my perfect man would be uptight about smoking, drinking or doping but the one point where I draw the line is promiscuity. I've just met too many men who think nothing of cheating on their girlfriends/wives and while I'm not self-righteous or pompous enough to take it on myself to sit in judgement over them since this is an idealistic list of perfect values and what not, trust is important. And fidelity.

4) More importantly though, he shouldn't play golf. This is a dead no. Primarily because I don't play golf. And anyone who knows their Wodehouse will know that if only one half of a couple plays golf the relationship is pretty much doomed to being ended by the entry of some beautiful young damsel who has a handicap of 18.

5) Going by the same rule, he shouldn't be a poet. Actually that's not as important as the corollary to the point; he should never ever ever accuse *me* of writing poetry. I can happily endure accusations of murder, treachery and stealing my best friend's boyfriend(s) but not even the Spanish Inquisition could get me to confess to writing poetry. Especially related to a) angst b) depression c) love d) nature umm, the list is endless. Point is I don't do poetry. And I most certainly wouldn't do a poet.

6) He shouldn't be a millionaire.Or a billionaire. They're too boring, and they attract far too many dependent and/or conniving relatives and damsels in distress and svelte model types.

7) He should be sufficiently challenged visually to insist that I look good. He should stick to this basic simple plot line irrespective of what I'm wearing. It doesn't matter if I'm in a sari and looking like it's all going to fall off any second or if I'm vibrant in red pants if the man is to be described as perfect I demand that he should be perfect at the little white lies which make a fiss so happy.

8) And since I was obviously saving the best and most important point for the last, listen in carefully. This is like the defining criterion. Points one to seven can go hang themselves but any man who doesn't fit this point is obviously not the right man for me. Basically. He should be a good, no, an excellent gardener. If he can't mange those plantations I keep planning to plant I honestly don't think it's going to work.

hmm...I actually managed eight points. Anyone who's interested, go ahead and tag yourself please. And anyone who fits the bill, hehe, you know where to find me. Or conversely if I hear of anyone who's perfect, I might just hunt him down...

So. After a week of obsessively thinking of politics and campaigning continuously and shamelessly the elections in our department took place yesterday and the results came out today. I'm terribly upset of course. So we're not going to discuss what the results were. Instead here's my personalized list of instructions for polling agents at the booth. It's meant to be a completely confidential and serious document. I have absolutely no idea why everyone who read it started giggling. Do let me know if you find any part of it funny. I wouldn't want people to think I don't take the electoral procedure seriously. It's a bit long, but since I was planning to suggest to the authorities and all political parties that this should be their format for instructions to polling agents all criticism is insincerely invited. Here goes.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE POLLING AGENT :

DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES SHOW THIS PAPER TO ANYONE.

Anyone includes professors, polling agents from other parties, your best friends, your worst enemies, vague acquaintances, random strangers, and even the dogs strolling the corridors. BASICALLY EVERYBODY.
Naturally it is implied that since you won’t be showing it around, you won’t dream of giving it to anyone other than the Babelfish. THIS IS REALLY REALLY IMPORTANT. I don’t care if you find it incomprehensible, but it’s important.

1. Do not attempt any sort of campaigning or canvassing for votes inside the polling booth. It doesn’t matter if the voter is your best friend or your boy/girl friend and you think you’ll just drop them a hint. Perish the thought. There’ll be enough people outside to campaign and cajole voters. If anyone inside the booth says anything their candidate might well be disqualified. Play it safe. Smile but don’t open your mouth. You may however offer your pen to a voter who seems to have strolled in without any form of stationary. Pen, not pencil. Black or blue, never red.*

*Incidentally it seems I was dead wrong about this point. The authorities thought it was enough that people actually landed up to vote without expecting them to bring their own stationary as well. So in the generosity of their hearts they provided the necessary writing instrument. Which happened to be a pencil. And red. Sigh. Another of those inherent conspiracies you see. It's all about auto-suggestion and psychological warfare. To understand the full implications of this footnote you have to remember that the opposition was SFI. Which is commie. And blood red in colour. And all government buildings are always painted an ugly red. Which is why I prefer Buckingham Palace. Never mind.

2. Make sure that the name of every voter present is marked by the presiding officer in the electoral roll sheet. This is pretty vital, and the presiding officers have been known to be forgetful. Short term amnesia is not appreciated here.

3. The ballot paper must be signed by the presiding officer before it is given to the voter. Please continue the battle against short-term amnesia.

4. The voter must sign only the counterfoil of the ballot paper which is to be kept by the presiding officer. Voters have a fascination for signing everywhere. Urge them to suppress the desire. One sign, one vote.

5. In the case of certain names there are problems in the final electoral roll. If no objection is raised by the presiding officer or the other polling agents do not mention them. In case of any argument, produce the letter from the Dean. If that doesn’t work call Bably and I’ll create a minor war on the spot. Which should be fun.*

*Always remember peaceful votes are no fun. If you don't believe me ask the head of our department. He of all people can tell you how much bombs and such like things can add to the enjoyment of an election. We don't call him the Don for nothing.

6. Remember to cast your own vote at some point during the day. This is critical. Remind yourself ten times over. In case you forget which names you’re voting for try banging your head really hard on the wall. That works wonders.

Best of luck. Have fun. Vote for me. And remember gazing in rapt adoration at a suitably admirable professor is one of the little things that make life worth living and eggjams worth writing.

Right. That, I thought, was a simple, to-the-point list of instructions. Serious also. Which is what I am. Not simple exactly, but serious. Especially now that I'm marginally heart-broken about the results.*

*All those who promised to come vote and then gracefully dropped excuses for not coming please don't comment on this post. On the other hand this is the moment when I should go all teary eyed and thank cassy and sohini and diya and aniroe and panu and supriyo for landing up just to vote despite the fact that they needed to study for tests.

AFTER-BLOG-THOUGHT :Incidentally this is my hundred-th post. Which should have been a happy post. But in keeping with the gloomy mood of the rest of my posts I thought this had best be as sad as it gets. So, *sigh*, I might as well tell you the results. There are nineteen people in the department who don't love me. Or at least love other people more than me. Which doesn't discount the hundred and sixteen people who accidentally or unknowingly seem to have voted for me. But still. I'm mourning those nineteen votes now. Maybe I should feel happy about the fact that I got the maximum number of votes in the department but well, there were nineteen ballot papaers which had no indication of people wanting to vote for me. In case you're wondering why this makes me unhappy, it does. Unhappy enough to want to get miserably sloshed sometime soon. So if you hear of me getting thoroughly inebriated please understand that's not me celebrating my victory-thingy and the fact that every independent candidate of my department sailed through with a huge majority. I'll be mourning those nineteen. Now if I could only wipe off this silly grin.

BELATED UPDATE : umm, since people did ask, here's an update on the results of the entire university :
Faculty of Arts : SFI- 48 seats; Independent candidates - 6 seats.
Faculty of Science : SFI - 1 seat; We The Independents - 23 seats.
Faculty of Engineering : SFI - 10 seats; Democratic Students Forum - 75 seats.
Freaky darling I take sincere umbrage at your friend's remark that the world is good and red again. hehe. it's not. Having bored all those completely disinterested by politics I shall now get back to grinning like a maniac.

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.*

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

The babelfish is traumatized beyond disbelief!
A mere twelve days she leaves her blog unattended and when she returns what does she find? Besides the loving messages from the ever too sweet people who evidently missed her updates *muuah, I luuurbh you all*, there was the most heart rending discovery of the year.

Dear reader, you whose gentle soul has perhaps been stirred by the b'fiss's verbal navigations between madness and civilization, you who have been bably's companion through thick and thin and comments manifold, how will you react when you hear this tragic tale. Will you break down and weep uninterruptedly as babel herself did?

The time has come, gentle reader to tell you all. Quail not at the thought of untold horrors to be revealed soon but bear up bravely and more importantly help b'fiss bear up bravely because she is a mere twenty seconds away from a hysterical outbreak.

Dear Reader, there is a shark in the fish bowl! These are murky waters you and I tread and 'tis an age of betrayal when none can be trusted. I shudder to think such ignominious behaviour is possible in this supposedly humane society of bloggers but it's true. There is a nameless, faceless and probably heartless blogger who *hold your breath* has usurped the babelfish's username.

Hoimoi I say and Hoimoi some more!*
*greek word meaning alas and implying the deepest sort of despair...can you blame bably if in her moment of despair she resorts to Greek to express her profound sorrow, even as she has resorted to using the third person in a desperate attempt to stave off the reality of having her personal blogspace trespassed.

Imagine this. The b'fiss returns to the blogsphere still somewhat dazed from the excitement of watching the sister get married, and that too to someone who did not have a gun pointed at his head or other interesting parts of his anatomy. And to make up for the long silence she has stories galore revolving around aunts and sisters and friends who stay up till dawn on wedding nights fighting over cushions and other friends who are heartless enough to leave her unchaperoned on aforementioned nights because they have to walk the dog the next morning. But then she comes across this, this, this verbose Euryproktoi!**
**hehe, another greek word actually. somewhat censored, so all those whose moral sensibilities are likely to be offended, note I didn't mention any specific age group, please turn your eyes from this part of the small print...whispered undertone....umm euryproktoi means...ahem *I blush myself at such a graphic meaning but lets get it over with* elderlypersonwhosearsehasbeenwidenedbyrepeatedanalpenetration. there I said it, phew.

In short then, bably is shattered. She has had her blogdentity snitched and while she would love to call this new blogger an upstart usurper she won't. But be warned dear reader if you find strangely worded, marginally pretentious comments on your blogs claiming to be from the babelfish do not assume at once that it is this fish.

This babelfish will now sigh profoundly and swim away to a quiet corner of her fishbowl to mourn in silence the loss of her virtual identity. Farewell gentle reader, perhaps some day in some distant planet we shall meet again, for now this fishy heart is broken.

Fare thee well indeed.

The b'fiss family bowl has recently been taken over by one nos. aunt, one nos. cousin and one nos. bride-to-be sister.

The aunt is the life and soul of the wedding party, never fails to mention that she has flown ten thousand miles for our sakes only and keeps reminding me that if I am to get married it must be after a minimum of four years and I am only allowed to pick a boy from the city. For those who know not the intricate details of our fishy lives my sister is getting married to a boy from Arambagh. Which is erm..somewhere in the state of Bengal, possibly in the district of Hooghly, but my geography being what it is, let's just say the place is a three hour drive from the city. The family has no inbred prejudices of course against anyone who should not chose to live in the very heart of the city but when it comes to a wedding it all gets very complicated. Right now our biggest worry is what time the groom will reach on the day of the wedding, there being just the faintest chance that he'll arrive at eleven at night when all the guests and possibly the bride as well have gone to sleep. The aunt is suitably traumatized at the thought of having to drive out three hours to attend the reception at Arambagh and every possible chance she gets she repeatedly urges me to ensure my life-mate lives on Southern Avenue but failing that anywhere within Calcutta or some major metropolitan city will do. Major arguments have arisen over this between the aunt and the father since the latter is currently insisting I marry either a Frenchman or an Italian or possibly a German. What I find most bewildering is this general insistence on my marriage given that I made it perfectly clear to the family from the time I was four and capable of constructing a grammatically coherent sentence that I was not getting married.

The cousin is presently giggling her way, somewhat hysterically, through her India trip. While the bfiss has never entertained the slightest doubts as to her ability to be entertaining, the cousin's sudden bursts of laughter are somewhat unnerving.

This ain't a fishbowl any longer it's a whirlpool.

After-thought : the difference between my cousin and me is when she's on the computer I very conscientously look the other way. whereas when I'm on the computer if she happens to be in the same room, she will, without fail look over my shoulder. I'm exceptionally fond of the kid, she's a year younger than me and one of those bherry nice types but this is a killer.
And since one reader athas questioned my love for my aunt, I have a minor clarification. This is the one aunt I actually like. Well one of three at least. Then again, family luuurbh is always on the border of love-hate-and-kill-yourself-before-I-kill-you.

Act I :

cassy (standing at the threshhold of that sacrosanct space of the don of all Judean times, the Head's room; earnest, serious, polite) : sir, may I come in?

don c (with all the (cor)leonine gruffness of the original Vito ) : no!

exit cassandra.

[the story is told with much anguish to the babe(l)fish who on realizing a week later that she has to visit the head for some work feels suitably petrified]

Act II :

b'fiss (standing at the same place; wide eyed innocence radiating from voice, also slight element of breathlessness) : sir, may I come in?

don c (benignly) : yes.

*b'fiss does mental dance of jubilation, steps into room, walks up to desk, ignores feeling of solidly muscular and boney knees changing to jelly like consistency and instead focuses on fluttering eyelashes to full effect*

don c (stern voice of judgement) : biye bari jachho? *off to a wedding?*

b'fiss (looks left, looks right, feeling overwhelmingly panic-stricken and mutters) : eh?

don c (raises eyebrow of stern judgement) : eto sheje guje keno?! *why are you all decked up?*

b'fiss (looks down at self, grapples to understand the import of the question, looks up at don, sinks back into stupidity in the face of eyebrow of doom and repeats) : eh?!

don c (looks fiss up and down, mutters ) : oh na, shawl-ta dekhe mone holo *no, the shawl misled me*

short while later, exit babelfish.

Thereafter had anyone been present on the corridor outside the room they would have been treated to the sight of the babelfish taking off her shawl to reveal semi-tattered jeans and fairly non-descript kurta and staring at shawl for all of five minutes.
It was a nice shawl. But there was absolutely nothing about it which suggested I was decked out for a wedding!

If anyone assumed that the Head of the Department of English at JU, like Principles of schools and Abbots of well, abbeys occupied the sort of exalted position where appointments have to be obtained well in advance to catch a glimpse of the glorious being, such an anyone would be dead off the mark. The best place to catch a glimpse of the man is at the canteen. Actually it's not quite the best place going by prevalent definitions of best, since my reaction usually is, damn, he's there, oooh, he's hot, aargh, hide fag!!! Finding him is easy. It's the next part where people generally discover that they've finally reached the top of the minaret but the stairs have mysteriously vanished. Put it simply, the don is unpredictable.

These days however gone is that look of joyful delight at the misery of hapless students and he looks merely weary of the world in general and the department in particular. So much so, that the last day I went to badger him into giving me the optional I wanted, he looked so tired and forlorn I actually just handed him the application letter and left instead of making a general nuisance of myself as I would've on other occasions. It's just that he was sitting there looking deluged with work and my instinctive reaction was to wish I could pick him up, croon over him and cuddle him for a bit and then pat him on the head and put him back.

embarrassing silence.

yes well...I know everyone who actually knows the man I speak of is probably wishing they hadn't read that last bit but that's what I felt. And there was no disrespect meant, I feel the same about my parents these days what with all the pressure they're under with the wedding in all of two weeks and the bride and groom missing and the bride's sister being utterly unhelpful. Maybe the world would just be a happier place if everyone was crooned over and patted more frequently.

In conclusion, the fiss's recipe for world peace : cuddle the world!

coming up soon *never mind how soon* : the fiss's plans for world domination and why she is better off as a super villain rather than as a super hero(ine)!