Anything You Want, Girl.

How how HOW do people write up articles that are wanted, even adopted?

I'm expected to hand in a few articles - I definitely want to - I sat with a superior (er, only in jest, world... then again, maybe not) to 'brainstorm', threw up a few ideas and then... forgot. I forgot what I came up with. And what I recall isn't working out :| 

Am I expected to give in 250 words of SmartArseShweta? Funny Gal variant? That's beyond me. I can turn in one line a week, upper limit.

Any serious requests, I'll do my best, slog my butt off for them, I promise. Any specifics, I can phir bhi try. "Write about whatever"? NOOO!!

My Mother Is On Facebook.

Silence. The deafening variety.

She's on Facebook, she's on my list on friends, she's everywhere!

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mother to bits and would live my life for her. I have this theory that living your life for someone/something must be infinitely tougher than giving it up for that particular whoever/whatever, but that's for another time, another post.

And she didn't track me down, sneak up on me, put on a "yo, imma hot dude, add me yu sexii chica!" disguise (that would never -wont ever- work, don't get funny ideas anyone...) and then do an India TV "parda faash!" gig at dinner one night. Au contraire, I'm the one who got her off VSNL and introduced her to Gmail and Facebook and my humble blog - I'm your modern-day saintly proponent of clicks and codes. I'm glad she's open minded and eager to learn the ropes on here, to see how these work best for her. I'm glad that it has given her an opportunity to reconnect with classmates, neighbours and friends from the years past. I'm glad she's being progressive about it and not giving me some "too old, too busy, and who cares anyway" concoction. 

I'm glad, glad, GLAD. Proud. I truly am. Come to think of it, I probably sound like a proud mum. Anyway, I think she's wayy cool.

But okay, picture this. Fictional situations all (so Ma, don't freak out.. nevertheless, CPR on hold guys!). Only for the sake of point making, ye get? So, for whatever reason, you upload on Facebook some pics of you and a bunch of friends downing criss-cross drinks or trying out some random grassy thing or in general playing the stupid/dangerous/perverted fool. Surprise surprise, your mom gains access to them! Oh and in case it hasn't crossed your mind yet, you're underage. HOW WILL YOU FEEL? I dunno know how you'll feel but boss, those pics will self destruct. Poof! And if that doesn't happen in time, haha, someone's gonna get hurt real bad tonight... 

Milder version of the same - you're flirting with whoever, and I'm talking serious flirting. The responses make you happy in the heart and mushy in the mind. And out of nowhere, Momma puts in an appearance. Potential poof situation. Not ideal, see? That's what I'm getting at. Virtual privacy ka popat.

Then again, this works both ways. Anytime she decides to crib about me, bitch or rant, I'll get those flashy red notifications. She decides to blog-rant, I can read. Random conversations with friends, I get updates, the inside scoop. 

We could go in for a cordial understanding that the other's profile is not to be looked at, updates to be ignored, but who am I kidding? We're sneaky pigs in that regard - do pardon the language, bas grasp the implication. And it'd get too boring, too soon. Guess we'll let things remain.

I'll just have to remember to flirt in private ;)

** This also holds good for college profs. Detected one on Facebook the other day. This might just turn into a series of "Who's On Facebook?" posts. :|

Paper For Seats?

WHAAAT is this thing females have about leaving the toilet seat down? :X 

A little tap works wonders. One word. Gravity. When you lift it up you're fighting gravity. Tap and the thing will whoosh-whack-bump its way down.  Easy peasy, innit?

I don't know where this is coming from. Perhaps I'm just turning into a reverse feminist, if that makes any sense. But boss, when something bothers you all day long, you bloody well hammer keyboards about it.  Life's a series of buttons being pushed anyway. 

And anyway, why does the toilet seat in particular get to decide a guy's standing on Le Scale de Chivalrie? Toilet paper would be a better option, no? Something like this -

Roll and guy dono laapata? Nevermind... that's why the women's mags advise against monogrammed ones anyway. Unless they're Gucci dahlings! Chanel? Pooh, you're better off without them.

Roll of toilet paper still to be seen? He isn't a petty thief. Then again, maybe it's just the CCTV thrill/scare you gave him earlier.

Roll seen in place? He cares.

Ripped but diagonally? Oh just them big, clumsy fingers...

Razor sharp, horizontal line? Keeper! 

Unused? Get the noose ready, he's putting your needs before everything else! Alternatively, he could be slid off the list clearing the bottom margin some. The trick is to decide on either funda and stick with it. 

See, that's all there is to it. 

Oh and that line about life being a series of buttons being pushed was profound. And original. You just don't know kitna... :P

Untitled. Suspense much?

It is sad when you can almost see your life following a book/movie ka storyline, eh? Matlab, scene by scene, thought by thought.. sad hai yaar. Yes, I've said that already. Get an idea of how sad that it? :| Ha yes, different lives-different stories, circumstances and all.. but still.  

On a nava note, I've realised that asking for a mixed tub of popcorn - a tub of mixed popcorn- is a bad idea.. they mix in everything except what you asked for. Tomcheese thing icky. Ask for caramel, sweet and straight. 

Ramble ramble. I need to delete this effing blog. And then go grab a pillow from Fame and hide my face in it. Those pillows were good..

Spot On.

Massive, Massive, Massive.

The mere mention of Chate’s Coaching Classes is invariably accompanied by some ugly allegations. Old news. Also stuff I don’t need to go into. But a recent experience proved beyond doubt the (ab)sense of ethics when it comes to the man running the show at Chate’s Vashi branch. 

I accept that there is little point in ranting and raging on a blog that is probably read by 5 people a week, if I’m lucky. But when I left the coaching centre, I was convinced that a blazing write-up for a news daily, in The Twin City Times if it came to that, would be next on my agenda. I rather liked the idea of involving the MNS youth wing, until it dawned on me that I’m a north Indian and Chate dear is definitely not. Back to the article - I told myself that being a BMM student would only help my case and screw up his. Also, a copy of the article would have to be slid under the door to the office. The write-up that formed itself in my mind as I walked away was, at the very least, the equivalent of a watermelon sized stink bomb escorted by two baseball bats for some physical impact. 

Par kya hota hai na, your face goes from a furious red to a peaceful tan, you age by a day, you realize you have lesser time left to waste now than you did yesterday and so you calm down… which is why this will go up as a blog outburst and remain one. I’m writing to feel good about having let it out. That does not mean another is obliged to read. Read forth if you don’t mind a long winded post about something that may not be of concern to you. If you do mind, I suggest you head to FML. 

So. I was there with an acquaintance of a few hours to complete a task. Do drop the “task-who?” queries. We were sent out to earn some money. Given - 3 hours, a combined capital investment amount of Rs.20, a cellphone as a team bonus and our oh-so-marketable baarvi paas skills. Down to our last hour, we felt like cavemen who had just figured out what to do with fire. After all, we had our modest but hard-earned pay stuffed deep inside the deepest pockets. During the course of the afternoon, we’d met some entrepreneurs some of who who genuinely wanted to help and did – them we were grateful to; some who found that Sundays didn’t translate to a day with spare work lying around – I’ll leave it to you to work that out; and then some blessed souls who as good as slammed the front door in our faces and then tried to spray some Baygon through the cracks in the wood just in case. Nevertheless, I was feeling, and do pardon the sad but fitting OSO reference, “like the KING of the WORLD!”

Chate’s, right. We walked in, briefed the boss there and were subsequently given some records to fill in, phone calls to make. All conversations started with this totally sadau “Hello, I’m calling from Chate classes” intro (NOT my dream job : | ) and went somewhat like this –
                   “Aapka beta aaj class kyu nahi aaya?”-“Bai.. ho ka? Nighaalla hota toh.. mee tabadtop yete! Tumhi thaamba!”-“Naahi, raahu dya.. ushir aalla asel. Mark nahi kiya hoga. Sorry.”

So we spend an hour learning new panic words in Marathi, systematically penning absentee records right down to the excuse. All while the lady employed to do this stuff quizzes us about our future job expectations and what we would do if a new co-worker happened to delete all our work and the boss “took the newbie’s side”. Would we resign because the boss had no confidence in us or would we stay on to prove a point? I’m serious. I left out the quotes and commas because they can be a pain more often than not, but those were her exact words. I know, I know, the things we do… Anyway, so an hour goes by, we work, then get up to see the boss so we may reap due monetary benefits. Here you’ll say we should have decided on a certain amount beforehand. Hah. Keep saying. Mr. Ghosh, showrunner extraordinaire, decided to disappear instead. Then over the stoopid Tata Indicom his voice made its crackly crinkly way to reach us. We get told there was no “commitment on his part as such” and we have no right to demand payment. We were begging for work, he felt sorry for us, so he gave us some shitty calls to make. No contract, remember? Yeah, right. Dickhead. 

And that led to a firing. Self to Showman. Derived tremendous satisfaction from it too. And it was this dignified firing that told him exactly what I thought of him. Ah, I was so proud of myself! Incidentally, so was the acquaintance of a few hours. He was also taken aback. Net result – he stopped hitting on me. Mera time 200% vasool. :D

I for one did not get the point of basically cheating two 17 year olds. For what, I can’t understand. Say there isn’t anything for us to do and we’ll go dude! Deceive why? I didn’t type out 900+ words to complain about having lost out on 50 odd rupees. Far from that. I probably ought to take the blame for having walked into an establishment like Chate’s and then expecting fair play. I don’t know. It’s just that the whole incident had me so mad!!

My point is this – Even in the absence of a lawyer, a contract drawn out on stamp paper and two witnesses, we need to get around to honouring agreements. Just plain ol’ staying true to our word types. Be it going out to play with a kid sister, meeting a pal on time or something we actually consider ‘major’. 

This may even sound preachy. But after a thousand words and a mind mad at that man all over again, I don’t really care.

I Have Been Thinking

Yes, yes. About a whole lotta stuff, sab totally un-interconnected. Unconnected. Inconnected? Non-connected? Disconnected is a bad omen, leave that be. And therein lies the problem. 

I seriously need to get off this whole random post thing I keep doing. I'm willing to bet I'll label this one 'Random shit' or some such. Sure, it may or may not be what some random guy's looking for on a blog, but that's hardly my concern. I mean, he's free to go write whatever he feels like reading, right? Just that if I was doing only random posts (intentionally, that is :|), I'd feel obligated, inspired, motivated to update every 8 hours or so. Wait.. how bad would that really be?

See, this is turning into another this-that-and-nothing post. When it comes to actually isolating a topic, I'm the proverbial ant stuck in peanut butter. Proverbial? A harmless, 'friendly' black ant, at that. See again - rant, I can. Discuss, I can. Ramble, I definitely can. Consciously pick a topic and write, I probably can too, just haven't managed it yet. Which is why letter writing -throughout school, then JC and now FY, for crap's sake!- always pissed me off. It never occured to them chumps that I might not be in the mood to enlighten my useless cousin about the importance of sports just then. It never occured to them chumps that maybe, just maybe, I'd like to be mentioned in that useless cousin's will 20 years down the line. Toughen you up for life, them chumps. 

Entertainment Pimp. Of Sorts.

Secrets are fun. Particularly when they’re someone else’s and you get to read. Anonymously. *evil cackle*

Most people see it for the harmless entertainment it is and enjoy it - no I don’t want to know what that says about me. Usually, hang ups can be sourced to an unusual (note: I did NOT say stuck up) sense of another’s privacy (make what you will of that…), nasty moods or plain ol’ fatigue. 

The way I see it, if the chump concerned doesn’t mind putting up something that may be ‘personal’, why the hell should we care? Same goes for all revealing blogs. If YOU enjoy reading them, just go ahead and fill MTNL’s coffers anyway. 

One globally popular adda is PostSecret. For some reason, I’m not a particularly big fan of all those pics covered with text, but hey, to each his own.

A few days back I looked up a site that I’ve heard a lot about but never actually visited. Highly entertaining stuff. You’ll find stuff you can relate to in a “Oh shoot, me too!” way. You’ll find stuff that has you hooting and doubling over. Then there’s some that’s essentially sad, you’d hate it if it was happening to you, but because it’s someone else, you pick up on the humour and give a wry smile anyway. Of course, you’ll find posts that do nothing for you, but hey, having you read it does nothing for the post either. 

The site is www.fmylife.com For the anti-abbreviationists out there, that’s Fuck My Life. 

Samples –

• Today, I signed up for an online dating service, a couple of days after my divorce. I got my first batch of matches, and number one was a smiling picture of the woman who had just divorced my ass after 20+ years together. Her profile shows she has to have been active there for months. FML

• Today, in my science class I sat next to my friend Jill. My teacher always gets our names confused calling me Jill & her Liz. She decided to combine our names. I'm now known as Jizz. My teacher clearly has no idea what it means. FML

• Today, I was driving in my car when out of the corner of my eye I notice a car pulling up next to me trying to get past me. I speed up, so as not to let the car pass me. It took me a while before I noticed I was racing against the shadow of my own car. FML

• Today, I yelled while I was sleeping....I was sleeping at a very important meeting with all the customers and my boss. FML

• Today, I lost my cell phone. But found it again! And then dropped it in the toilet. FML

You can post anonymously, answer a spot opinion poll and leave comments. Have a few good laughs, lighten up some, and get back to me with more sites if you know of them. 

Apologies to anyone who expected the post to be along drastically different lines. :P

Cheers

=)

A Couple Of Hours At Most.

You wonder why. You wonder why not. You wonder why you did. You wonder why you didn’t. You wonder why they did. You wonder why they didn’t. You may find the answers. Then again, you may not. Stories come your way all the same.

One orthopedic surgeon, a professor in Miraj, is operated on by another for a minor ligament tear. An arthroscopic surgery, for those interested. A cardiologist withholds the green flag citing possibility of cardiac trouble, proposes postponement of the procedure. The doctor in charge of the anesthesia has been a close friend of the patient-to-be for a while now. 

The team discovers that a well known orthopedic surgeon will be coming down to Belgaum for a visit soon. They fix a date for an OT meet up there in an unfamiliar, hut of a hospital as opposed to in Mumbai, as per prior plans. The patient goes under the knife. 

His brother, a gynecologist in the above mentioned metropolitan, stands guard outside the OT. He voices his doubts about the nursing home chosen. Urges them to reconsider, to pick Mumbai in light of the cardiologist’s warning. Shush, they say. Everything’s at hand. It’s expected to be a smooth show, Sir; a couple of hours at most. 

The warning flag has been disregarded; the whistle blown.

In hindsight, perhaps the cardiologist wasn’t really talking through his hat. Midway, they run into complications. Consulting or informing the sole relative present is ruled out, the procedure carries on. A cardiac arrest ensues. Call it intuition, call it boredom, call it primitive familial concern - within minutes the uninformed doc from the doorway rushes in. 

All that can be done gets done. That the nursing home is as poorly equipped as they come doesn’t help matters. Breach of trust at its worst. The patient is ‘in no condition to be shifted’. How the nursing home provides better facilities than a regular ambulance could be anyone’s guess. 

They try. Cardiac massages, all revival techniques possible put in an appearance. Jolts of electricity shoot through the man. To no avail. The patient loses his life. 

He was unmarried. He left behind grieving parents, and a brother who is now being accused for another’s lack of caution.

The next day, a missing car is traced. 

The anesthetist is found dead in the driver’s seat. He leaves behind old parents, a wife, and a child few months old. 

The post mortem reveals Scoline in his bloodstream. Scoline – a drug that paralyses all muscles until oxygen is artificially provided and that within 4 minutes. Beyond that? Brain death. Police evidence comprises a car locked from the inside, a motionless body and a syringe partnering an empty vial labeled ‘Lethal’. 

Suicide, they label it. For those hailing from a different school of thought, it’s about who murdered who.

Smooth show indeed.

What Did You Wish For?

Fresh after the 10th boards, I was looking to keep my choices open. Why Science? So I can switch streams later. Why biology? So that medicine is always an option. Why Swami’s? So I can switch to their Arts section in the 12th relatively easily, should the desire arise. Why the CET? That way engineering isn’t out. Why Symbiosis? So that BMM isn’t the only thing I can go in for. (And, if you want the truth, to find out just what the entrance test includes.)

But dude, what do you do when on the surface of it everything works out but the core of it is a jumble of randomly picked, conflicting molten metals? 

Be careful what you wish for, dear child, you may just get it.

Without going into much detail (your cue to laugh), I’ll have you know that I want to do that ostrichy, head-in-the-sand, you-can’t-see-me thing. Career confusion has gripped me, and indecision won’t leave me. But hey, it’ll all work out fine. Haha. Nonsense. I’m gonna get hysterical soon enough, I tell you… by the way, I’m awesome company (read- entertainment) when I’m hysterical. And that’s your cue to come tell me how I’m awesome company even otherwise :P

One thing – Symbiosis is out. I could use up an entire roll of toilet paper as notepaper, explaining the hows, the whys and the therefores, so let’s leave them questions alone. Know that I won’t land up in Pune after all. I have this theory that I’d love the ‘college life’ there, so to say. But having gathered a fractionally clearer picture of what I’d be doing once I’m outta there, it’s nopey nope for me. So here’s hoping I’ll learn to live with that decision and have no regrets later. And to apple-cinnamon pies topped with domes of vanilla ice cream. And to me mother. 

Getting things in place for the interview was memorable, to say the least. Which, me being me, won't happen.

The portfolio, bless it once and twice again, was completed sitting in the car, parked bang outside the campus walls, mere minutes before the interview was to begin. And to think I was asked if I joined classes to learn how to make and do up a portfolio. Yay to life in general! A 45 minute car ride from Kothrud to Viman Nagar was spent painting, pasting and repainting chunks of papier mache and strips of cardboard. An all nighter was managed with the help of SMSes and a cold floor, so I could prepare miniature paper mounts for the snaps I’ve taken over the years. Two gullible, unsuspecting friends were dragged to a fishing village, made to wait while I captured masalawallahs, chaatwallahs and then some fishy folks on film.

Good times, good times. Given a choice, I’d do it all over again. I think whatever SID prep work I’ve done will go down as real good fun, but fun that would eventually take me someplace I don’t think I want to be. 

I kinda feel like I’m betraying those paintings and photographs by using them as part of my portfolio, using them to convey my level of art and creativity to the panelists, using them to obtain the final go-ahead and then dropping the idea once it falls in place. It’s just not about whether or not they were deemed good enough by everyone who saw them… it’s simply that I enjoyed working on them, and just for that, they’re special to me. 

So here I am, all maudlin over some paint splattered on paper. Then again, it's paint I splattered. Samples from the portfolio beloved might just show up here.

So long. 

Shoot. I need to stop ending with that. It's like I'm attracting long deliberations and long speeches and long posts and.. long hair? Clearly, sleep is the need of the hour.

Stay well, folks.