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October 27, 2008

Posted by K in Uncategorized.

Here comes the obligatory Diwali post (on an extremely sticky keyboard) 🙂

Happy Diwali, all, whatever Diwali means to you.

If it means nothing to you (like it does to me), then well just have a general happy day 🙂

PS-Laughing Cow makes amazing cream cheese cubes. The paprika and mushroom flavours make awesome accompaniments to khakhara.

PSPS- Everything costs money. Sigh.

October 20, 2008

Posted by K in Abstract Ramblings, Diary.

Just when I thought I was beginning to like Google Chrome enough to say bye bye to firefox-it behaves badly. It keeps hanging, I don’t know whether that is common or just something about today.

I’m in the middle of exams again, comfortably looking down upon them(again). I mean really-what is the point of exams? It tests how you organise your knowledge and put it down on paper. How does that help anything in the real world? Will my ability to finish a paper in three hours affect how I run an organisation or administer a fund?

Avial is currently stuck in my head. Especially Nada Nada. I’m glad I don’t understand Malayalam…my love for them might just reduce if I understand what they are saying. Or then again-maybe not.

Casablanca is nice.

So is Dell. Except, I certainly hope Dell will do me the goodness of replacing the lid of my green lappie. The satin finish is peeling and I am highly distressed.

I can’t wait to get back to Delhi. Libraries, movies, art and theatre. Bliss.

The Pot October 11, 2008

Posted by K in Fiction, Gender.

The earthen pot was in the middle, and they all squatted around it. Five women, two unmarried. The sun warmed the soil beneath them, but their hardened feet thirstily sucked up the heat.

She had a pallu covering her face. She had a spot on her nose. She, she and she fought their biology with rags infested with disease.

They sat there and watched the pot.

In the distance, Manu called out his wares. Billoo stubbed his toe. Ram Babu struck cheap gold at the madiralay. The village fly went from house to house, finishing its afternoon round by evening.

The sun began to set on the pot; the women watched shadows play on its natural body. Shanta’s husband’s cows mooed. Lakshman’s mother’s bull swished its tail. The muezzin called the faithful to prayer.

Dusk turned into night, but the women came prepared. Each one pulled out a diya from the folds of their pallu, and passed the oil around. As one, they lit the flame, and watched it burn the pot into visibility.

The sounds of the darkness imperceptibly took over the nameless, maybe timeless, place. Five houses stood more silent than the rest.

The women watched the pot.

The diyas were refuelled periodically until, suddenly, a stone rang out of nowhere and pierced the neck of the pot. The diyas flickered, and five pairs of eyes watched the cracks spreading across its body. A slow, unbroken movement, until there was no more pot to hold its progress.

The shattered remnants lay around the spot, as one by one, they collectively watched it no more.

As the darkness continued to veil the surroundings, all that remained were five, flickering, intermittent bursts of light.

The Tik-Tik Man October 8, 2008

Posted by K in Abstract Ramblings, contemporary, Faction, Life.
Tags: , ,

The Tik-Tik man was always there. Outside the ice-cream parlour, while the rich kids ate, the Tik-Tik man walked up and down, with a sack on his shoulder, and toys in his hands. He would make the Tik-Tik toy go tik-tik every few seconds, hoping the sound would penetrate the ice-cream cones and the traffic jams. He had spectacles and greying hair, a slight figure and an expression of un-envy as car after car would disgorge its contents onto the pavement outside the parlour. College kids, small kids, young couples, and lots and lots of veiled women. Perhaps the Tik-Tik man wondered how they would lick the cones of anjeer ice-cream through the barrier of the veil. Or perhaps the Tik-Tik man said fuck you bitch. Perhaps the Tik-Tik man says fuck you a lot more often than his benign appearance betrays. Fuck you, you piece of shit. Your ice-cream costs twenty eight bucks. Your auto costs another twenty. One way. My toy costs thirty five. And I’m evening willing to negotiate. Fuck you for not having to begin your day at six in the morning and end it at twelve at night. Fuck you for not having to do two jobs to feed your family and put your kids through school. Fuck you for being able to not notice me.

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

But the Tik-Tik man will probably not utter the ‘f’ word. The Tik-Tik man probably tells himself that his dignity is not ground in dust every second, that he doesn’t mind being just a part of the scenery. I don’t know. What I do know, is that the Tik-Tik man works for an advocate in Andheri in the day time, and sells toys from eight in the evening. The advocate pays him three thousand rupees a month, an amount that I contribute towards my (muchly) shared flat every month, and what I do know, is that it is not enough to sustain his family. The Tik-Tik man has two children who go to college, and the Tik-Tik toys that are bought probably go into the college fund. What I do know, is that the Tik-Tik man sells his wares with good cheer. What I do not know, is why the Tik-Tik man doesn’t hate us more.

I, too, wonder at the patience of the poor in our country.

October 4, 2008

Posted by K in Copyright Infringemnt, Funny, Recent reads-and my comments.
Tags: , , ,
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The BCL is undergoing renovation. Hurrah! Lol. I get to borrow 5 books instead of 3 and 3 DVDs instead of 2 till December, because of that :D:D (The books have come to Bombay with me. Muhaha.)

Sebastian Faulks’ (Not Faulk, apologies) Pistache has, amongst others, this-

T.S Eliot

reflects that it might have come out better in limericks


Said a Lloyd’s clerk with mettlesome glands:

‘To Margate- I’ll lie on the sands.

The Renaissance and Dante,

Dardanelles and now-Shanti!

God, it’s all come apart in my hands.’


I once missed the moment to be

Someone not on the periphery;

But my second-hand life

Was too dull for a wife:

Now the stairlist awaits only me.


For an Anglican, time is too vast;

A rose or a vision can’t last:

It’s a moment in history,

Our grace and our mystery,

And the future is lost in the past.


The weight of the past makes me pine

For a language that’s English, but mine.

No more hog’s-head and Stilton,

And to prove I’m not Milton,

I’ll compose with four beats to a line.