Thursday, October 7, 2010

Delhi's Pride, A Metro Ride

So the Delhi Metro is pretty cool. In fact, it's cooler than I expected it to be. It's surprisingly similar to the Singapore metro, actually. In fact, it's just an Indian rip-off (because it even has similar murals and everything), but I'm not complaining. I use the metro everyday, back and forth from my workplace.

The cool thing about the metro is that it has a Women's Compartment, which is the first compartment of each train. This is awesome cause I don't have strange men bumping up against me. Also, women generally smell better and we shove and poke about 37% less than men do. I get into the compartment, get shoved around for a while, get glared at by other women, and eventually get to my destination.

Did I tell you that the metro is cheap? and airconditioned? Well it is! And that's awesome!

Anyway there are some women on the metro that caught my attention so I'm going to do what I always do; classify them. This is because it's always easier to assign labels to people rather than see them as individuals, it's the new world order. Kidding. I just do it cause that's how my brain does it. Alright, here goes.

The metro savvy girl is confident and thinks she owns all the awesomeness inside the metro. She never holds the sidebars or any of the holdable things in the compartment cause when the train starts, she maintains balance out of her pure awesomeness. She stands her ground, listens to music on the earphones which are connected to her phone and rests her hand on the glass sliding door, even if she isn't supposed to, cause she's cool like that. Here's the most badass part: she stands dangerously close to the sliding doors. So close that I always feel like her nose will be squashed when the doors shut, but she doesn't care. She knows where to stand so that the doors shut just a nano-centimeter away from her face. Amazing!

The metro also contains these older women who are very nervous. When they come in, the first thing they do is wrestle you for something to hold on to. God help you if you are hanging on to one of the handles she has an eye on. She'll first hand on to the only place on that handle your hand isn't on and then slowly encroach into your hand-territory until you give up and find something else to hold. Otherwise, she'll just shove you with one of her adipose-laden body parts. This type of passenger is also annoying when she needs to get off the train. A couple of stations before her's, she starts inching towards the door, moving form one handle to another, slowly defeating other handle-holders. If you don't oblige, she prods you and yells "esscuse!", which means you need to give way. By the time the train is 5 minutes away from her station, she's plastered onto the exit door. She will get out first.

There are some women who carry obnoxiously large bags filled with god-knows-what. I've decided to name that type 'Babita' [buh-bee-tha]; all of them. So BBB will turn from side to side and swing her bag around, hitting everybody. It's like she has 1/4th a person attached to her who likes causing destruction. It's like a mini battering ram. One of them had something so hard in her bag that when it hit my elbow, it sent that strange shock-feeling surging down my arm. She knocks around several other people before she gets off the train, especially if she's bolting towards the door.

We have to have these everywhere. They loudly babble on their cell phones, giving us useless information on their best friend's ex, their favourite movie, their university professors and their mother's cooking. Unless your best friend is an incredibly hot male, your professor has a juggling cat that can ride a unicycle or you're inviting me over for dinner cooked by your mother, I don't care. So shut up. Or keep it down, at least.

Occasionally, a member of the opposite sex attempts to sneak into the women's compartment. In smells better, it's a little less crowded and people are slightly more attractive. Unfortunately for him, he is yelled at and shooed out by several women saying "Yeh LADIES compartment hain!", or ushered out by the occasional security guy who's stationed in the train.

So that's been my experience with the metro so far. The trains got a purrdy face!

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

A Netizen's Guide to Delhi

Whenever I told anyone that I was about to spend a considerable amount of time in Delhi, I received pretty much the same response "Wow! Delhi isn't Bangalore! You can't go out in the evenings. It's so unsafe. You need to watch out for EVERYTHING". Well that's how it started, followed by some tidbit of specific advice which was interesting, to say the least.

So this is my way of helping other internet-loving, loling, rofling, youtube addicted people who are planning to go to Delhi. Also, if you know any such person going to Delhi, instead of giving them advice, just give them a link to this. They'll like you better for it.

SAY NAY (to all of the following while in Delhi.)

A car can tell you a lot about the person in it; so be vigilant about the cars around you, especially if they seem to be slowing down. The number one type of car you absolutely must avoid are black cars with black tinted windows. They have bad joojoo on the inside. I promise.
Secondly, Delhi license plate cars are alright (relatively), but watch out for cars with Chandigarh, Haryana, Punjab or Uttar Pradesh plates. They're not very cool in the manners department, or in the don't-randomly-stop-and-rape-women department (or so I've heard).
Finally, if any car around you slows down and it looks like they're doing it deliberately, RUN.

If a guy on a bike has a huge knife, a club, a chain, roofies, or a scary cockroach in his hand, RUN.

Just like in cars, watch out for people who wear black and black. They have bad joojoo in their brains. Bad joojoo brains aren't fun.
People who wear white and white aren't that safe either, especially if they're wearing white shoes. I know this might be because they're politically motivated or pseudo-Gandhian or something, but to me it just seems like they like getting messy. Like if they stab someone to death, the blood splatter will be more visible on their white clothes. Everyone loves some good blood splatter.
Roadside Romeos are a no-no. Today a guy with very orange-copper hair, wearing a green and orange striped shirt tried to check me out. Hot.

Evenings are a bad time of the day. Science has proven that when the sun sets, the bad joojoo quotient of every individual rises by 20%. This means that when you go out in the evening, some guy will rape you, mug you and then punch a puppy in front of your face (maybe even kick a kitten).
So don't go out in the evenings.

I hope this little guide helps you. At least you know what advice to expect if you tell someone you're going to Delhi. I shall now get back to researching on Industrial De-mergers... Hot.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Gargle With Hot Water And Salt

For those of you who don't know that I hate having a cold, I suggest reading one of my older posts explaining my feelings towards the common cold in what you might call detail. Here it is.

What I'm currently suffering from is a fever which was started by a sore throat which I caught from god-knows-where. And I hate it. Yesterday my throat was miserably sratchy and it hurt when I swallowed. It was horrible. Saliva was painful to swallow so I had to keep spitting and/or letting the saliva remain in my mouth which made me look like a retarded kid. Alright, I'm sorry; that was graphic and you'll be pleased to know that I'm exaggerating.

But I decided it was no big deal. In fact, I decided to go ahead and buy some art supplies and make an oil painting. I finished it in around an hour. It looks like a retarded monkey or a 7 year old tripping on LSD might have painted it. I attribute that to the delusional state my throat put me in. Who am I kidding? Here, I'll give you a picture of it.

For those of you who are concerned, you'll be happy to know that my throats much better. On the negative, it's been exchanged for a fever, a headache, sleeplessness and a disinterest in everything. I'm actually writing this blog piece by piece because if I go on for more than one para, my headache kicks in and the multi-coloured dancing squirrels start playing monopoly on my dresser again.

You want to know how I feel? I feel like I've been hit by a train. Not just any train, the Shatabdi Express at its peak velocity. After that, Lady Gaga kicked me onto a pile of mud, where a bunch of pigs pointed and laughed at me. After that, a Backstreet Boy came around and blew a vuvuzela in my ear. That's how I feel. Oh, and after that, Dick Cheney came by to rob me of my will to live.

I've been trying to sleep for hours. Et tu, Sleep?

Yes, I have personified Sleep because I consider him one of my dearest friends who takes me to wonderful lands where I am happily 4-timing Zach Braff, Lee DeWyze, Edward Maya and Jesse Metcalfe. Also, my relationship with Kunal Kapoor is on the pipeline.

But no, none of that drowsy goodness. I can't read, I can't watch the moving people on the television, I don't feel like cooking, my house is a mess and I'm walking around looking like one of those watchmen (No, not the cool ones like Rorschach or Silk Specter) who wears their blanket as a garment.

I'm not happy.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Love Thy Neighbour

I generally love my neighbours. Actually, I barely interact with them. I live in an apartment. It has a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen and a balcony and one or two people at max can easily live in it. That's what I thought until I saw the people upstairs. Six, yes six people live in the apartment above mine that adjoins the terrace. I don't know how they even fit in there without covering all the walking room with mattresses. But that's none of my business. I never had anything to give or take form them until that one fateful day.

I did my laundry and went up to the terrace to dry it off. While I was drying it off, the family's resident "Chucky" who happens to be a 5-6 year old permanently naked boy was staring at me in this evil way. Like he was trying to glare into my soul. Like he was going to kill me in my sleep. Like he knew something and I didn't. Anyway, he kept following me around and glaring at me the way he does as I hung my clothes up on the lines. I didn't think anything of it.

I came back the next day to pick up my fresh, dry clothes and there they were, lying in a pile on the floor. I was horrified. I took them downstairs nonetheless, noticing that my colourful clothes clips had been stolen. I then began to fold them. That's when I noticed the strange smell.

I picked up a white t-shirt and there it was; a yellow, liquidy, translucent looking patch. The smell was that of urine. I was horrified. I was disgusted. I was livid.

I talked to everyone I could get in touch with. I fumed and vented and paced. I probably even puffed steam put of my nostrils. I then decided that I was going to confront him. I considered taking a knife along with me.

I marched up the stairs with a purpose; and there they were, the patriarch of the family and his wife. He was large, lethargic and shirtless; with the largest male-breasts I've ever seen (my apologies for the disgusting nature of that description). The man had hair pouring out of every orifice of his body. It grew form his shoulders. I didn't even know that hair grew on shoulders. He was like some mythical beast.

His wife was well suited. Large and lard-like. She had glorious facial hair which surpassed a lot of my male friends'. I decided not to confront them because even if I was wielding a meat cleaver, I doubt I could've gotten past the first layer of adipose. All my attempts at self defense would've been futile. I didn't want to take that chance. Despite how brave I am. But the evil peeing kid still taunts me.

I need my revenge. Any suggestions?

P.S.: They can never know it's me. If they know it's me, I'll die. So give me good suggestions. I'm serious. I don't want to die,

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

All I Want Is A 'Centum'

It's that time of the year again; when all your classmates turn into sleep deprived zombies, when you don't know what it's like to sleep at 11:00 pm, when you watch the sun rise every morning and thing "Holy Sh*t, I need to get some sleep", when you read avidly out of pure necessity till saturation, till your palms sweat, till you can't take it anymore. We all love examinations.

I'll spare you the rant on the correction pattern and the fact that the exams of the main University are just papers in which you need to memorise material, regurgitate it and then erase it from your mind. No, I'm not going to talk about how I believe that a Law student should never have to memorise entire Acts because it's not like we're gonna work on cases out of pure awesomeness and radical memory. Books do exist.

What I'm talking to you about is the normal things in life that get skewed because of the exams. My routine, though you can hardly call it a routine, turns into something diabolically distorted and almost not human. Though normalcy is not the order of the day in my life, it has some form of pattern.

This is my pattern during the exams:

On the exam day, I wake up at at about 4 in the morning, or 5. That is, if I don't sleep at 4 or 5. The point I'm trying to make is that I don't have a particular time at which I wake up. This is because it ranges between 4:00 am to 10:00 am (on days in between the exams).
But waking up always involves a sense of panic initially, like I'm about to miss a bus, like if I don't look into my books as soon as my eyes open, I'll faint and die or turn to a life of committing crimes!
Well, soon enough I'll distract myself with something or the other which will make waking up almost pointless and then I'll wish I'd remained asleep cause I have this skewed belief that the more I sleep, the more effectively I'll spend my wakey-wakey time, which is very untrue, actually.

Showering has never been such an eagerly awaited ordeal. During exam days, I've been known to shower 4 times in the span of 10 hours. This is because showers not only make you feel squeaky clean, they also serve as a very effective distraction.
How many of you have ever been in the shower thinking "Wow! This is such a waste of time!"? I bet none of you have (if you're normal). If I watch T.V., I'll be mad at myself for wasting time, but if I take a half hour shower, it feels like I'm doing something worthwhile.

Cooking and eating are routine, everyday things. Sure, I enjoy it immensely. But during exam season, I watch the clock intently until 12:30 pm when I can start cooking whatever it is I want for lunch, and 7:58 pm when I can start thinking about dinner. Then there's 5:00 pm in the middle when I start thinking about my evening cold coffee.
I take time to cook, I take tie to eat, telling myself that I'm taking a "well deserved" break. While in reality, the studying I do is merely a break from my distractions.

Exams demand sleep. At all odd hours, places, and scenarios. I have woken up with a book on my face (cheesy, I know. I can't help it). I've even woken up at 5:00 pm, thinking it's 5:00 am the next morning and panicked. But the fat is that I always feel like I haven't had enough sleep, and the more I sleep, the more guilty I feel. Sometimes I wonder how long I can go without sleep.
Actually, I've managed 30 hours, but that I will tell you how when I explain my wonderful experiences with airline travel.

My computer is the devil. I have to keep checking my twitter though nobody tweets @ me (yes, the use of the @ was intentional and symbolic). I check my facebook, even though the notifications are probably about somebody commenting on a picture of something I 'liked' a while ago, not knowing that I somebody would start a never ending comment thread under it.
I check my webcomics, my youtube subscriptions, my blog, your blog (if you have a blog) and my email. I even check fmls, and sometimes, when I'm desperate for a distraction, my old orkut account (sigh).

I furiously mark, underline, make notes on and scribble on the book I'm studying from. It's more like a "Sharanyaa was here" sign. I also stick post-its on the pages and flag off the important chapters in different colours. I feel very purposeful while doing all these things.
Well, I do eventually study, but I take 40 minute breaks in between 20 minute study sessions. I also drink lots of liquids, to feel like I'm replenishing myself and keeping myself going. I drank an entire litre of tang a couple days ago.

Before you opine, just remember that it's a strenuous thing to do; thinking about what your next purposeful distraction will be while pretending to read a book on Banking Law, takes a lot out of you.

P.S.: Do any of you know what reading but not studying is like? It's terrible! You read all this stuff and it just goes over your head, like you don't remember to register it. It upsets me and makes me want to do commit crimes!

Tuesday, June 8, 2010


Here's letting you know I'm alive:

Here's the thing about blogging. Wait; here's the thing about blogging for me; I have standards. Okay, you might say "DOH! Your blog is not that great anyway it's not like you need a month to write one article!" and you're right. But I bet that at least one of my posts made you LOL, LMAO, or even ROFLMFAO (I pronounce all of them as words, by the way). Getting back to the point, there are certain times in my life that I just blo about something and feel like it isn't good enough. It isn't good enough for you, the good people who actually take or pretend to take some time out of your lives to read my brain-gas. So yes, I am blaming you.

"A bad carpenter always blames his tools", my mother would say. But in my defense, I doubt you would like it if I referred to you as tools. So I can blame you on one hand and also preserve the reputation of my metaphorical carpentry. You see, I'm only trying to please you.

Do you have any idea how many blog posts I've started writing, gotten halfway or more than halfway through and then not posted? If you haven't inferred, quite a few! And this kind of "quality control" is what allows me to let you read this a judge me. Yes I know you're judging me you sly sly people. Don't worry, I love you anyway.

So next time you're upset at me for not posting, remember, you have only yourself to blame. Also, I wrote this for you.

Pssssst, I'll be posting an actual blog-post really quick so look out for that

Sunday, April 18, 2010

I Love Malls... Not

It doesn't matter if the mall has the worst stores on the planet. I doesn't matter if you can't afford anything in the mall. It doesn't matter that the food court sells disgusting sub standard food. A million and two people will be there.

There's something about just going to a mall that excites Indians (at least Chennaiites and Bangaloreans) no end. I know... "BOO Sharanyaa! Generalisation is terrible! You disgrace your country." But seriously, I wouldn't be saying this if half the Indian population wasn't at the mall I went to the other day. They swarm to the mall and just walk around, creating terrible vehicular and pedestrian traffic jams both inside and outside. All the yuck-sick 'machas' will 'sight-adichify' the 'figures' and try ramming into their shoulders. Smooth.

I think that just going to the mall has become something awesome to do. But here's what happens every time I go to a mall;. movie theatres are all booked out, eating places are boring cause you can't eat all the time, I barely ever want that coffee, the clothing stores have the lamest stock of clothes and accessories and there are groups of strange people who just sit around there and watch you.

Among those people are the highschool crowd. Good Lord! They size me up and give me dirty glares as they look up form their Zinger Burger or McSwirl ice cream, like I'm not cool enough for them. Fortunately, I couldn't care less. But the fact that I'm probably shorter than every last one of them doesn't help {even though I'm feisty... like an ant!).

I don't mind the one or two people who are afraid to use the escalator. In fact, I've been known to help a few get over this fear. I even let a strange smelling lady cut off the blood supply to my left arm by clinging on so tight that it turned blue. But more often than not, I've come across entire families of 7 or 8 people who are terrified of the moving staircase. They cling on to each other, yelp, scream, shove each other forward and extend their feet gingerly, threatening to touch the first stair. Inevitably, I am standing behind them, behind all of them, trying to ascend/descend the same set of stairs. I can't help them all!! (Because that's how I roll)

You know the other thing that bothers me about malls. Take a wild guess. What happens when there are at least 1000 people walking around, talking and perspiring in an enclosure? That's right! They generate heat! This makes the air conditioning highly ineffective. In my mind, people's perspiration heat waves are red and the air conditioner waves are blue, and they have an epic purple battle where the redness emerges victorious. It's painfully stuffy in there.

So do me a favour, the next time you feel like going to a mall to loiter, don't.