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.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Territorial Pissings

Don't you just love the smell of stale urine wafting your way? Even if you have no intention of sniffing it; hell, even if you resist sniffing it with all your might, those little tendrils of yellow smell pry open your nostrils and weasel their way into your olfactory sensitivities.

I think that this compulsive need to pee on the streets. I was walking down the road leading to the beach tonight and I noticed about 7 distinct areas which smelled very strongly of pee, characterised by drippy marks running down the wall. What I found even more curious is that there was a free public toilet just around the corner which didn't smell of urine at all.

So I can only attribute this road-peeing to primal territorial tendencies. That way, the auto drivers now own most of Chennai. But seriously, how can it even be territorially effective? Won't your pee scent get mixed with other pee scents and make us believe that a strange hybrid of about 10 men own the same spot?

I like that the city has been getting innovative in trying to stop these excretory offenders. They paint the walls with pictures of gods, religious symbols and in the case of Bangalore, they just paint may 'pretty' pictures all over the walls. I hope this works but something tells me the urge to pee on a wall is greater than all these base aesthetic and possibly even religious considerations.

But somewhere down the line, I don't blame a lot of them. Especially the ones who don't work in offices with proper pee-space. The number of places available for bladder relief are few and not very frequent. Therefore it's probably a choice they're making between the wall and their pants. The choice is very obvious and the smell is very evident.

If only pee smelled like Cool Water by Davidoff. [Because everyone I've ever come across claims to like that perfume]

Friday, April 9, 2010

A Love Letter To The Electricity Department

It’s like this. The Bangalore City Electricity Department (hereinafter referred to as Those Lousy A$$%$^@# [TLA]) woke up one day and said “#$@! this city! We don’t give a flying fart in space about what the people need or what we’re here to do. Who needs electricity?”

So the result of this wonderful decision is that the entire city doesn’t have any power for most of the day. The areas the high-flyers don’t live in are plagued by perpetual power cuts. They started off by testing it out. They cut the power two times a day for one hour each; once at 10 in the morning and once sometime in the evening. Okay, we grumbled. But we got used to it.

The past 3 days have been nothing short of excruciating. They decided to screw us over once and for all. Here’s the schedule for today:
10:00: Power Cut
11:00: Power Returns
12:00: Power Cut
14:00: Power Returns
15:30: Power Cut
17:00: Power Returns
18:00: Power Cut
18:30: Power Returns
19:30: Power Cut
21:00: Still no power

So I think that they give us power only in order to possibly charge our gadgets at regular intervals and use the same to entertain ourselves when the power is gone. Also, they have failed to realise that due to this very interesting phenomenon called ‘Global Warming’ (which can now be equated to a meme, honestly), it’s so blazing hot that it hurts to move.

Now I can’t quite fathom why this has to happen but rumour has it that the new BJP government refuses to borrow power from the Tamil Nadu and Kerala power grids which Karnataka has been tapping into for a while now. I would research this but my modem isn’t working and when the power returns, I’ll probably have just enough time to upload this before the world goes black again.

The other reason that sounds very feasible to me is that they’re trying to get us in touch with our roots. They want us to remember what it was lie to be our forefathers. Before the invention of electricity. Before electricity dependence. Before bloody televisions and the internet. When all we could do is sit around a fire, scratch our heads and stare at each others’ faces (and then maybe club each other to death due to pure boredom).

But despite these excellent intentions of TLA, I can’t help but to want more time to charge my phone. Reasonable request, yes?

I can’t help but to think that due to this chronic power cut disease that this unsustainable city is spiralling downwards into mutual powerlessness. No pun intended. Think about it, if the power is gone for more than half the day, then we’re paying half the electricity bill we’d be paying otherwise, which means less revenue for the department. Sure, you can say that they’re just “load shedding” and already have enough people consuming power. But the last time I checked, that’s not how the economy works. Supply needs to rise to meet demand, yes?

I guess the only positive that came out of this power situation is the fact that I feel lousy, miserable and angry enough to write this blog post.

I’d like to end with a letter to the electricity department.

Dear Bengaluru City Electricity Department,

Chennagidiya? Oota aitha? Then get off your lazy arses and work on getting this situation sorted out.

As much as we all love a good power cut, this is overkill. It was refreshing in the beginning. I almost enjoyed feeling the anonymous beads of sweat slide down my spine every now and again while sitting in darkness without any gadgets. But after 3 times a day, it becomes a lot less fun. Even the wonderful single-player games I’d invented like “Guess When The Power Will Return”, “Plot Innovative Ways To Murder Electricity Department Reps” and “Count Your Own Toes In The Dark and Check If The Number Matches Up When The Power Returns” have become a lot less entertaining.

If the problem is higher up in the government, I suggest that you collaborate with the Hoysala and stage a coup. Overthrow the Electricity-Demon and restore power to this godforsaken city. Please.

You see, it’s too hot to do any of the following activities:
1. Eat
2. Sleep
3. Study
4. Go Out
5. Live
Therefore, all we can do is drink liquids and watch ourselves cook in the heat. Because the development authority around here decided to uproot every tree in sight so we don’t have any hope for a cool breeze either.

So really, as enjoyable as I’ve found your sadistic games of wanting to kill me with a combination of heat, boredom and general aimless misery inflicted due to lack of power, get your act together or I will stab you in the eye… with a knife… with a handle shaped like a banana. You will regret it.

Sharanyaa WillKillForElectricity

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Oh Joy! Moral Police!

There's something highly appealing about an institution dictating morality and culture to you. It just satisfies me to know that there's a higher force dictating right and wrong to me. Thank God for the security on campus too! Those guards in Khaki are the best, they yell and threaten you for all the 'wrong' things you do like hugging members of the opposite sex, wearing t-shirts as opposed to an Indian print top of the same length, talking in clusters and the latest, listening to your iPod.

I think that my campus is one of the only ones in which every single employee of the institution takes complete and utter liberty to belt you for whatever you do. If you need a piece of paper stamped form then, they never do it without pretending you've asked them for an arm, leg, their genitals and their babies before they actually stamp the damn thing. Therefore, a 3 second process takes 7 minutes in lectures, 4 minutes in making you shuffle between different offices, 6 minutes in verification and another 12 wasted in argument. Bureaucracy in all it's glory.

The dress code policing is almost as hilarious as the mingling-with-members-of-the-opposite-sex policing. A couple of friends of mine [a boy and a girl] were walking down slightly later and the boy put his hand on her shoulder, like a Genie rising out of the very same action, a moustachioed guard appears and uses his voice of authority to say "Yeh Lalbagh hain kya?" ["is this a garden?"].

The 'Office of Exams' is by far, the best. It's so interesting that all the clerks there make you feel so terrible about doing badly just because they have access to your scores. They are sarcastic, mean and condescending. Took me a while to figure out that they must not have done too well in their exams to have landed up stamping and filing at my university. But who gives? They take the liberty to tell you that you suck and you're not gonna succeed and such like. What?

I feel loved!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

So Not Naked?

Is it just me or are Hollywood celebrities shedding more and more clothes these days? While the "good girl gone bad" theme is definitely in, how stupid do you have to be to keep naked pictures of yourself for people to easily access and publish?

It started off with Miley Cyrus' photos where she was wearing just underclothes. She took it on her webcam or something and ultimately it landed up on every teenage or pedophilic male's computer. Parents also somehow caught a whiff of this widely publicised scandal and lashed out at the teen star for betraying their trust and corrupting their 15 year old kids' minds. Are you kidding me? Every 15 year old now knows everything there is to know about the birds and the bees. I hate to break it to you, parents, but Miley or no Miley, they'd probably be doing the same things.

Harry Potter star Danielle Radcliffe played a role in a theatre production called Equus. It was about a disturbed boy who was aroused by horses and hence rode them naked. Posters came out of the previously bespectacled little wizard-boy sporting six-pack abs and completely shirtless. In fact, he was completely naked during the play. Parents were infuriated again by the fact that young Harry Potter was now being corrupt and sexual. Firstly, he was 19 or 20 when he did this and he wanted to explore different aspects of his career. Leave him be. Secondly, where were you when Harry Potter himself was running around "snogging" Cho Chang and Ginny? Nobody is forcing you to take your kids to the play and watch Radcliffe parade around naked.

Then came Vanessa Hudgens. Ah, you stupid stupid girl. What's wrong with you? She took nude pictures of herself on her phone camera and stored them for god knows what. Her phone got hacked and next thing you know, those pictures are all over the internet. The sweet and holy "High School Musical" star then became a bad, bad girl. After clearing out all the press, one of two things happened:
1. She missed the publicity desperately
2. She got hit on the head so hard that she forgot that she shouldn't be stupid
I say this because the girl took more pictures of herself naked on the same phone which got hacked again and there we have it! More pictures of Ms. Hudgens and her girlyparts! I wonder how Zac Efron feels knowing that half the world has seen his girlfriend naked.

All of this along with Britney Spears showing off her *cough cough*, Cassie Ventura and her nude photos and probably a whole archive of C-List celebrities have made scandals and controversies a lot less scandalous and controversial. Simply because the next time I hear that someone or the other has nude photos of themselves on the internet, I'm just not surprised. In so far as it being a publicity stunt, I guess the fact that I'm writing about it makes it pretty clear that nakey-nakey time sells!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Wednesday Woes: University Food

To explain the title, this is a little concept I'm experimenting with. A Wednesday Woe is anything I feel not-so-happy about on a Wednesday. Well, not necessarily on a Wednesday but I write about it on Wednesday; just because it's a convenient time of the week. I'm hoping this can turn into something I can do once in two weeks, which makes it twice a month. We can't have a Wednesday Woe overdose now, can we? And you know what's even more exciting? My new Adopt-A-Woe programme! This involves you naming a 'woe' of yours and me adopting the ones I connect with and writing about it. Alright, who am I kidding? That's a fancy way of me asking for suggestions. Anyway, here we go.

I haven't heard any Indian student tell me that their University has great food on campus. Don't pick now to raid the comments page and tell me that your university has great food, cause if it did, you would have told me earlier.

My university has four places where you can catch a bite to eat. All four of them serve trash. I don't know how that's even possible. The food is bad, substandard, watery, not filling and all in all, unsatisfactory. I'm sure you can take the same ingredients, spend the same amount of money, and make much much better food. Just look at those places that open just outside the university gates. They are cheaper, serve better food and are much faster. Employ them!

Karnataka Sambar is also prevalent in my canteen. Sambar is supposed to be a thickish and spicy/salty gravy-type thing. Karnataka Sambar has sugar added to that. It is the oddest tasting thing. The pastries are strange and squishy, the coffee is watery, the food is oily so I stick to one principle. If it's not pre-packaged, it probably won't taste good.

But this institution of mine became smart this semester and introduced a juice and sandwich joint. Though I get sick of eating sandwiches everyday, at least there is one thing on campus worth eating.

So while I go and figure out if there is actually a canteen-conspiracy to make us all lose weight, drop a comment and share a woe. You will be thanked with e-hugs and appreciation from the bottom of my heart.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

I Am Competing. w00t

I know I blog for fun but a little exposure wouldn't hurt, right.
The Colors Magazine has a Blog Contest! So I thought I'd give it a try! Anyone interested in participating can do so by looking into this link right here.

If I win, I will send you all a hug. If I don't, I won't. It depends on how good looking you are.

Last Time I Checked...

Rahul Mahajan. Honestly, all that comes into mind when I think of this guy is the fact that some years ago, he was caught for snorting cocaine through rolled up 500 Rupee notes. I'm sure he would've used the 1000 Rupee ones except for I don't think they were available back then.

The bloke apparently married some girl called Shweta who later filed for divorce because he was beating her black and blue and after knowing him for 13 years and agreeing to marry him, they suddenly became 'incompatible'. Is is just me or is all of this really suspicious sounding?

Alright, alright! Whatever Rahul Mahajan does is his prerogative. After all, he is an aspiring politician and needs his fair share of publicity and scandals. Otherwise, I would've barely known who he was. But what's with this Swayamvar?

Sixteen, yes SIXTEEN, girls have thrown themselves onto this wife beating, drug snorting psychopath for a chance to marry him [for his money] and live a happy life [of black-wealth, pseudo-fame and abuse]. As usual, my roommate is glued on to the TV watching intently as these girls profess their love for a man they don't even know, writing him poems and being vulnerable and all that schabazz. I want to strangle her, but cannot [for legal reasons alone].

So while Indian television sinks to new lows, American celebrities are getting younger and younger. I have no problems with young celebrities. I think it's awesome [as long as they don't succumb to all the pressure and end up becoming drug addicted, face lifting wierdos]. But what's with 15 year olds singing 22 year old stuff. Take Justin Bieber, for instance. It's awesome that he's a very talented singer, self taught guitarist, pianist, drummer yadda yadda... but seriously. Here's a 15 year old singing about commitment, packing bags, bad ex-relationships and such like. How many [live in] girlfriends could he have possibly had, and why, pray tell, is he running after an obviously much older girl by keeping a piece of her clothing hostage? Here's the video. The comments are full of older women feeling like pedophiles for finding him hot. I'm 4 years older than him and I want to pet him. That's how little-boyish he seems.

I also watched a tiny little girl named Raveena dance with a bunch of women who seemed to be performing in some kind of S&M bondage video on VH1. I was scared. Honestly, why would you do that to a little girl who still has puppy fat and is in serious need for braces. She has milk teeth, for crying out loud! I can't find the video but if any of you know what I'm talking about please let me know. She's an American of Indian Origin, I presume. When you see it, you'll realise immediately. It's hard to miss. Oh wait, less work for you! Here's the video.

So while I'm losing my faith in good entertainment, the world is turning pink. That's right! It's that time of the year again when everything turns flowery, hearty, expensive and cheesy. Valentine's Day is here and I'm going to cut off my own finger slowly and painfully with a butter knife. That seems like a more productive thing to do with my time than indulge in this hallmark-induced psycho-fest. I'll let you know how that goes.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

RAPE Is Entertaining, Beta

There's something wrong with any of you who looks at the title of this post and thinks "You GO girl! You're so right!". Because I'm not. But my education system doesn't seem to think so.

Let me explain, before things get ugly. I have mentioned this professor before in this post. He's an absolute thrill to learn from because of his flair for diplomacy, appropriateness and a fine sense of social acceptability. Our class adores him. We don't know how we would get along without him. I have already given him credit for the fact that I'm not dating Salman Khan or indulging in Puppy Love. He guided me and prevented me from making these extremely vital mistakes which I would have made otherwise.

Currently he believes that Criminal Law is all about sex. The truth is, there are quite a few sexual offences but they, in no means, constitute a majority of the Indian Penal Code. He is rather obsessed with Rape and issues concerning the same, which is very discomforting. But seriously, the best statement he has made by far, is "Rape is entertaining!". I will explain the context, though I doubt it's going to redeem that statement anyway.

Awesome McSmartyProf said that all misrepresentations of the law in movies should be banned. A student clarified stating that there was a disclaimer at the beginning of all movies stating that the law and medicine used might be fictitious. He said that a layman wouldn't read that [given, decent point]. Another student said that movies were just entertainment for which he countered "RAPE, is entertainment, beta! Can we allow that one?"

On which planet would any blinking moron find rape entertaining? Or even compare it to movies? I didn't know whether to laugh, be angry, slap him or just write it off as one of his "isms".

So I have finally narrowed down his madness to the following things:
  • He is sick, desperate and sexually frustrated
  • He is an alien from the planet MaleChauvinistPigoid
  • He is Mr.Topsy Turvy who believes that right is wrong and wrong is right
  • He needs to attend a highly recommended course called "Keep It In Your Pants"
Other important lessons from the same bloke:
  • Men should not be forced to be monogamous because they are polygamous by nature
  • Nature has been very unkind to women
  • Drunk Malayalis speak Tamil; drunk Delhiites speak English
  • Criminal Law causes "The rush in the blood"
I don't want to continue. I rest my case.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Televisional Atyachaar

My roommate watched Rakhi Sawant's entire Swayamvar. For those who don't really understand the concept, a 'Swayamwar' is what Indian Princesses did in the time of Kings. The young eligible Princes of the country assembled one fine day, and she picked her suitor out of the bunch. Rakhi Sawant, a B-Grade, Bollywood reject, decided that she was royal enough to pick her suitor out of a motley crew of random men who wanted some form of silver screen fame; even if it meant demeaning themselves, throwing themselves headfirst on to a scantily clad "It Girl", and voluntarily stripping themselves off any shred of dignity they might have possessed.

So as I caught bits and pieces of the show which stretched on for what seemed like an eternity, I began to wonder why the Indian junta would ever watch such a show. I then turned to the right and saw my roommate watching intently. She watched the episode and its re-run to make sure she didn't miss even a twitch of Rakhi's facial muscles which might be converted into a scandalous issue. I remember very clearly that three episodes were used up simply to emphasise that one of the candidates kissed Rakhi on the forehead, and that was a very scandalous thing to do. I'm sorry woman; maybe the man wouldn't have taken such "advantage" of you if you didn't parade around in your underclothes all the time!

Finally a surprisingly sensible seeming Canadian businessman got the 'girl'. I don't know why he did that to himself but at least it was over. I thought that was the end of that but WAIT! They're not done torturing me yet! People want more. They put Rakhi in a house with her fiance and gave them kids of various ages to take care of to test how good they'd be as parents. As usual, the devoted roomie sat with her eyes peeled for the episodes of "Pathi Pathni Aur Woh" [Which translates to "Husband, Wife and Them/That!]. A little bit of me died. The show got over and I revived it with tonnes of CPR in the form of watching Scrubs, Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice, House, Boston Legal, Arrested Development, etc.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the show was over. But the torture continues in the form of "Emotional Atyachaar"; a show imitating the American one, 'Busted'. Let me explain this show with a hypothetical situation. Y is dating Z but seriously doubts her loyalty. Therefore, Y calls up the show to test her loyalty. The T.V. crew stalks Z for a few days, they put cameras wherever she goes and monitor her every move. More often than not, Z is cheating with a third party who we'll call M. Soon the creators of the show realised that too much was contingent on the existence of this M character. People are not calling the show to find out that their partners are loyal. People aren't watching to show to see happy and functional couples. Therefore, they decided to take matters into their own hands.

The people on the show plant another character in Z's life. Let's call them F [for Fraud]. Character F generally seduces Z and puts her in a compromising position with him. Poor Z almost voluntarily falls for F. The camera crew tapes all this and shows it to the audience, and the highly suspicious dipshit Y. Y's heart is broken and he feels used. Therefore, he angrily confronts Z on camera. Z is taken by surprise, there is a lot of crying, yelling, pushing, shoving, slapping, flailing of arms and similar activities of the sort. The public is happy. Why? Really, why?

So while I continue to get tortured by the television thanks to my roommate, the cable guy has cut off 'Star World' which now denies me access to American Idol. Life isn't fair and I refuse to "Strike a fair deal" with it because it's not really negotiating, biotch!

P.S.: Is it just me or does she have a slinky on her head in the picture?!

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

And Ode To The Shatabdi

Tomorrow I'll get on that train
I'll ride on it all day,
Through the crazy landscapes
Fading with the final ray.

I'll see the suburban millionaires,
In houses that look like cake.
And cows and trees and wires and lights.
A green and scummy lake.

I'll sit next to that strange man,
Who talks a lot of shit,
Who wears a little moustache,
And tells me I look "fit".

I'll look at the train food,
And wonder what it is.
And think "I've never ever
seen Paneer as red as this"

I'll listen to music on my iPod
For so long that my ears say "eeeee".
I'll think about my aunt
Who says deafness will soon find me

I'll watch my watch intently
For the final hour till 10
When I can get off the Shatabdi
And get back home again.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Creeps On A Train

Okay so my mother doesn't want me to be spoilt. Therefore, she books me in the 2nd class ordinary compartment from Bangalore to Chennai everytime. I honestly don't mind. It doesn't make much of a difference. I get into the train, sleep, wake up at something like 4 am; and voila, I'm home!

But sometimes my train ride isn't particularly simple or pleasant due to the presence of one or more of the following entities:

Very common, usually very large, sometimes very sweaty and always very male. Snorers have a way of making at least 3 compartments reverberate with their nasal melodies. Usually, when the sound is uniform, I manage to fall asleep. But sometimes, if you're unlucky, little snorts and grunts in various pitches will escape this man, causing you to jerk out of your sleepy state. I want to suffocate them with a pillow or something.

Why are you on the phone all night in a train? And how do you manage to have phone reception in a moving train? Beats me. I just hate you. I don't care if your Mama's wife is acting strange around your grandmother; or if Santosh's girlfriend gave you the stinkeye; I just want to sleep. I hope your phone battery dies. I hope the person on the other end decides that they don't like you anymore. I hope you run out of credits. I hope your phone falls from your hand and ricochets off the middle berth and flies straight out of the window. I really do.

Really, it is exactly what it is. Those brown insects with antennae. Anyone who knows me would know that I'm deathly scared of them. I'd rather pet a lizard than even look at a cockroach. And when they're in my view when I'm on the train, I can't sleep. I know how easy it is for them to climb/fly up to wherever I am and tickle me with their leggy, antennaey grossness!!

Mothers, your children know how to fall sleep even though they may be just 12. You needn't wake up all the time and ask them if they need water, an extra sheet, snacks, a pillow, your bag, a book, a goodnight story, etc. Really, don't worry about it. These mothers are usually accompanied by a child who doesn't really care and doesn't really want to be seen with the mother anyway. Why do they bother?

It's very rare that I'll befriend someone on a train. Fraands will try and make petty conversation. Ask you where you're from and what you do. I've often given false names and such like to ensure that these people don't stalk me in my sleep.
Fraand: What's your name?
Me: Sh... yla! Shyla!
Fraand: What do you do?
Me: Study.. B.B.A.
Fraand: Ohhh... Why are you carrying a book on the Indian Contract Act?
Me: Oh.. I have one chapter form that *fakes a phone call* Sorry, I need to take this!
The trick after that is to get off the fake call and get on your iPod making sure that there is no time in between for the fraand to make conversation.
This is usually encountered more in day-trains.

While there are other caregories, [like Pundits who I find very puzzling. They've actually managed to scare my aunt off a train], I will stop here. Simply because the people who watch you while you sleep, don't deserve any space on my blog. That's how much I hate them.

Friday, January 15, 2010

55 Fiction

So Weirdo Guy, in his blog, out of utter boredom, he claims, did this. 55 Fiction is where you attempt a short story in 55 words. Here's my attempt. Don't be too harsh.

He wished he’d bought that rocking chair she’d always wanted, where she could sit and read the morning paper and sip that obnoxiously expensive tea.

“But that’ll have to wait”, he thought; as he watched the rest of the ship sink, grabbing on to his plank which was floating further and further away into nothingness.

There, exactly 55 words. And while I feel compelled to add a smiley face over here, I won't

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Colonial Hangover Cream™

I was trying so hard to find a fairness cream that works. I was so worried, you know? Considering that on, I could only register my complexion as "wheatish", which is code word for "I'm sorry I'm not milky white in colour", I was worried that I wouldn't get married.

What if the prospective groom came and saw that I was brown and then said he wouldn't marry me? I would have been so embarrassed. Fair and Lovely doesn't work for me; nor does any other product in the market. Which is why I created my own fairness product, Colonial Hangover Cream!

After working for 2 years, 5 months, 3 days and 16 hours, it's finally here! I collaborated with the top (Caucasian and generally light-skinned) scientists in the world to devise this effective product. It is designed to work on the darkest of dark skin and make you as white as a Nazi baby's bottom within weeks.

The secret to Colonial Hangover Cream lies in its top secret ratio of Erasemeface Chloride and Vampy Complexiononis which gives an instant whitening effect. You will see a considerable difference within a day! And our promise is, after just 8 WEEKS, you will be white as paper! What more? Even your features will disappear due to the wonderful and gentle* effects of our active ingredients. Colonial Hangover Cream comes along with a FaceMarker, which can be used to draw on perfect features. Also, FaceTutorial comes absolutely free with the package, teaching you to draw on the features of your choice step by step.

So what are you waiting for? Find that perfect groom! Don't spend one more day in acceptance of your darker skin. Feel like a shining beacon among the regular people! Buy Colonial Hangover Cream NOW!!!!**

*subjective term, exercise caution
** Colonial Hangover Cream Pvt. Ltd. is not responsible for the erosion of skin, dissolution of nose cartilage or burning off of eyeballs. Please do a test a patch on your buttocks before commencing use.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

2012: The Clichés Alone Will Kill Us All

Today I watched the Adam Lambert Official Video for his single 'Time For Miracles'. I am now miserable. Don't get me wrong, though the song isn't my favourite, it is definitely tolerable and my love for Adam Lambert only makes it even more tolerable. He can barely do anything I can't forgive.

Unfortunately though, this video tests my ability to forgive him, simply because it made me relive those two and a half hours of wanting to stab my own eye with a fork I endured while watching the movie 2012. [For those of you who are a little slow, the video was merely a string of clips from the movie]

I have decided to begin this piece by defining the movie 2012. It is a series of mind-numbing doomsday cliches packed into a never ending series, flavoured with over-dramatization and bad acting. Nothing is impossible, especially if it's done in the 99999th nanosecond. You know why? It's because John Cusack is AWESOME! [apparently]

Anyway for those of you who haven't watched the movie, I'm going to spoil it for you. Also, I posted this so late only cause I didn't want all of you to yell at me for ruining it. [Actually I was just lazy]

The most effective way to express my anguish, in my opinion, is to list the highlights, i mean, lowlights of this godforsaken movie:

  1. John Cusack is the only bloke who has figured out that the World is going to end. He saves his family in a car which drives away from the family home with cracks following it constantly. Every single car behind them falls into the cracks. Everybody else dies.
  2. A giant volcano is erupting and the earth is giving way, sinking into the lava. John Cusack has gone to retrieve a map which will save them all. The rest of the family [ex-wife, kids, their step-dad] is waiting in an airplane which his ex-wife's current plastic surgeon husband can conveniently fly. The road is giving way, the massive cracks slowly approaching the plane. They need to take off. There seems to be no hope for Cusack. Sad. But wait! What's that?? At the FINAL second, Cusack's hand is seen gripping for safety just when everyone thought he was dead. He runs into the plane.
  3. Cusack running into the plane happens in such spectacular timing that the plane has just enough time to take off with the cracks ripping straight towards the wheels at a convenient speed. Just as the plane takes off, the whole area is done away with. Crash and burn, non-Cusack-people.
  4. The Indian scientist who predicted 2012 is in New Delhi, which is a village. He speaks English with a fake Indian accent and Hindi with a Western accent. It really wouldn't have killed them to bring in an Indian from India for the two odd minutes of screen time. Oh, and how can I forget? He had a convoluted name that most Indians themselves haven't heard of.
  5. Old, fat, stinking rich, arrogant Russian; with a Russian supermodel arm-candy and complete with fake Russian accent. One of the only individuals with a ticket to the "Arcs" which are going to save a few people. Cusack works for this fellow. And Mr.Plane-Flying-Plastic-Surgeon gave his little keep a boob-job! Convenient!
  6. Russian family, Cusack's family and super stud-like Russian Pilot manage to get on a giant plane taking them to China where the Arcs are. Two buildings collapse into each other, the plane just about scrapes through by tipping on its side a narrowly escaping the crash. Just because Cusack is in it.
  7. Russian tyrant turns out to be a fat meany who dumps them all in the middle of China where they find an awesome monk and his family who takes them to the Arcs. Blah blah, they sneak in.
  8. Nobody picked up the Indian scientist. He and his family die a tragic death along with several other Indians in brightly coloured clothes, clutching sacks of belongings and trekking across the village of New Delhi. There are no more Indians in the world. Because I saw none in the Arcs either.
  9. The President of the United States dies a heroic death [after a heart-wrenching goodbye to his daughter] saving some people who were about to die anyway; just outside the White House.
  10. Oh No! Doomsday Countdown! The waves rush in, the Arcs dislodge, but wait! Cusack hasn't been heroic enough. He might just get overshadowed by the President! His Arc has a problem! So our man goes on a suicide mission to fix the jam, swimming through a lot of water. He and his son save the Arc. I can understand how the son was underwater for a while. But Cusack was in there for centuries. He held his breath for a super-human fifteen minutes straight! That's what I call AWESOME!
  11. And finally, the happy ending. Cusack's ex-wife's new husband conveniently dies. They are reunited again. His kids love him. The Arc docks safely in Africa which survives it all. All the people in the Arc are either White or Chinese [because they decided to let the workers in due to some sudden stroke of humanity]. The Indians all perish but since Africa survived, maybe they can mix some Black people and White people and make some Brown people.
The only reason I didn't walk out of the theatre is because I hadn't finished my Cheese Popcorn which tastes too phenomenal to waste. Also, a whole bunch of my friends were watching with me and I needed a ride home. But if I had a choice, I'd take those 2 hours and 40 minutes of my life back, along with the Rs.120 I spent on my ticket.