Well, then

June 3, 2008 7 comments

To put it simply, I am bored. Its amazing how days can be, one moment they seem to be rolling along fine, full of un-boring-ness and things-happening-ness, the next moment they decide they’ve had just about enough of rolling along and they stop, leaving you feeling like that guy must feel when he starts the 100m sprint before the starter’s gun actually goes off. I always wonder how he must feel,”Oh you’ve done it now, Kuthrapalli”, if Kuthrapalli were to be his name,”Vasundhara Srijayalakshmireallylongnameramakrishnan won’t let you hear the end of it. No matter, walk back the 10 meters, surely the millions watching on television won’t notice. Hey you – yes you, No. 78, one more grin and I introduce you to the business end of my foot.” Though I’ve plenty of time these days to wonder about how he must feel after a nasty shock like not hearing the starter’s gun, even my boring days are more un-boring than thinking about what some chap named Kuthrapalli might feel like after dashing away like a mad rabbit before hearing the starter’s gun go off. Who does that, I mean? Yes, I notice un-boring is not a word. I just choose not to use “interesting” instead of un-boring because a change is needed on occasion to make things, well, un-boring.

So. Well. Hmmm. Here we are. Since I’ve already started this damned post I guess I might as well give it a little nudge forward. Or at least poke it with a stick and see if it moves. So what’s been going on at home these days? Apart from the usual eating and sleeping there is the aspect of getting bored. I think I’ve mentioned that. There’s this bit about my parents wanting me to go to IIM and me not wanting to go, its the kind of bit that keeps one on the toes, and one gets a faint glimmer of hope when one of one’s parents talks about the need to buy one some formal wear for the office and the other of the said pair of parents comes along, rejuvanted from the night’s sleep, to talk about why one should indeed go for IIM and save oneself from this trouble of buying formal wear and what not, at which point the faint glimmer of hope one had mentioned so long ago that you’ll have to read this entire paragraph again to find, vanishes. Just to help you find that mention of the faint glimmer of hope, go to the start, and with a pencil if you must, proceed reading slowly. If you got till here without finding mention of the hope I’m sure I’ve mentioned, you’ve gone too far. Go to the start and go over again. Or one might have forgotten to mention that glimmer of hope bit after all.

That said, I’d say the whole IIM thing is blowing over rather well. And since apparently a whole gaggle of relatives, aunts, uncles, friends of family and in a few cases friends of extended family (or extended friends of family, one of those, I forget which) have been informed about my choice and apparent dilemma as it were, with at least one member of each of the mentioned classes I foresee the following conversation happening, my seemingly fallacious foresight based on what is infact anything but fallacious evidence of it having happened already:

“So young man, have you decided to join IIM?”
“No, actually I plan to work for a couple of years.”
“So you’re not joining IIM?”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“About IIM?”
“That very same insitute.”
“Definitely not joining?”
“Definitely not.”
“IIM?”
“Yes…”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm.”
And so on for a few more minutes, till the said elder on the other end realizes what a hopeless lunatic I actually am, says a few prayers in his mind for my blessed soul and asks me to hand the phone over to my parents. But no fear, where a lesser man might have quailed at the prospects of looking such a large posse of elders in the eye or through the earpiece of a telephone and telling them, Yes I will do what you think is stupid, I merely say my piece, look them in the eye and smile like someone just pumped me full of a barrel’s worth of morphine in my arm, and has not stopped pumping since. Bless that man, imaginary as he may be.

So. You’d expect a post to be like a job, where they say a job well-begun is half done. Or something like that. And if you don’t think that the way this post has begun will fit cosily under the category of “well-begun”, then I must insist, Madam (or sir, as the case may be), that you know little about what well-begun things look like. Which brings me to the next thing on my mind – the apparent difficulty in finding English, August in this town. How it brings me to this thing is irrelevant. The point is, its damned hard to find that book in this town. Just today I was going through a rack of books in a bookstore, playfully ignoring the five-year-old that insisted on going around my legs saying “Thapth” over and over again like it was some sort of revelation unto man, I found not one copy of English, August but rather several copies of a series of books with titles like “The Sheikh’s Blackmailed Mistress”, “The Kiss of Love”, “How can you say no to love”, “To die for love”, and “Something something yada yada love”. Then again, who could blame the storekeepers. English, August isn’t half as exciting a title as “Something something yada yada love”, which itself is nowhere in the league of titles like “The Sheikh’s Blackmailed Mistress”.

My keen questioning glance stole away to a book by Anne Rice, who, if you are someone well-read and enlightened in matters of prose, wrote a series of good books on vampires. Those who know me well know I am mildly susceptible to works relating to (or possibly by) vampires. I abstain from calling it fiction, because lets be honest, in the narrow margin that vampires end up ruling the known earthly kingdom, I for one would like to have an alibi when they ask, “So you thought we didn’t exist, eh?”. Though I doubt they’d say things like “eh?” and would rather move right along to the skin-tearing and blood-drinking bit. But I digress. As I was saying, I chanced upon a book by Anne Rice (which I remember now, was a two-novels-in-one offer, a smashing deal, the only thing better than a book on vampires is two books on vampires), and one is only human (unless one is a vampire), so I went on and read a few pages, which I remind you was not a violation of ethics of bookstores (which as the name suggest are stores for books, so you’re expected to buy the damned thing and not read a few pages of it when it pleases you), because the store policy said you could very well plonk yourself down and read the whole book if it were to make you happy. That said, those few pages seemed like utter drivel. I think, after reading a few pages like that, I wouldn’t mind going to those vampires and saying, “Look chums, I totally dig your devil-may-care no-moral-scruples hedonistic blood-sucking attitude (though I could do without the blood sucking bit), this book makes you look like downright pansies. In your best interests, I’d rather not but this book.” And I proceeded to buy Mark Haddon’s “A Spot of Bother” instead, which is currently sitting on the table with a beckoning glance, asking me to pick it up and read it again. But then again, a post well-begun is only half done, the other half won’t bloody well write itself.

Speaking of posts writing themselves, the airport was funny the other day. Well not the airport itself, it was concrete and glass as usual, more so the people in there. After a minor incident involving me explaining to a pair of concerned security personnel the 12 rechargable batteries I had were not for igniting in the plane but rather for the same use their designer had initially intended, I noticed a Gujarati businessman of a sort on his iPhone going (note the capitalization and punctuation and all):
“plane time par che.” (“the plane is on time”, for those that know not)
“Plane time par che.”
“Plane Time Par Che.”
Plane Time Par Che.
“PLANE TIME PAR CHE”
and finally,
PLANE TIME PAR CHE
At each repetition he just said the same thing loudly into his phone, and by the end of the whole thing I’m sure pilots circling far overhead had heard the plane was on time. Immediately following the exhibition of : (a)The man’s vocal chords, (b) The possibly poor microphone in the iPhone and (c) The torn eardrums of the poor chap on the other end, I found myself involved in some baggage-mishandling and tag-tearing and I proceeded to get tagged again, and once again explained how the batteries would serve the purpose of making the camera work and not be the fuel for some fire (I swear I heard on of the security guys going “It’s him“). Eventually I sat myself down after getting a ice-cream milkshake from the Nirula’s stall. It gave me a chance to develop a procedure to eat the ice-cream off the bottom of a very deep glass without a spoon. What you do is, take a straw, plug it into the ice-cream lump, suck all the air out so its firmly attached to the identified lump of ice-cream, pull the straw out and eat the ice-cream off the other end of the straw, to which it is now firmly attached. Further research into this area requires funding, which is welcome in both cash and kind.

A member of the opposite sex also asked to use my mobile, however this interaction was dampened by the fact that said member was overweight and also the mother of a overbearing ten-year-old.

This bring me back to that bit about the posts writing the second halves of themselves by themselves. Apparently I seem to have done quite a bit or writing, and if anyone got this far, they clearly have:
(a) Excellent taste in reading material
(b) Plenty of free time
(c) Apparently even less of a social life than me, if such a thing were possible.

PS: Before I forget, I have found and downloaded the theme to the Lonely Planet show that used to air on Discovery, and it is by far one of the best tracks I have found in the past 5.5 days. I’m now looking for 54 free gigabytes where I plan to download the episodes themselves.

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