The Paagalkhaana triumphs

It was the first time I ever witnessed euphoria. I have been part of winning football teams in school, part of the arriving of the millennium, but this was like nothing else I had ever seen. As Indians, we are forever rooted in our inherent desire for mass hysteria. (THIS. IS. SPARTAAAAA!!)
We were supposed to go watch the India Pakistan semi final in Mohali but some dubious mix-up happened with our passes at the very end.(FUCK BHENCHOT BT!!). I was disheartened but more worried about if Chunni would ever be able to recover from the grief of this news.
 I stopped watching cricket after the 2003 world cup in South Africa. I went for some IPL matches but was interested little in the sport,more on the endless free supply of chinese food and whiskey. My uncle got for my cousin and I some VIP badges and I remember nodding drunkenly at Vijay Mallya once.
Today was not just about cricket. It was bigger than that. It was an event on which the life of the entire country depended. Cricket is India's collective fix. It is our story. Sachin is our hero, and Pakistan is our villian. And in every Bollywood movie, the villain must die a powerful,terrible death.
All academic instititions, offices, grocery stores took half days. It would be sinful not to be supportive. I got messages at night saying I must wear blue as encouragement to the boys. I usually reproach all efforts of communal harmony, but I knew I couldn't this time. We were all in this together. In all seriousness, Unki ma behen ek karni thi.
I spent the day with my favorite women(all my men in our lives considering us as unworthy company) watching the match at home. There was much beer drinking, politically incorrect cursing and absolute jingoism, chips and continous discussions of 'kuchh order karien?' 'CHUP REH YAAR you'll jinx it!'.We were rooted in one position from beginning to end. There was also endless dancing to this mostawesomesongofalltime and more punjabi music that could be created and loved in NCR. We travelled through the seven and a half hours with heartbreaks and screams of joy that must have co-incided with almost all of the country. It really was a historic moment. As soon as their last wicket fell, everyone was out on  the streets screaming dancing drinking swearing crying dying doing the things we do as celebration. We immediately equipped ourselves with a mix of vodka and pepsi and water(?) , the only booze we could find and ran downstairs to watch the fireworks explode in the sky and the hearts and minds of our friends and countrymen. For one night, a nation divided in strife over almost everything was united in one conscious happiness. 
My grandfather told me on the phone that, 'Bharat ki azaadi ke liye bhi itna wait nahi kiya tha beta!'
Out of immense harmless joy, I am dying to say something of the abusive extremist likes but I shall not.


Yesterday, I decided to spend the day reading and writing but I came home to find that my electricity had gone off, and the generator wasn't going to work for the whole day. Which means that there would be no air conditioning, and no Personal desktop computer(DEATH!DESTRUCTION!). 
Due to the absence of my best friend disguised as machine, I was forced to keep myself busy doing other things. Which is when I realized that I had no longer posessed any(none) stationary. No pens, pencils, gummy smelling erasers in the shapes of watermelons and sheep, cool plastic sharpners, steel rulers(the best!), crayons, nothing! When I was a kid I used to save up all my money for a much awaited trip to Mahalaxmi book depot near the residence and buy myself a whole lot of cool stationery stuffs. After returning home to my desk, I would arrange it all neatly, keeping some aside for favorite friends, only to disover that a week later it was all gone. 
I need to subsitute some of the space taken up by the million wires and pointless gadgets in my room with some gifts from the good old bookshop,stationery  and general store. 


I realized that at most times I was owned by a perfect mixture of claustrophobia and agoraphobia which led to sometimes feeling like crap. But it's so...generic. I have resolved, or resolved to resolve, to stop.


Reading The Rachel Papers by one of England's fave nutty novelists- Martin Amis. This is my first ever Amis novel and I absolutely love it. He makes being disgruntled look so nonchalant and tranquil(?). The book is narrated by Charles Highway- neurotic, highly intelligent, cheeky, sexed up, aloof, and teenager. Charles is at nineteen going on twenty, making the transition as he believes,into adulthood. He employs the persuit of Rachel-half-french,beautiful,and a little silly- which he serializes and strategizes through several entries transcrbing into The Rachel Papers. If I was English I'd say that it's absolutely delightful, or bloody brilliant. Charles's adoloscent madness and self importance is painted ruthlessly, yet with sympathy and affection. The novel as all good ones is making me go all 'FUCK YEAH!!'. 


'To think back, actually, 'self-infatuation' strikes me as a rather ill-chosen word. It isn't so much that I like or love myself. Rather, I'm sentimental about myself. (I say, is this normal for someone my age?) What do I think of Charles Highway? I think: 'Charles Highway? Oh, I like him. Yes, I've got a soft spot for old Charles. He's all right is Charlie. Chuck's . . . okay.'

'Herbie now propounded the toiling paradox that was the ostentatious 'unconventionality' of youth was, in point of fact, nothing other than a different sort of conventionality. After all, was not the non-conformity of yesterday the conformity of today? Were not these young people as orthodox, in their very different way, as the orthodoxy they purported to be subverting?'

Anything that starts a tornado of questions in your head is delicious! 

I started to realize myself that 18 is different than 20. We drink GALLONS more than we used to, but it was never enough. I couldn't stay up all night and go through the day with youthful ease and energy. I 'needed my sleep.and my bed'. I was thinking about sex adventurously, not that I was ever into candles and rose petals etc. The only thing that made me feel worse than going to college, is not going. The usual torrid rush of feelings was replaced by a weird emptiness resulting from the understanding that most things were trivial and irrelevant, which was worse.  

I was different. (Ah, THAT particular claim never changes). 

I wasn't allowed give exams last year because of attendance fuck ups and tyrannical minority institutions. This year, I can't wait. I'm actually rather bright (I am aware of how horribly ludicrous that sounds. I am not saying I'm intelligent, I'm just saying that I'm 'bright'. Which basically means that I am not stupid, and actually interested.), so it was a bummer not being able to get hold of my admit card last year because even with the single day prep for each paper I was sure that  I would have passed. On a positive,'everything happens for a greater good' note, I had done no work whatsoever last year, and would have gotten through the year having learnt nothing of Milton, Webster, Donne, and Plato, and the fascinating others (Sartre-can't wait!)whom I feel like I am starting to know now since I now go to class everyday, allthe time . This year I actually can't wait to give exams. I want to study the fuck out of all this bakchodi that occupies our lives, and kick some ass! rather than thrive endlessly in typical college student existentialist theories. 

Summer yuckkk!! I miss my jackets and boots and smoky nights in the cold already. I want to just go to the hills for a bit so I can you know, BREATHE. But the summer also means holidays which means South India, goa maybe and months of endless lounging in saddi dilli. Sounds legit! (my favorite new word borrowed from my friend Mohit who literally knows all the lyrics to all Eminem songs ever written. It is bizarre, yet brillant.)


I wanted to blog you a Happy Birthday DJ, but the power cuts(brought back by dreadful summer) fucked over my plan. A big beeday shoutout to my far away friend in Canada and a plea to return soon bearing liquid presents. Khoob party karenge.


I now have a camera with which I am most impatient, but I am glad I can visually record memories now. It is a shmazzy SLR and I think I must do the usual amateur 'mujhe photographer banna hai' Dilli darshan. 


Meet my new fashion friend Classy&Fabulous. She is infact, both. 

There is some great satisfaction that comes with being a nocturnal wreck. 

I'm tired and stoned and full of cheese which should essentially be good things but I have a paper to write for college tomorrow. I'm not very good at working in groups. I know that in the real world you must be a team playa but I just can't do it. Coordinating is a pain and I hate keeping up with other people's time structures due to my lack of any. 
I can literally not move right now. But I like strugglin' up all night complaining about how much work there is and not really doing any. It's what apparently, as we've been told and grown to believe,that college is about. 'Abhi nahi karoge toh kab karoge yaar!!'. 
I don't know why my fellow peers refuse to understand that copy pasting parts of someone else's essay and deleting bracketed explanations from them to make it shorter and believable is THEFT. If there was a separate hell/prison for plagiarizing, it would be filled with students from Delhi university. Soon there would be rum, pretentious intellectual debate, and clouds of smoke forming around trees. In the case of my prestigious institution, there would be a chapel(GOD DAMN IT), and a mass population of girls with absolutely no interest or clue to WHY they must study.


James Bond is the metaphor of the simple pleasure and success of popular culture. It doesn't matter who you are or what you do, just do it in style and everyone will want to do as you do,be as you be. 
Quoting fiddy cent 'Nobody do it like we do it so show us some love'. 
The man is all looks,cars,shiny gadgets,fancy drinks and false promises, but it all seems to work.

I'm supposed to be doing this on paper for my profs, not on the blog where no one cares and most disagree.

(Many philosophical one liners about 'life' that I think make sense and I may be right are swimming in my head but I think that's where I'm going to keep them)

It is strange how I feel like the the college I go to, an establishment of the church, is before anything, godforsaken. 

In first year I was told that 'I see a sort of sadness in you which will disappear if you start believing. Come with me to mass'. I almost died on the spot, nodded politely and left before I swore/shot someone in the head/committed some act of dreaded sin. 

For a long time I had most of my class feeling sorry for my drunken,disappointed existence. 

Need to finish this pointless presentation and pass the fuck out OH GOD.

I have been obsessing about the imperfectness of my body for a while now and then today I saw this. 

Have managed to get through a horrible day by reading crazy poets, and staring at my Beagle's solemn face. I was supposed to start sleeping right today. (Like my dad says- DON'T fight the body clock!) but it's not really working out. 


Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, 
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.

Hart Crane 

I have wanted to write about the Radhika Tanwar murder but I cannot get myself to say anything beyond that one word. Humanity is a hard thing to find in this city. I shudder  to the thought of what the world might be like.
In search of music and a break from whatever this is that we are living. 

Academyc

I've made a list of Oscar nominated films but I can't get myself to watch any. Loved The Social Network. Hated The Kids are All Right (I don't know why Hollywood thinks that lesbian mid life crises and Julianne Moore could possibly be 'art'). Don't know if I'm ready to see James Franco in pain so I'm still staring at my 127 hours DVD deciding what to do. 
Turns out I'm not the only one who thought the ceremony sucked. 
I am incapable to take into account any faults that Franco might have, so I just decided to blame it all on Anne Hathaway. She should've giggled and 'woooo!!' 'ed  a little less. Made me not want to giggle or wooo!!. 
I know that the Oscars are only an official stage for the rich and beautiful to become more rich and beautiful. But in my household, award ceremonies are awaited like the papal coronation is in the Vatican. 
We (my sister and I) cancel all other appointments, order pizza and cheer for our favorites using first names. 'I hope people aren't going to be mad at James after this' , 'Look, Jesse's sitting right in front Jesse I love yauww!!'. Till Ma comes and reminds us that what the fuck were we doing losing our minds over these 'vellai (meaning White in Tamil)' strangers. She thought Anne Hathaway was Julia Roberts. 
I must also mention that the Filmfare is also treated by us with as much respect and baseless attachment. 

High school is a weird time for everyone. 
http://chuckpalahniuk.net/news/tyler-durden-quote-in-high-school-hallway 
We all wanted to be just like Tyler Durden. Ironically enough, he wasn't real. 


When I was little I wanted to grow up and be an astronaut. Now I want to be Lady Gaga. Fuck outer space. Whatever universe she seems to be living in looks pretty exciting.
I'm dying to watch this Banksy movie that everyone is going insane about.  

Watching uncensored versions of the Roadies auditions to satisfy my reality TV fix. Our country is full of absolutely fascinating madmen. 

But I love this guy.


I have always been extremely frightened of any sort of medical encounters. I hated my pediatrician and used to cling for dear life to every piece of furniture in my house when it was time for a usual check up. I detested injections and blood tests and behaved like a survivor of war every time I came out of one. I used to bunk school for at least two days after an injection, claiming I was 'too weak' and 'you didn't know how much it hurt okay!'. Ma has her own hindi film kahani for this phobia. She claims that when I was two, I was diagnosed with a hole in my heart, because of which some quack doctor ('recommended by your FATHER'S family!!') put me in a large machine and did many weird things to me that she or I cannot remember. I was obviously too little to comprehend the fear of the entire thing but ma ke dil ke upar kya guzri thi, tumhe kya pata! Instead of getting one tight slap for all my stupid drama to escape medical cure I usually got 'That's why you're so scared, It's okay, I understand, I'm scared for you too.' 
Eventually I grew out of my fear, but kept my survivor of war attitude post any treatment. When I was diagnosed with Typhoid, they inserted an intravenous into my right palm which I wore to school just to show everyone how brave I was. T'was awesome. 


Yesterday, I had my very first dentist appointment. After spending sleepless nights crying 'fuck ma I can't take it no more i wish i didn't HAVE teeth MAAR DALO MUJHE' , I decided it was time. My mother, smug as ever, after putting me through a long painful lecture-  'Smokers always have bad teeth and bad lives. I keep telling you not to smoke because you will DIE Sharanya, you WILL...die'. After which my father called to contribute- 'I don't want ANYTHING else from you beta, just rinse your mouth after every meal. That's all I'm asking from you in life'. Why thanks for dreaming big for me dad. 
So I plucked up all the courage I wasn't sure I had and visited my very first dentist- Dr PM.
PM was a not so attractive, extremely calm, stern man. Which I think was perfect. 
'So you have a million fillings and your teeth are well, dying. Apart from a little drilling it's going to be almost painless.' ALMOST!?!! Thanks, Dr Precise! 
But he was right. Apart from the initial glimpse of that gigantic chair which looks an instrument made only for savage murder, and the omfg there are needles in my mouth(!!!), it was nothing much. Some parts, where he put this pipe that I think puffed out air?? into sections of my gums was actually fun. After PM has resurrected some teeth and saved the others from dying, I felt alive once again. I have vowed, as you all must, to brush before I sleep. Maybe even get one of those cool motor brushes. 
There is a banner in my colony offering free dental checkups that reads FREE ORAL. 


Looking at the Brown University website to find motivation to study. 
Because one day I definitely need a break from humaar pagal-khana.  But I have made no visible progress, yet. Par ek din hum bade aadmi banke dikhayenge. 
I have to pull an all nighter again because I am STILL staring at my desktop looking for everything to do except start writing my fucking paper. 

Also, Twitter > Facebook. 

Bieber Fever

I tried really hard to hate him.

On new years while sulking in a corner drinking from a bottle of whiskey I remember hearing 'Baby Baby Baby oooh' and literally jumping out of my skin. My 'OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG SO MUCH' was proof that I had failed in all my attempts of scorn. I knew I was warming up to the Beibs when I got addicted to Baby, justifying it as 'Man I'm only listening to it for Luda!'. 

But now as I do my third time dance routine to this song, I know I have been taken.
Because eventually, all we all need is somebody to love.

I have never been a resistor of popular culture. The sheer simple pleasure that lies in being lame is not one that can be surpassed.
You can bitch all you want but this kid's really got it goin' on. And how much can you hate on him, he's SIXTEEN! I am aware that Americans are almost too easy to please and his haircut's a new and improved Nick Carter look, but sixteen is a bad age for everyone.
It is also a bit pathetic to spend too much energy trying to hate the Bieber. Pick on someone your own size, mans! And after watching enough videos of screaming, wailing, distraught mobs of 16 year old girls I have realized that there is power in Bieber fever.
In whatever I've seen of him via youtube and twitter he seems genuine enough. Unlike most of these Disney Channel morons(one of whom apparently he is dating) and predeccesing boybands- who pretended to be romantic pretty boys but were actually homosexual coke fiends, he is transparent. There is nothing more to the Beibs. What you see is what you get. A voice at the fragile state of transition from boy to man(good nonetheless), and bad-ass dance moves copied from Usher and co. It is less, but at the same time, more.
And respect to him only because he probably still hasn't  learnt how to solve a linear equation but he's doing this all on his own.
So go on and be, a Belieber.


Today my father called me from a traffic jam in Bombay called me to talk. A born and bred Delhi-ite, at the smallest sign of trouble on the road, he'd start doing the angry Dilli vaala routine. Blame a few people, curse the random man in the car next to us who would only be more than willing to curse back, and start giving up-'Ab bas khatam ho gaya sab, BOLA THA maine is road pe nahi aana chahiye chutiya road hai yeh!'. Today in his traffic jam in Mumbai he seemed calm. He told me he was late for a meeting but it doesn't matter, this happens all the time.
Delhi doesn't know how to handle. We only know how to panic, followed by much drinking. One heartbreak, accident, loss, failure in an exam, and we are on our way to the whiskey bar establishing ki sab khatam hai. We are finished.
We don't like anyone else. We seldom like ourselves. We love to thrive in our self made, never ending existential angst. But it's what we know and love and it's never going to change.
Yeh sheher nahi, manzil hai. Aur hum alag(pagal) hai. Tum nahi samjhoge :D 


This song rules.