Last Kiss

… or, at any rate, another Eddie Vedder (Pearl Jam) song can be found here.

Tee hee, these Zonuts-linking posts are short and sweet, eh?

Last Post In July?

What the fuck, ya. I live here too, you know. Why does my colony have to be so anal about its parking? And why does everybody feel free to come to my room, wake me up, and ask me to come down and move the car? Three times in one evening? Because I never make a fuss about doing so? Maadhar-lunds. What if I just refused? “Look, you got home after me, you fucking find somewhere else to park your car. And learn to relax a bit while you’re at it, dumbo. Yeah, that’s right, I called you ’dumbo’. The high point of your life is owning property in Outram Lines. Dude.“ 

I’d probably get shot, or something. So of course I just go down quietly, don’t open my mouth beyond a “haanji” or two, and park in front of someone else’s house.

The height of it is, I think, that there’s space in front of MY house to lagaao my gaddi. But my landlord has asked me not to park there, because his wife has trouble getting her own Zen in the adjacent space.** Because my car is so dent-free, he thinks it’s new, with power steering, and that’s why I can park and the missus can’t. So when indignant houseowners take pity on me (“Bachha hain, he’s come from far away, studying and living so far away from his family”) and suggest that I park in the obvious, gaping space, I smile and tell them that nahin, I’m not allowed to park in front of my own house either.

I had a nice weekend though– stoned, for the most part. We did go drinking too, obviously, but I only had 4 Bacardis, and that was because there was a scratch-card offer happening. (I won myself a nice shot glass! I was really hoping for the cool keychain, though. The bat-mark on the shot glass isn’t all that prominent.) I hadn’t smoked up since Bombay, which was back in May, so it was a nice change. Four mallus and a Perakath spending the day getting high and watching movies– it could have been a day out of college.

So Beks of BeksandRo, who continually displays her good taste by being married to a Stephanian, tagged me to list my favourite literary characters. I have two tags from Chandni and the Mad Momma pending already, but this is a small one, so I’ll tackle it off. She tagged me because I ‘look like I read’. While flattered, I must gainsay her averment. I used to read, back in school. My parents tell me I was a voracious child reader, and looking at the collection of beautiful children’s books we have at home, I don’t doubt it. Then I went to college, and suddenly every second fellow read Dickens for fun, Garcia Marquez on the pot, and of course Coelho while jacking off. And people are such choots, you know, they have to drop authors’ names glibly and casually, so that they seem all intellectual. I do the same thing with music, I’m sure, but then I am a big choot myself. Never said I wasn’t.

The truth is, I do love to read– my love affair with the internet notwithstanding, a book and lots of food is my preferred way to spend a holiday. But I read paperbacks, in the worst sense of the word. I like Michael Crichton: Jurassic Park, The Lost World, Sphere, Airframe, Disclosure, Prey, and even Timeline. In school I thought Kane and Abel was a great book, although that may have been coloured by the fact that I kind of fell in love with Florentyna. I love Asimov: his early work, his robot novels, the Foundation series, obviously. Although my favourite Asimov book, if I had to pick one, would probably be The Stars, Like Dust– a Galactic Empire novel, set before the time of Hari Seldon and the First Foundation (and incidentally, also the title of an earlier post of mine. Oh God, I’m linking to my own posts.). Among the short stories, I concur with Asimov’s own ranking of The Last Question, Nightfall, and Bicentennial Man. Unlike Terry Pratchett, I find Douglas Adams’ humour rather forced, and as a result could never finish H2G2.

Asterix, Narnia, LoTR, some John Grisham, Nick Hornby, this other Brit called Tony Parsons, and of course Harry Potter– the list goes on, but it’s rather juvenile, isn’t it?  The closest I’ve come to grown-up books recently is Atonement and The Kite Runner. Oh wait, in Bangalore last month I read a novel called The Brooklyn Diaries. Hmm.

So, having babbled on past my dinnertime, let me choose 3 characters from the authors abovenamed:

(1) Estella, from Great Expectations: because the way Gwyneth Paltrow kissed Ethan Hawke at the water fountain is still burnished in my memory. It must be on Youtube, right?

(2) Biron, from The Stars, Like Dust: because he’s all about the woman in the story.

(3) Florentyna, from Kane and Abel and more so from The Prodigal Daughter: because I transferred her onto my infatuation at the time, the only girl I’ve ever called ‘Princess’. (Permission to barf granted.)

(4) Harry Silver, from Man and Boy: because I think it’s a great book, and you should all read it.

(5) Ptenisnet, from Asterix The Legionary: because he’s the funniest Asterix character ever. “Old hairy eyebrows!” Haha…

I was going to ramble on further on the recent ”terrorist” attacks in the country, but I’m hungry. Perhaps this won’t be the…

 

 

** (“What d’you mean it’s too tight? You could land a fucking jumbo jet in there!”)

It Was Actually Three Soaps in One

… and all I could do was watch in horror as they swirled down the S-bend along with the flush water.

Luckily I have enough soap stored to last me… oh, a couple of months. Toothpaste, toothbrushes, shaving foam, and All-Out, too.

Lessons of The Day

(1) Apples and bananas are fine, but mousambis are not meant to be refrigerated. Even if the fridge does look so nice filled with fruit.

(b) Ham (and chilly cheese sandwich spread) sandwiches are bloody delicious! Far more than the strawberry preserve and cheese spread ones. And the sandwich spread container claims that it has minimal saturated fats and zero trans fats. There are other disadvantages to processed foods, I know, but at least there’s that.

(3) Whether I wake up at 6:30 or 7:15, I will always rush out of the door at 8:30, hoping not to be late. (This is actually a general life lesson– no matter how early I wake, I’ll always be late leaving.) Hurrah for snooze buttons.

Pappu Pass Ho Gaya!

And so, whatever happens, ten months from now, I’m out of law fac forevah!!

I can’t think of anything to do to celebrate.

Thinkey, Thinkey

Read of the day:

It’s a nice change to have an introspective-y Sunday where I’m not thinking about how crap it is to live alone, and how boring is life– because it’s not. I have my internship to thank for that. It’s completely shit in that I spend most of my time sitting around playing games on my phone, or looking for parking outside the High and Supreme Courts; but getting up every morning and going to work has the most wondrously soothing effect on me. The days aren’t empty, and there’s no longer a question of how to kill all the spare hours– there are no spare hours anymore. I know that tomorrow I have to wake up, dress in my penguin attire, and spend the day in court– and what a brilliant feeling that is! There is purpose.

Knowing that tomorrow brings with it 2 hours of class and 2 hours of free time spent under a Nescafe umbrella, and that I’ll be home for lunch, just doesn’t cut it for me the same way. I suppose the vain way of looking at it would be to say that my course isn’t challenging enough for me, and that’s why I enjoy the brief spells of work that I do, but that line of thought brings with it uncomfortable questions as to why I haven’t (ever) made it more challenging for myself. After all, noone asks me to come home for lunch, have a siesta, watch 2 episodes of The OC, gym, and get pissed at night. I could study more, write a paper, take Hindi classes, practice my drumming… anything, really. But who’s going to make the effort?

Unbeknownst to everyone, though, I think I am making the effort. It’s being done very slowly, but Perakath is slowly going to the mountain, yes he is. The details aren’t important (to you), but I have a plan-with-timeframe in mind, and for the first time in years I have enough self-belief to think that I’ll actually carry it out.

With even these littlest of efforts that I’ve already made, the differences are palpable. Since it rained last week and I caught a chest infection, I’ve been off cigarettes almost completely, because from experience I know the infection will heal much faster if I don’t smoke. And not smoking means I don’t feel like drinking all the time. (It’s amazing how closely they’re linked in my head.) And not having the urge to drink all the time is a great feeling, because I know thereby I’m not an alcoholic.

I’m not constantly horny, because I don’t miss sex all that much. After years of waking up to regret drunken come-on text messages sent the previous night, I’ve discovered the key to controlling those urges. When you’re drunk and feeling horny, it’s not the actual act of sex you’re missing. What you’re craving is merely the final release. And, though it’s taboo to speak of it, God in her wisdom has given us other ways to get that release. Mere seconds afterwards, you realise that that’s all that you needed, not the person you thought you did. It’s not the same thing, but coupled with the knowledge that another woman will come along in due course, be it now or in a couple of years, it’s good enough to get by.

So I’ve gone from being a chain-smoking, class-bunking lewd drunkard constantly wishing he was somewhere else, to a regular angst-free chap who only worries about whether or not there’s bread to make sandwiches for the next day. I like being this guy, for now anyway. He has his issues too, of course– I met someone for a couple of drinks after work the other day and she said, “Periya, you look so…” and I prepared myself to hear ‘fat’ or ‘bald’, but she completed, “…old! Especially in your formal clothes.” Old. That’s a new one. Not entirely inaccurate either, given the huffing and puffing way yesterday’s basketball game went.

Although I suspect that whichever guy I am, I’ll never end up buying that drum kit. It’s one of those “dude if it was going to happen it’d have happened by now” things.

You Don’t Know What You’ve Got…

Bloody greedy chowkidar. I’ve always been nice to him– to all 3 neighbourhood chowkidars, in fact, although only 1 of them is mine– buying them biscuits and coke in the summer, and biscuits and milk in the winter, and buying them powwas of whiskey all year long. That’s on top of the rather significant sum I shell out every month to get the vehicles washed daily, and to “look after them.” Never mind that looking after them is his job, as one visitor pointed out in anger even as I shushed her into silence.

This month though I dared to be a little firm, and tell him no, 300 rupees a month in addition to food, drink, and booze is an unacceptable sum to pay a chowkidar. Keep in mind he gets paid by every house in the colony in addition to his (admittedly pitiable) salary.

You can’t agree to something and then make a fuss two days later. Camel in a fucking tent. This Arab isn’t going to feed and water it any more.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Hello my duckies!

Although sober, I’m in a good mood, for many reasons.

Viva La Vida, the song, was just on the radio and I quite love it. It must be fantastic in concert!

I spent six hours– SIX HOURS– cleaning my room today (this is another factor in my good mood)! Solid summer-cleaning, I did. Dusted, broomed, mopped, relined shelves with newspaper, removed cobwebs, cleaned the fan, cleaned the inside of the fridge, cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the curtain and tablecloth, cleaned the soaptray (it was clogged with dried soap)… and finally cleaned myself. Most of the cleaning was done with the fan off, to prevent dust flying, so I lost about half my body weight in sweat and ended up with a prickly-heat type rash all over my shoulders and chest from all the sweat-soaking. But the room is so clean, I look around every now and then and beam. Sometimes I feel I should hire myself out as a sort of solo Dustbuster.

After that I went to a Sardarji’s car accessories shop in Kamla Nagar that I’d reconnoitred on Friday. A new CD player and speakers was a little outside my budget, so until I got there the plan was to ask him to put in the new speakers but merely repair the existing cassette player. He’s a good salesman though, and convinced me to compromise by buying new speakers but also a second-hand CD player instead of getting the tape deck repaired. It sounds great, and didn’t break the bank either!

Whatteproductiveday. *Beams*

Oh, look what I came across– The Asterix Annotations! (Link is to Asterix In Britain, because that’s how I came across the site.) Immensely interesting reading for anyone who loves the comics. And text-heavy, graphic-unintensive. I especially like the explanations where classical art/sculpture are referenced, e.g. here, here, here, and here.

I didn’t know ‘Sol Lucet Omnibus‘ means “The sun shines for everyone.” Quite a brilliant line actually, when you think about it, non?

‘Microcephallic’ Certainly Is

Whoa, shucks, you should’ve seen the size of that flying cockroach. Monstrous it was. It’s perched on my blazer, I hope it doesn’t set up nest there.

I’m back in Delhi, sitting at my computer desk downloading an OC episode and checking all 229 new items in my Google Reader. A very stiff Romanov-Coke is by my side, and a Marlboro regular glows softly in the ashtray. Opening IE signs me in directly to Hotmail, Facebook, and Reader, and I have the use of Limewire and Last.fm again.

It’s like the last month (and the resolutions I resolved in it) never happened.

I got here two days ago and have been unbelievably busy since then. My latest internship began yesterday, and I’ve finally seen the inside of a courtroom. Many courtrooms, in fact… a couple in the Supreme Court, and half a dozen in the High Court. It’s quite illuminating, this mingling with Delhi’s legaleagles. (Arun Jaitley, in particular, seems to pop up in every courtroom I visit, the baldy.)

Before I forget, might I please inform you that not once have I heard the phrase, “Objection! my Lord” uttered, in vain or otherwise. Perhaps they say it in the trial courts (endearingly called Tis Hazari, Karkarduma, Patiala House, Rohini, and so forth), I wouldn’t know. Nor is there a court reporter who types out every word uttered in the courtroom and reads it back when so directed by the judge. Grisham, you liar, you.

The one thing that leaps out at me is the attitude everyone seems to have. All the senior lawyers seem to have, for unbeknownst reasons, very big heads. (Literally.) Macrocephallic, is that a word? And all the advocates, whether senior or otherwise, seem to have a perpetual sneer on their faces. “I Am Lawyer, I wear black-and-white and fail utterly to see the resemblance to traditional waitering livery.” The only place I’ve seen a hint of humour is in the courtroom, when the judges crack a joke and everyone guffaws like there’s no tomorrow. Even my immediate seniors, fresh members of the Bar Association, have superior smirks plastered on their unshaven mugs. Lighten up, fellows. So you’ve hung around the High Court long enough to know where things are and how things work. You talk glibly of “matters” and “hearings” and “orders” and gossip the insider gossip over lunch in the lawyers’ cafeteria. Ai ai ai. Exists there the humble lawyer? (Crowley excepted, of course, poor chap. I haven’t seen him in court yet, the hardworking dog.)

In my Bombay internship last June, I was so pleased to see this one lawyer– a girl so hot I was actually tongue-tied around her, incidentally– bring out an iPod deck after 9 pm every night and play house music in her cubicle as she worked. I of course was working the whole day with my then-new mp3 player glued to my ears, but then I wasn’t being paid. Nobody in the lawyers’ chambers seems to even own a portable music player.

Delhi is Oh! so muggy, so muggy that it reminds me of (ack!) Bombay, that worst-weathered of cities. I hate it, I hate this weather with a vengeance. Why can’t it be autumnal already? The day I got back here I went and got my car a/c fixed, so the commute to work is at least bearable… but I often wish I could just dissolve entirely into sweat and make my way to that great air-conditioned room in the sky. The blasted black blazer that drapes me three-quarters of the day doesn’t help matters, either.

We finished work two hours early today, which meant that I accidentally discovered just when it is that the ITO junction is jammed with traffic. (“So THIS is rush hour..!”) But those two extra hours were just what I needed to pay my broadband bill, retrieve my bike from the college parking lot where I’d stashed it for a month, and pay my tiffin lady. I still haven’t cleaned my room, though, which is quite out of character for me. I’m sleeping on one half of a bed whose sheets were last changed in May, and I’ll have to do so until I have two spare hours on Sunday to safai properly.

Urgh, the humidity. Excuse me while I go wash my face… again.