Be Amused

Attitude as big as the...bus.

Cynic me

So,this kid here was totally disinclined to a conversation I was trying to start about what exactly he intended to do with those empty mineral water bottles he was refilling from Allahabad railway station public water taps. He continued to ignore me completely until I told him that I thought and feared those bottles would get resealed and sold as new at the stalls. He finally relented in rough local lingo only after I clicked a picture of him threatening that this could be a snapshot that might land him in trouble. My assumption was absurd. This kid sells refilled water for 2 rupees in general compartment of trains.

The City (Journal 2)

The Excursionist (Journal 1)

I will be posting a pic and sometimes more everyday from here, there and everywhere that i have been and loved. If you have questions or thoughts about these, feel free to bug me.  I'm an excellent tour guide.The sand biker on the left is me.  OK, that  was a joke. Trust me, beautiful as it may look, you have got to be slightly insane to go dune smashing  like this in mad heat and sand dust - mouthful, eyeful and earful to say the least. Anyways, not a total wimp, i am tucked inside in the first picture.

                                                

Chha, Vic and I M, hello.   :)

Travel A Pic A Day With Me

XYZ

45 years ago

On a piece of land in a very salubrious locality a house was built for and under the supervision of the vice-principal of the Polytechnic, he was an engineer himself. Sadly, he never got the chance to live in it because just the day before he and his family were to move in, he slipped in the bathroom , hit his head on the sink and died of head trauma. People said to the widow that the house would bring only bad luck but she with her three children decided to move in. She grew turnip in the backyard and kept her kitchen warm. 

Yet

The Picture of Dorian Gray has been resting at page 44 because there have been distractions. Things needing attention and time. She stands in front of the divan sofa which she best utilises for reading and then glances at the clock. The doorbell rings incessantly- one, two, three, four, and five times. Almost tripping, she rushes to answer the door. Her five year old is grabbing the front of his shorts and scurries to the bathroom, ``Mummy, wee-wee!’’ she laughs and calls out. ``How was school? Did you finish your tiffin?’’ and life goes on.

The nth time optimism

She purchased about a dozen and a half t-shirts, five skirts and two pairs of jeans. She didnt know yet of the itinerary but the trip abroad was imminent. She wanted it to be perfect. She had been planning on losing weight for six years. She must now. Starting from tomorrow. Only today she will binge on a box of mixed fruit pastries from Ribbons and Balloons and the thick creamy strawberry shake at McDonalds. Also, she must not miss the doughnuts with jimmies from MOD.

Ego

She knows its him but just says, ``Hello? ’’ some seven times into the mouthpiece. He remains silent. She waits. He places the receiver back in its cradle.This has been going on for over a month now. He has not shaved in all these days and looks poorly. He doesnt sleep well and is thinking about her all the time. He will make the call again tomorrow, same time,sharp at 9, thats just before she leaves for college. She grabs her satchel and is on her way hoping she will not have to wait forever for his sorry. 

Artsy fartsy Conceptual Art

She always tries hard to figure out the mind of her photographer boyfriend in his work. These are a series in a row, they all look the same to her, like 22 copies of a single photograph but he had insisted they are not. ``Look at the rain drops, the window is a canvas, the rain paints, differently each time.’’ She wonders what he really feels about her being so artistically challenged. She looks around , everyone seems to be enjoying the open air exhibition. She goes to get some beverage at the portico. He comes from behind her, pulls her close and kisses the top of her head.

Photographs, a dime a dozen

My porridge cup
Plumes on my Coldplay T-shirt

Amsterdam, by the side walk
Holding cotton clouds on its thousand year old branchlets
Time
Once upon a time, there were many little toys
From the terrace in the countryside
Gold ink Buddhist Thangka
49 flavours. Net Wt. 4lb
The making of house-boat in the backwaters
Frangipani sisters
And they all called it a day

Dear Family, I protest (since your initial enthusiasm for owning a dog has passed).

This is Champak Lal, a little over five weeks old. I’m not big on dogs but this pooch’s one so-lost-in-this-world look and I’m a goner. He’s adorable and all those names you may feel compelled to squeal in delight-snowflakes, white frosting, cotton candy or soft vapour bundle but wait, he’s also little puddles, no, MANY little puddles of susu/piss(atleast ten in an hour) and also occasional melted fudgies. I'm going nuts cleaning his mess because everyone else’s ass is just so high and mighty or too fat to stoop! FYI , getting this pup wasn’t my idea, in fact I wasn’t even around when this idea and the pup came home.

PS - Ok, I may have exaggerated a bit on the frequency of Champak Lal’s peeing but seriously, be nice, develop some dignity of labour, sense of responsibility and above everything else, get someone to potty train him!!!

PS2 - Champak Lal, no issues. I do love you. Really.

PS3 - Lord and Lady Slothingtons, don’t hope that I will feel guilty about posting this. It wont happen. :D About time you picked that bloody mop.

And here's something totally out of the context http://webneetech.com/2009/12/22/interview-with-blogger-tongue-trip/

A day of Nouns and Two Photographs

Caramel Toffees
An Equal Music(dog-eared at 179)
Suzanne Vega
Jumbo Jet vapour trail
Oven-fresh-baked cinnamon bread
3 Postal greetings
Tiny windmill souvenir(s)
Agony Antidote
(I )Love (you)

A Tin Full of Tomorrows

At night
in thunderstorms
in the balcony full of potted Philodendrons
pregnant and big
she shudders
cowers
sobs
and bleeds.

At other times
you could hear her scream
but that’s only
Tinnitus in her ears
you know, that noise within.

Last night
I heard her again
when I pressed my ear to the wall
she doesn’t wish for death, she said,
and likes to go for walks.
She also likes the colours pink and white
Walt Whitman
and Snickers Bar.

Little Stoic and her friends

This was on one muggy summer afternoon from the years of unstructured rearing when disobedience and shenanigans are nonchalantly tolerable.
Every evening upon finishing our homework and a glass of milk, the friends would gather at the derelict outhouse which provided the most suitable setting for our juvenile games.
Out of the seven, after the ritualistic chant of ``in-pin-safety-pin-in-pin-out, khelna hai to khelo warna (play if you like or else) get out!'', I was the singled-out participant for the `dare you’ game of the day. Very compliantly I climbed into the corroded age-old closet wherein I, `poorani almari wali chudail' ( the witch of the old closet) , the spell-weaver, had to remain till my companions would challenge and call out in choral rhyme, kya tu hum sabse darkar, baithee jo almari ke andar, bana sakti kya hum sabko bandar, chala kar apna jadoo mantar? ( are you afraid of us that you hide in that closet? Do you have the power to weave a magic spell and turn us into monkeys? ). Thereupon, I, the closet witch, had to come out of my cubbyhole and cast my spell on whoever I’d come upon first.
I did not see the lever turn in the black opacity, nor did I hear the hurried footfalls fading on the desiccating grass. I waited alertly for that signal from my friends, instead, I heard my sniggering mates yelling out that they had tossed up the key to my freedom high up which the sky devoured. Funnily, I did not find my friends' meanness peculiar.
It must have been the clamminess inside, or the suspended stale air, or the cold solid metal against which I reclined sideways, tucking my legs together. In next to no time my olfactory nerves became comatose and I slept. Or fainted.
Noises.
A weepy and a very hysterical mother discovered me.
Sometimes I dream of those tittering friends from my childhood days.
The key, it was never retrieved.