Saturday, October 13, 2007


My dearest friend has emailed me a critical review of this wonderfool blog. It has left me distraught, just like this two day weekend. Now, ofcourse its great to have a two day weekend, but not when parents are visiting the daughter-gone-wrong with a lot of chocolate muffins that seem to satisfy the daughter for now, eventhough telepathic signal being transmitted all the way to Kuwait didn't really materialize into the much desired Motorazr. Still, the muffins are equally great. Hence, me being stuck at home with parental units engrossed in watching Bappi Lahri's latest jewelery, shall experiment with a long post about, well me.

So, this special friend believes that as much as she loves my posts, she thinks I am a sell out for several disturbing reasons.

" looks like u try 2 project a verry cool image of urself on d blog wich is fine cuz its ur blog and ur ego massage, which is why i thnk it should be kinda anonymous where u can talk.. u know realllly freeelyyy bout urslef, lilke a parallel identity, like your mirror and u dunt have 2 care whethr ur readers like u or not, u knw where u can freely talk bout ur life and insecurity.. where it is really from the heart.. where it is really a blog, a part of you.. independnt of ur liasions. but i guess its a romantic view."

So, its Saturday night and I have the option of watching
Y Tu Mama Tambien or reading one of the seven unfinished books, but I prefer to sit here and listen to RATM and Yves Larok and imagine the amount of fun everyone else is having, as I am missing a two hour jumping session at Morrison, and a four hour shit fuck jumping session at Agni. My other options are watching Sa Re Ga Ma Pa with Ma and Pa, or watching my dog smell other dogs' poop on the road.

Instead let me try and dispel my friend's misplaced observations, by posting what she expects from me.

So my lord, what does it mean to be an anonymous blogger of me?

It means having really dirty feet with over grown toe nails and a brand new life insurance which will save me some taxes. Alas, all those original school passing certificates have disappeared from my drawer and I am unable to furnish my age proof. So from today I am nineteen years old. Also, my blood test report has officially proved I am anemic. Quite a rude shock because all this time I was thinking the face cleaning I got from Mrs Singh in August made me fair, when it was the absence of Mister Ferrous which was making me pale and effectively fairer. Also, my white blood cell count is 18,000 units, when it should be 9000, and so I hid the report in my car's dashboard, convinced that I have got AIDS. Before y'all scream out I am dumb, let me tell you that according to NCERT Class XII biology Supplement, the body responds to the HIV Virus by producing way too many white blood cells, till the virus terminates them once and for all. So, believing that I have contracted HIV through a needle planted by some sadistic fool in the seats at Priya's, I kept avoiding the doctor's appointment. Alas, daddy took over the car and took the report to the doctor in my absence, who said I am just allergic to something and so the white blood cells have decided to flood my blood stream. Sigh, the only drama being played out is being witnessed by certain corpuscles floating in plasma . And, so I don't see why must I share all these melodramas, insecurities and impending health disasters here.

This new job thingy is not all that exciting, since the Linux systems are a pain with all those open source softwares, and commercial television is an evil empire, populated by inane shows and anal scripts, meant to be written by me. This is a convenient arrangement for the next four months, so that I save some worthless currency and fly off to Alexandria to stare across the green ocean till my eyes hurt. We can worry about the future on return, but for now life's pace seems to be just perfect, and every professional experience continues to teach me more than any film school would have in the past year. So no more regrets about not going for the Master's
that I had always dreamt of last February. But readers, in my rare confessional state, I wish to share that I am in the process of applying to the New School. Perhaps I am being too ambitious, and I know I cannot afford New York for two years as a creative writing student, but it would be nice to know, had I the opportunity and the resources, would I have made it to a bunch of phenomenally talented people and interacted with some tremendously inspiring writers?

Next we can talk about titillating sexual encounters that seem to be the norm across blogs written by urban Indian girls in their early twenties. Now, what can I say about that, except that I worship the body in flesh and not in soul, and one of my hobbies is to spread the science of hooking up for the needy. Yes, I believe in the art of seduction and as much as it appalls my dear friend, there indeed exists a five-step course, that can get most average people laid ninety percent of the time. I can get several satisfied followers to vouch for my claims, but it's just too silly and can spell doom for humanity if in wrong hands. In the end we all know deep inside that lust is the only true primeval desire and love is just a rational justification for hormonal impulses. So all you hopeless romantics can just stop pretending. Besides, we are asexual beings with higher pursuits of the mind occupying time and space. Sex is just a regular by-product of metabolism, which requires no special attention or a personal webpage. Fuck all people. With protection.

Now Porcupine Tree just whispered that they want to put Felix's penis on me, which just confuses me as the only Felix I know is a patented potion belonging to JK Rowling and so it's time for me to go and write something sensible, namely prose and poetry that I wish to archive on this webpage, and read when I grow up.

Sorry, for all the justifications I can or cannot furnish, all I have to say to my critics is that I write for myself. My amateur attempts at fiction might inspire or conspire, but as I stumble through my life, I can always come back here and observe the evolution of my mind with a smile, through words that will be preserved by the good people at Google. And, hopefully this girl will marvel at her young writings and remember a time inhabited by a new generation of independent free spirits.

Aight sweethearts, it might be a hell lot of fun to be me, but back to fictional writings born of the notions swirling around the black trenches of my mind.