Bobby Chadda is my muse for the week.

I have been observing him all day, watching his videos, imitating his brilliance and just basically sharing his wisdom with the rest of the world. I think I should take up imitating people as a part time proffesion. I don't mind the long hours on YouTube for research and I am an efficient networking scholar (in short, stalker). And I love it  when people laugh. I think it's the only thing that keeps underpaid jokers alive.

Apart from the overdose of Mr. Chadda, what has been causing me to lose sleep is some people from my past who I never wanted to see again, showing up as mutual friends of some friends from college.

No no, nothing great happened in the past.

I just happened to piss them off after they dissed me off. And since everything happened on Facebook, things were even more ugly. We threw each other out of our friend lists and the day school ended, I was sure I wouldn't have to face them again.

The situation of our meeting hasn't arisen yet but I fear some bad mouthing,withing their circles.

So the lesson for the week is :

1)Never add anyone on Facebook before conversing with them in real life AT LEAST twice.

2)Try and be on good terms with most people. You may think you'll never see them again, but then one fine day they pop out of nowhere and awkwardness is bound to happen.

In other news, I started using watercolors after nearly four years (the last time being, painting an aster for the Intermediate Art exams) and it turned out quite nice. SO, I'm going to buy myself some new cakes and paint. 

I also acted in a movie for a course on grading systems in India. I had to play the role of Siddhu from the movie Ghulam, which was easy since I've been imitating the chappris and taporis of Mumbai since forever. Oh and Esmaralda fractured her arm so we (Unat and I) had to take her to the hospital (actually just accompany her, Esmaralda even fought with the autowalas over money while the two of us just stood there). It was my first time at a hospital alone and I realized how socially inadequate we were. This realization dawned upon me only while I was made to fill up the registration form for Em. I didn't know her age, her birth date, her father's name amongst other significant details. On the sidelines, I have started opening up to more people in the college and friend circle is widening, yes. The second semester has been amazingly good to me in that sense. Even the scary big senior smiled at me once when he helped me pick up some papers I'd dropped. Can't be bad. The weather here, right now is teribble. Very Bombay like. I am sweating all the time, hungry all the time and tired all the time. Reminds me of the ISC days. *shivers* 

That's it for now folks, have assignments to do before I sleep.

Assignments to do before I sleep.

"All men are equal. Some men are more equal than the others but they are equal. Women, on the other hand are not equal. Some ..need to lose weight. But basically all men are the same. Equal. And then there's me. Bobby Chadda."

Purple pyjamas.

Latest addition to the sidebar is not me.
Fo sho fo sho.
It's Esmaralda standing in front of her wall of fame in her Purple pyjamas.

The girl with the Red pants.

Ko 1 is in touch with her body.

She knows what kind of fabric and cut will suit her figure.
Ko 2 is also in touch with her body. She has a mind free from the hassles of what people may think of her. She has found that time in her routine to think about what she wears and she really doesn't care as long as it looks good.
Ko 3 has found her elegance and her body moves with the same steps her mind takes.

Other than the three ko's there are millions who have found that comfort in themselves.
They move around freely and everything they wear looks good on them.
These people have fine hand movements and they have found a characteristic walk. It makes people imitate them with ease.
They aren't scared of moving to the music in their minds.
They jump higher than the others and they don't feel shy of singing out loud along with their ipods.
They are proud of how in or out of tune they are.
In a discussion they know exactly how to get heard.
They don't mumble.
They aren't scared of acknowledging fashion.
They get angry when they see people ruin their bodies.
They get angry when they see people who haven't accepted and embraced their own bodies. A few times they help the others get over their fears.

They tell them that time is running away and fear is only in the mind.

They dance. They act. They make music.
They may not be perfect at anything but they have something to be SO proud of.
They are in tune with themselves. They have a rhythm inside their bodies.
I know, you may say that others are good at something more gentle, like painting. But not being comfortable in your own body, that's a MAJOR handicap. And the people who can't dance, it's because of just that.
Maybe no one tells them this but it takes guts to sing your favourite song out loud in the bus full of people.
It takes guts to voice your opinions despite your imperfect shrill.
It takes courage to wear high waist pants to a college full of bermudas.
And it definately takes guts to wear hot red pants to college on a random day.

These people should never be called average or attention seeking or shallow.
These people wear, walk, dance and sing their minds.
They don't care much for what others think. Maybe they lost that fear when they were young.

They can storm up a party without the alcohol. These people are usually the life of every party and many times, the life of many lives.
They are anything but ordinary.
Here's to all those who have found their rhythm. You make our lives more colourful and fun and un-restrained and make us all aim for that courage inside of us. You make us want to celebrate our bodies and our youth.

Especially you, girl with the red pants. You aren't average to me.


P.S: Copy paste this to anyone you know, who owns red pants. Let them know how lovely they are. :)

List of nice things.

1.Socks that have funny things printed/stitched on them (available in Yelahanka market): Rs.30

2.Post-its from Staples, Bangalore: Rs.30

3.Matteos: Rs.13 for the bus to the city + Rs.80 for a mochachillo = Rs. 93 (Bonus for the red sofa)

4.Cold coffee from Mac: Rs.40

5.Daily breakfast at the Kadey: Rs.5 for Chai + Rs. 5 for peanuts with onion + Rs.10 for half plate pulao/Wangibhat = Rs.20

6.Rutuja's green sweater: Rs.500

7.Lucky ring from Accesorise: Rs.120 (After a 50% discount, that too.)

8.Glitter Hand sanitizer (Twilight woods from Body Works): £2.05 (Don't know how much that will be rupees)


9.Potato wedges from Hakone(2006 prices): Rs.40 for 6 pieces with Tartar Sauce
 
10.Broad sofas: Approximately a lot of money.

11.Clem Snide: Free downloads.

12.Shampoos: Rs 120

13.Muffin man: Rs 15 for brownies+ Rs. 30 for chicken burger = Rs.45

14.Occasional lunch at Ice and spice :Rs 40 for the cold coffee + Rs. 110 for Aglio Oglio pasta = Rs.150.

15.Occasional alcohol: Rs.45 for a quarter Old Monk + Rs. 70 for Foster's Beer = Rs.115

16. Local trips to nearby tourist spots like Hampi/Gokarna: Rs.5000

17.Printing costs (School library + Print Express on Richmond road): *cringes*

18.Plasticine for making product prototypes (Available at Sandeep Book Stores): Rs. 30

19.Non A-C Overnight bus ticket to Mumbai: Rs.750 per person

18.Monthly Balance for texting(applies only for singles): Rs.60

19.Coconut water: Rs.12

20. Going to a real, illegal, haunted house with two of your thinnest friends, coming back with no scratches/ marks of assault, researching the story on the internet and finding someone was murdered in the house, going through the pictures you took of the savage place and finding the face of a ghost staring at you.

Priceless.

21. Coming to college the next day, still trying to forget the face of the ghost, showing it to some disbelieving friends and then being told, it's a doorknob (?) :

Priceless-er.

So this^ is the ghost picture. Except the ghost was actually a doorknob.
Some other photographs from the haunted house.

Medicine cabinet of the murdered woman.

A ruined piano in the house. The house was burnt down by the assailants before they murdered her.

Tash and Deesa in the living room.

Cupboard where we found books on Cross-stitching and recipes for Vanilla Ice cream.

A phone diary we found.

So you see, a lot of nice things cost some money, but the best things come out of a haunted house all of a sudden and cost nothing.

(Well actually that is if you exclude Rs.13 for bus travel and Rs.200 for cold coffee and pasta at Egg Factory that we ate after our adventure, but none the less folks.)

An open letter to a blue man.

As a part of this universe, I have the divine right to ask/ demand/ clarify (for) a few things and you, have the glorified part of answering them (or atleast justifying your actions) or not (In which case, you may lose my vote of confidence).
How is it that you, being something so vague, have the power to draw millions when I, something so tangible have the power to draw none?
Why don't most people question YOUR intentions and what has made them believe that all that you do, is for the betterment of man?
Why are you blue in colour?
Why do you bless only a few with everything and the rest with a few remnants of a few things?
Why do some people strive all their lives to get ONE thing done their way while some others get it laid on a platter?
Why does Karma apply only to some situations and is there a way to beat it? Because HEY, there is someone who really needs a punch.
Do you really think that I would be convinced of your existence in a pandal where middle aged women taunt me to shed of their personal frustration?
Did you think I was that naive as to hold no grudges against you after all these un-eventful years?
What happens to people like me?
Do you ever take time out to bless us with some luck?
Is there really a secret? Or is it just another one of your contrived plans for humanity?
And lastly, when does the world start to give back? When does everything fall into place for me, when people everywhere have their lives all spaced out? When does ANYTHING happen my way, and I don't have to compromise with myself and brainwash myself with the benefits of choosing the second best option?
When does my life become as happy and as beautiful as I imagine it to be?

I know this sounds stern and even, manipulative to an extent. But I need anwers. Solid answers. You should know that I hardly think of your existence anymore, even in times of crisis. Infact your presence has been reduced to being that of the blue man with a set of arrows in his backpack and a monkey worshipping him. There is a woman to his left and another man to his right.

My room-mate believes in you and has a poster of you on her cupboard. It scares me to look you in the eye. But she seems happy and content, which is why I have given you one more chance to prove to me you aren't a poet's imagination but infact real.
If you call yourself God, give me a reason to call you so.
Until then, blue man with arrows, you affect me not.

Because the thing you claim to hate; You do it very well.

आज तुम्हे देखा तो ऐसा लगा,

जैसे इस रास्ते पर सिर्फ तन्हाई ही बिखरी पड़ी है|

आज अचानक आईने में नज़र मिली,

तो लगा ;

यह रास्ते बस बिखरने चली है|
इन पैरों का कहना क्या,
जब एंडीयों  पर यह निशान चुभने लगी है;
आँखों ने नई आवाज़ चुनी है|
यह रास्ते बस बिखरने चली है|


First hindi post.
This must be progress, right?

My lucky cat/tautoro ring in front of my Bombay collage.

 P.S- So, I'm thinking I'll hide a secret song in every post of mine. Some song to go with my mood. The one in this post is quite, quite apt.

And her face glows like that of a hysterical moth.

When he lets her know.

Her eyes, like a dying pod;

They simmer with rage, carving her hollow.

Her anger comes out in fits;

In the dark.

All the blame has stripped her naked.

Stark.

No one reads her lines, her palm.

Drowning in her bathtub, she finds her calm.

Death doesn't scare her, swords bring no harm.

If at all she fears,

she fears

the face

of

the 

woman

facing

her

from

her

mirror.

And the few times she finds that face,

drowning

at

the

pith

of

her

bathtub;

She plays the second fiddle.

She is the second fiddle.

The Second Fiddle: A series.

Concept, Paintings and Writing by Artemisia D.