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Things happen. Of a faecal nature.

Not one of my sob story blogs. Also not a reference to recent non-existent or existent sexcapades. For those who wonder, as humans are wont to – I lie a lot when I drink. Largely by omission, but also by being willfully unclear with my declarations.

But this is actually in reference to certain decisions I have come to regarding this blog, and more importantly, my life. Things are not as settled as I would like them to be, but I doubt that will ever happen. But to a large extent, I have considered my options and have settled on what I would do depending on how things pan out. Am I being cryptic? Yes, but it gets better. Slightly. For those of you interested in what I think about my life and Delhi, this will be passable. For other more normal folk, hopefully the writing won’t suck.

I had a conversation with a friend recently concerning people who read my blog. To begin with, this particular aspect of the conversation concerned was brought up and sustained entirely by me. I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my friends are at all interested in theories about the mental state of the four people who read this. We were already talking about the blog and I mentioned that at some level, I don’t trust the… affection? regard? Whatever it is that you have for me.

Don’t get me wrong – I love that people like what I write about and presumably, the manner in which I write it. I have naught but respect for your good taste. Tee hee. What I don’t trust is your ability to like me after you meet me. I would hate to meet one of my favorite authors and realize they were mean or bigoted or unfriendly or worst of all, boring. Something I told an old friend a long time ago comes to mind – I think people who know and like me from minimal and limited interactions expect an eternal fountain of wit and knowledge. Once they get to know me a bit more I’m afraid they’ll find out that I already used up my best material – those were all the cards I held.

But that’s largely my self esteem talking. I’m sure that in real life, I must be just a treasure to have around twenty-four-seven. But all of this brings me home – literally and figuratively. I was in Goa when S, N and I got to talking about Delhi. We were wondering where we would live our lives before eventually retiring in Goa, and I was the only one who said Delhi. It’s not a very popular city and it probably never will be. And I tried to explain my reasons orally, but as usual, failed. Its a lesson I have learned over time and it bears repeating – if I have anything more complex that “I want that” to convey, I should write it down first. Talking is not my forte. So let me try again.

I told S and N that as far as I’m concerned, Delhi is the best place for writers in India. Which started off an argument that sort of derailed the conversation. So I will elaborate. The Indian writers I like and the ones who inspire me tend to settle in Delhi. Admittedly, there is no great number of Indian writers that I’m a fan of but of those ones, the majority live in Delhi. And I’m not just talking about fiction writers.

That of course is not enough reason to want to live in Delhi, certainly. But I think the reason it appeals to me as an aspiring writer is that it is rich with people. The most unfriendly, unhygienic, unhelpful and lecherous people you’ll have the dubious honor/ misfortune of meeting. And you see, that is the stuff of legends.

I hate to admit my dad was right about anything, but living amongst Delhi-ites makes my writing better. There is nothing better to write about in the world than people who don’t realize they could be written about. Or people who don’t realize exactly why they could be written about. People in Delhi are the least meta people I have met. They live up to their stereotype as much as people in any other city, but their stereotype is more colorful, more grotesque and brash and fun and real. Interacting with people in Delhi is like interacting with caricatures – entirely human, complex and utterly heartbreaking caricatures.

Spending a day around Delhi for me usually meant writing at the speed of… Boleros in Delhi after twelve – in a notepad that I had to keep beside me at all times. People very rarely see me do that in college. In college, inspiration comes slowly – through books and movies. Sometimes, through incidents, and very rarely through sheer people-osity. In Delhi, even as I hated parts of my Court internships, I would literally write while walking from one courtroom to the next. Once you get used to the people, you also begin to understand them. And as far as I can see, understanding is the key. Truth reveals itself through conflict, and there is no conflict unless my perceptions are challenged. Which is why I go about clinically asking questions like, “So how do you reconcile your faith with conflicting knowledge of science, or philosophy if that’s your thing?”; or “What exactly do you guys do for Ugadi? Do you do anything?”; or “Explain to me your thought process when you purposely hurt someone you love?”; or “what do you mean its five bucks more?!”; or “Who’s that? And why are we talking about them?”; or “Do you want to go get jiggy with it?” – that last one was a lie-joke. I stopped propositioning people like that after I turned 12.

I have a lot of questions, and if they’re answered well, I remember the answers. If they’re not answered well, I get a bit internally angry. When someone doesn’t answer honestly when they said they would, I tend to feel like I’m being patronized. Most of my angry posts stem from not getting answers that satisfy me.

So coming back on point – I plan to stay in Delhi unless inconceivably good opportunities from other cities present themselves. That they are inconceivable should indicate the probability of their actual happening in real terms. It may not be the best, happiest version of life, but I don’t really want the happiest version of my life right now. Later, probably when it’s too late to have , I’ll want it, but for now I want the life version – where I make mistakes and feel unhappy sometimes, where I fight with friends and laugh at TV shows, and possibly cry in the shower after a shitty day in at a job I don’t like. And I plan to write. And write better for living in Delhi. And for getting out of college.

Which sort of brings me to my long ass absence from this space. Many things have contributed to this – I went to Goa a few weeks ago and as amazingly splendiferous as it was, I came back without a functioning power cord for my laptop – which due to the obscurity of the laptop company has been a major set back. After Goa I was busy with college fest stuff, which was a surprisingly fun thing to do. After that I got wicked wasted at the Farewell thrown by juniors and said some stuff (very little of which is actually what happened, sadly) which is apparently one of the various talks of the town, if the town were an unbelievably pseudo bunch of five hundred people. After that I got roped in to “decorate” at Southie Fest, which like all Fests was pointless, as far as I can see. And right now, there is project submissions. And the looming threat of yet another drunken episode.

But more importantly than all of the above shenanigans, the main reason for aforementioned long ass absence is ennui. I have not been feeling good about what I have written over the past few weeks. As previously elaborated, I think being too happy is not good for my writing, which ultimately is not good for my mental state. I don’t plan to be depressed or heartbroken or to use hard drugs, but I think a reality check in the form of Delhi, outside of college will be a good thing. Everything I have written in the last few weeks and even before that, including posts I have actually published sort of seems … meh. I don’t think they mattered, least of all to me. I wasn’t enthusiastic while writing them and I wasn’t looking forward to or happy with the results once I did.

I think it may be because as someone mentioned to me recently, when you know you’re writing for an audience, and even worse, when you know who that audience is, you’re less honest. Not in terms of revealing details about your life, but in terms of what you do decide to write about and how you write it. I have been writing keeping college in mind. Knowing that people see me here every day. That they’ll see me and who I interact with and how I behave and will come to their own conclusions. And I think at some level, my last few posts have been about trying to mold those conclusions. Not consciously, but at some level, my writing has degenerated to commentary on what people in college are already seeing or experiencing.

To be clear – I don’t hate my writing. I just know it could be better. And less… conventional. So I have conclaved with myself and come to the conclusion that I will not be posting here after college ends. It’s time I made a few changes – I’ve been in limbo for too long. I’ll put up a couple more posts – probably one about the incident with the media at our farewell party, and another about leaving NALSAR. After that – new blog. It’ll still be me writing about stuff that I come across, but hopefully, a little less self-consciously. I’ll still put it up on Facebook when I do write, and I’ll drop in a link to the new blog here. But yes, I’m leaving college after five years – I need to work the atrophy out of my system; and maybe a new start, with fewer WordPress notifications of how many posts I have, and far fewer badly written posts about inane crap would help. If not, I reserve the right to come back to this blog, and live in the past for the rest of my life.

Okbai.

– Billy

 
 

Vignettes or What I Think About YOU!!

ME from the future: Billy, you will probably not publish this. I would like to tell you that its because you have low self esteem, but let’s be honest, its because you don’t know what this post is going to be about. Except now, you have this idea of writing vignettes of people you’re incapable of understanding [*cough* judging *cough*] right now. And here’s the fun bit – some of them may or may not be from college, though they are largely composites of a number of people. You will probably regret this, you coward of a writer, but if Lizzie could post the utter and complete rejection of Darcy, I could do this much, right?

Also, yes. You are doing this entirely because someone on Facebook said they miss your posts. And no, its not because it reminded you that you have to post, or it gave you confidence. It’s because you are entirely driven by your ego and narcissism. Your juvenile need for approval is exposed, Billy. Kindly adjust your clothing. None of us want to see that nasty business.

The Girl Who Will Always Be Boring And Doesn’t Know It

She’s always had it all. Her hair falls like Rachel’s; her butt to waist ratio is practically perfect; she can understand complex theories and concepts almost before she encounters them; her boobs are only just short of Jennifer Lawrence, which is as close to perfection as normal people get; Her legs are probably longer than my entire body; she probably has 2 percent body fat; she has the aesthetically pleasing back dimples, the skinny arms that Liz Lemon had nightmares about and no armpit cleavage. In the Photoshop enabled world of today, she may just have gone unfiltered. Probably not, but there was potential. Her face was ok.

But perfection comes for a price. The price in this case, was NOT her ability to know interesting stories or people. She always had something to add to gossip or a non-boring story to tell. She had that. What she didn’t have was the ability to tell any story without making me think of sour milk and cleaning my room. She could bitch about people well enough, but it fell short of entertaining by a mile and skipped right to unnecessarily mean. And mean in a sneaky way. As if she was thinking of ways to be mean without letting people know.

She could run into midgets having sex with a bunch of zebras one day and want to talk about it, and I would still be…

Bored! Sherlock

Her inability to interest me does not end there. She will spoil things. She can kill a conversation in the least creative manner – by saying something lame that sadly enunciates two things – her inability to understand the point of a conversation and her inability to say anything interesting. It also does not help that she’s quite the raging dog of a female persuasion – about practically everything but herself. She is…. the least interesting conversant in the world. She doesn’t often drink beer. But when she does, she’ll take shots, because that’s what’s awesome.

Conclusion: Nobody can have it all.

They’re Not Greek Gods

Some people have it made. They are practically gods. They have everything most people would be comfortable and even satisfied with. They are as close to gods as life could get in all its dreariness and its uncertainty for mere mortals. They are the gods. I don’t really know how.

But then of course, there are Greek gods. Not Hrithik Roshan or Paul Newman. Zeus and Hades. The Greek gods were very human. In fact, they were sub-human and super-human in their abilities to be utterly human. They could feel passion that made them and the objects of their passion slaves of their loins (and on occasion, their hearts; but mostly, their loins). They could be ascetics beyond what blood flow and biology allows and they could love beyond what poetry tries, although that isn’t very hard. They could be Caligula for all their love of humans – they could call upon whomever they wanted to make the hours go by faster, to make themselves more human. They were not usually refused. If they were, they normally responded by transforming people into trees, like Apollo did to Daphne. Often, even when they weren’t refused, the mortals were transformed into other kinds of objects once they came in contact with the gods. Like Zeus and Callisto, who was transformed into a bear first and into a constellation next. That’s not exactly an object but it is a thing, if nothing else.

Of course, the Greek gods were never condemned for their behavior. It was expected of them. What else are gods supposed to do, if not have their pick of people; and of standards of decency; and of scrutiny? All of which could be molded to suit them. They were gods, and people were supposed to worship them, love them and do anything at all to get in their good books.

And of course, the Greek gods were not real. God itself is not real. And if they were, humans could never pretend to be gods. They could try, but it inevitably meant Tartarus or the continuous eating of one’s innards by an eagle whilst chained atop a mountain over centuries. Which in the real world would mean that if people acted like Greek gods, especially to their friends, they’d usually get a very clear and unmitigated –

With all due respect, go to hell.

Conclusion: Remember girls and boys, David Copperfield thought his school senior Steerforth was magnificent and the epitome of everything golden that could be said of humanity. He really, really wasn’t. He was actually less awesome than most people in the book. He was shitty to his friends, shitty to his girlfriends and died young, fulfilling tenets of poetic justice. That’s not a good sign. He was very human. But not a very good human. And not really worth debasing yourselves over.

Too much? I did inform some of the concerned people that this was coming. Let’s face it, I informed the people in the second one. First one is just a fun composite of a number of people I’ve met. Or is it? You’ll never know

Maniacal Laughter

Also, I wanted to write a bit more but I haven’t had a very good day. I am very, very pissed. I have literally never been this angry in my life. I can’t even begin to express… And since I refuse to write about why I’m angry because fuck you, that’s why, I can’t really be judgy or sufficiently pissed about anything else.

But just to beat a bunch of haters to the punch (in case there are any out there), here’s a little one talking about a few of my faults.

The Girl Who Is Writing This

I always think I’m right. I very rarely am. I’m often cruelly honest to my friends. I have a very high opinion of myself despite having very few parts of my life settled. One of the parts that are not settled – jobs and future plans. Despite this, I am almost always pleased with myself, which I combine with an inane self-loathing that no doubt drives my friends crazy. I have no feelings when it comes to romance. But I care excessively about the friendships I have and try practically everything to preserve them, no matter how much it flat-lines. And I pretend I don’t. My good opinion once lost, is lost for a long fucking time. I am very lazy, and I am never sure if I have enough brain to compensate for that – I very likely don’t. I always analyze and categorize people and inform them of it, while never bothering to do it to myself. People are rightfully pissed about this. I see things from several perspectives and I sit on the fence for most things because they’re not interesting enough to have an opinion about, according to me. As if the shit I do care about is that important – they’re not.

That’s all I can think of now. I don’t want to be too self-involved.

On a different note – The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. I have no idea how they made a tongueless kiss that hot, but FUCK ME. Literally, Daniel Vincent Gordh, I request fucking by you. To me. In my private parts.

Ok bye.

– Billy

 
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Posted by on March 22, 2013 in Bakchodi, NALSAR, Random, Rant

 

Lindsay Lohan nights, Amplifier vibrators and Fractures

I know I have been missing for a while, and most people who read my blog are from college so they/you know why. I have been having a pretty crock-of-turds kind of week, and for once its not because of my continuing battle with depression and the making of life decisions. Oh no, this is about actual physical problems. I left my phone at a parlor which thankfully did not overcharge me for a trim. Then I went to Liquids to party it up in my fifth year, you know, as one does. And as one does, I discovered that the amplifier on the floor is akin to a vibrator if one leans against it just so. Having said that, its not a very good vibrator; but beggars of sex toys cannot be choosers of sex toys. Next, I tripped over a hookah pipe at Liquids. I don’t even smoke hookah – my lungs are more precious to me than my liver. And clearly, my foot is even less precious to me than my liver because despite knowing in the en-liquored corners of my brain that something was very, very wrong with said foot, I got back up on that horse, adjusted myself against the amplifier for a while and danced/ hopped around for at least an hour. I also met a bunch of white people, and was VERY social with them. I apparently have a winning personality when I’m drunk with other drunk people. Some of them wanted my number and I gave it up, but I’m pretty sure I gave them a mixture of my Delhi and Hyderabad numbers. On the way back I puked all over the driver’s shoes, very considerately sparing the ballet flats my friend had loaned me for the night. There was also a drunken apology to S, who was taking care of me.

 

The next morning I woke up to a swollen foot, memories of vibrating amplifiers, unmentionable deeds of a pornographic nature and a queasy stomach. I hopped on over to S’s room, informed her of the minor predicament I was in and eventually got to the closest hospital, which like all hospitals seems to take a special interest in the billing process. I got a shot of painkiller on the bum from a smirking nurse and dozed off for a while. I woke up thinking of silver linings – the Orthopedic doctor was there and was more of a fox than I am used to with Indian doctors. Not George Clooney in ER; but a respectable, graying at the ears, trim body, tight butt, speaks without a vagina killing gult accent kind of hot. He asked me how I got the fracture and I said I fell. When? Last Night.

You didn’t feel pain last night?

…….. I was drinking. So I just went to sleep.

Ah. Smiles

Nearly swoons

My niece parties a lot in London. She’s studying to be a Doctor.

Oh.

……………….

Getting ready for application of plaster

So, what’s your favorite drink?

Errrrr…. Alcoholic?

Alcohol, yes.

Err… I’m not sure. Beer?

Chuckles

Swoon

Not cocktails?

 I like cocktails, but yeah – beer. Stupid, stupid Billy. Why didn’t you say whisky? You won’t sound like a college party freak.

I mix a few good cocktails.

Oh, Mister Doctor! Do you now? Won’t you make me one some time? I bet you can shake a drink really well. Make me a screwdriver, and then you can screw my BEEP BEEP.

Oh. Cool.

 

As is obvious, I was keeping it cool, sounding like a vaguely interested, mature beyond my years sophisticate. One who happens to have been caught in a web of circumstances that led me to being drunk off my ass, proposition people, use industrial grade vibrators and get a broken foot. I will be going back to Mister Doctor some time this weekend, and hopefully, the hair on my plastered leg will not have become too gruesome for human (hot doctor) eyes; although I have been informed that that is an inevitability. When people ask how I got injured, I reply with “I partied too hard” – a joke that is apparently worthy of being repeated on my batch google group.

However its not all laughter and medical marijuana. Having a fracture is pretty depressing. Yes, I’m a bit depressed, what else is new? Well, what’s new is that now when I cry people have to know about it because I can’t keep my door locked in case I need help. Also, when I do go to the bathroom to try and discreetly wipe snot off my face, I end up being utterly conspicuous. Whatte fail. Further, tears or the threat of tears, come on every time I realize that I can’t move from one building to the other without someone helping me out, such as moments after my friends turn up at lunch, rescuing me from having to depend on the kindness of batch-mates to escort me back to the library. I don’t like being immobile. If this experience teaches anyone anything, let it be that people who have to start living the rest of their lives in wheelchairs should be closely monitored for depression and suicidal tendencies. I don’t have either and that is owed entirely to the fact that I’ll be fine in four weeks. On the other hand, I guess its not a total bummer to know that practically anyone you know will be kind to you once you’re in a wheelchair.

So overall, the week has not been too good. I forgot to mention that my laptop conked off so I’m writing this in one of the systems in the library. As I say to my friends, everything about me but for me loins has been pitcher of piss. Me loins are having it alright. Which usually would not be a bad thing, but given the fact that that the erotic device in my room cannot be used properly because I really don’t want to fuck up my leg even further and miss out on Goa, its not as amazing as it would otherwise be. I should perhaps stop advertising my sex life on the internet. Duly noted and probably ignored, says Future Self.

So there you have it. That was this week. Well, this past weekend. Given that all of that happened, I’m letting myself off for not writing anything in a while. I was entirely stupid and drunk, but at least I didn’t get thrown out of the club or get into trouble with the police. Again. Silver linings, people. Me and Bradley Cooper are going to go bye-bye into the sunset.

–       Billy

 

P.S. – if any of my students read this, please know that given my crabby state of mind, I will not be tolerating people who don’t pay attention, don’t read, smile too much, have no hair, have too much hair, make smart comments, make no comments, or wear blue jeans. So watch out, whores of the education system, the cast has taken over my personality and you will not escape the wrath of an irritable, immobile and frustrated fifth year who has never exercised power over juniors in all her three and a half years as a senior. Fuck you, and your little brains too.

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2013 in Bakchodi, Random

 

Why I have a shitty law school career

It’s because I don’t study. And when I do, I am so unused to studying, my brain retains nothing. It can remember things such as “Laughter, like love, is stronger than death” – an obscure line from The Cardinal Sins (a book which made me realize that not all catholic priests are diekholders), but it cannot remember Section whatever of the Companies Act, or Section some-other-number of the Workmen’s Compensation Act. I am not trying to hide behind my brain, believe me. I don’t have an actual mental problem. I am just supremely lazy when it comes to things that are not fun for me. It’s a shitty way to live for four years, and I don’t recommend it for anyone.

For what remains of law school, I will most likely have to give only one exam before I get out of here forever. And hopefully I will be able to take what seminar I like so that shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime, I am sharing my average to above average knowledge of and immeasurable enthusiasm for literature with packs of second year students as a Teacher’s Assistant for a course called Law and Literature.

In some ways you could predict that this will end in naught but endless grief. Naught but grief! But the way I see it, I could either help a little or totally ruin some poor second year’s life via law and literature grades. And either way I’d be having fun so I’m cool with both likelihoods. Haha. Ha. Just kidding. I really don’t think I could ruin a life with Law and Literature. Hehe. Seriously though, I only want to help mold the mind of the next Chetan Bhagat.

Getting back on point, I also have shitty grade because I really don’t try. I didn’t like law school much as an institution a few months into it and I didn’t try, at least subconsciously. To be really honest, I didn’t like the institution form the moment I sat in a classroom where a senior was introducing us to the concept of mooting and the first words out of his mouth was – “If you want to be anyone of significance in NALSAR, you have to moot.”

Don’t get me wrong. I know that’s not true. I knew even back then that the guy was talking out of his colon. But I hated the institution and the people in it for thinking that this was the right guy to introduce first years to any extra curricular activity. I didn’t like NALSAR as much as I had thought I would. Except for friends, I actively disliked it and that combined with a requirement of hard work did not do me good. No sir. Again, this was entirely on me. I had high expectations and when they got blown to smithereens, instead of taking it like an amazon warrior I just retreated into TV, movies and the personal lives of other people.

The thing I most regret about this stage of my law school pussyfooting is that I stopped reading. The one thing that kept me sane through a good three years of hellish adolescence and I just left it. It was as though I decided that if I wasn’t going to be good at reading required readings, I wouldn’t be good at any reading. For anyone who knows me or has seen me in the past year or two, it would be hard to think of me without a book. That was me for the first three years in law school. The horror!

Another reason for the shitty grades was of course, that I am very lazy.

I also got shitty grades – and this is the only place where I will concede some responsibility to “the system” – is that I’m not good at memorizing dates, numbers, names, etc. So you can imagine the hellscape that remembering more than seventy sections was to me. Add to that case names and the importance given to remembering sections and dates, and it was like struggling with my seven times tables again. I don’t often admit it, but it took me at least two to three years to memorize multiplication tables up to ten. Up to five was only marginally easier. Once I had memorized the tables, math wasn’t as big a problem as it used to be.

Also, the laziness was a huge impairment to the getting of good grades.

Another mistake was going off acceptable standards on unhealthy lifestyles. I ate a lot more than I ever did and I wasted a lot of time being fat (heheheheheh. Whats-her-name lip biting woman from Dabangg can eat my poo and fucking die), and I hardly ever slept enough at night. I normally got to classes on time but I did spend quite some time either sleeping or using all of my energy to not sleep. the fact that whatever was being said/ taught in class was boring as dead babies only added to the sleepiness. I always say that if ever you have to live an unhealthy lifestyle, it might as well be in college. But I could also add that when it starts to make concentrating on anything substantial hard, its a wee bit too far.

Of course, we shouldn’t forget that sloth is my middle name/

Then of course there was the really depressed stage of life which I have already talked about in the blog titled “Perspective…” – I forgot the rest of the title. I I have to write that shit again I will have to drink Sangria.

ME: And again, cue uncomfortable fake laughter…

I will add this much though. One of the saddest part of that whole situation was that I stopped talking to myself. I know most people consider talking to oneself as not very healthy, but let me assure you, if I didn’t talk to myself, I would go quite mad. If I didn’t talk to myself, all the things I imagine and all the weird thoughts popping into my head would have no release.

Of course, the lazy did as the lazy had to do too….

The I got better at dealing with myself. Nothing to take away from the damage done over the years, but I started writing and figuring out what to do. And people seem to like reading this crap especially when I talk about the nonsense of my life. So I may not live a life worth writing about but my depressingly comic take on myself sure may make it worth reading about.

And adieu!

– Billy

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2013 in Bakchodi, Random, Reminiscing

 

Gold Bashing and Stuff

Perhaps its because of The Great Gatsby, or perhaps its because of certain gatherings of people I have been to recently, wearing clothes that are not mine and which make me very uncomfortable… I was at a party, alright? And I did not particularly want to be there, but there are lots of things I do and places I go to that I don’t want to except for friends. I was at a party, and I was with certain people, and I was talking about some things… and I couldn’t stop thinking about The Great Gatsby and wealth.

I think for sheltered, middle-class to upper middle class twenty-somethings such as me, poverty and hunger and destitution is awful but understandable. It’s something we comprehend and perceive and living in India, we can’t really ignore. But most of the times wealth and consumerism is a little beyond what I can make sense of. I really, honestly don’t understand some of the things said or wanted or owned by people with money. Maybe Oscar Wilde had it right (though he was probably being funny. I never really know. I didn’t do English Honors) and I’m deluding myself into not wanting some things simply because I can’t afford it.

But that doesn’t take away from the fact that rich people puzzle me.

The fact that you are happy about having bought clothes that almost entirely owe its value to how much it costs and how famous its designer is, puzzles me. I don’t understand why it is a thing to have a conversation about. Don’t get me wrong, I understand pretty clothes. I have myself partaken in the joy derived from buying something pretty that you look good in. The awesomeness you feel when you like the body in the mirror while wearing something that makes you feel like you’re in your skin. I understand that joy. But when people buy only the expensive brands, they don’t talk about how good it feels on their skin. They don’t talk about feeling that you won’t forget the day you wore that dress just because you wore that dress, and eating a slice of bread in that dress feels special. They talk about where they bought it from, how much it costs. They talk about the very specific symbol of that dress; the fact that people in the right places will know where it was bought and how much it cost. Nothing about seeing the dress on the hanger and knowing immediately that it was yours and you will forego next month’s allowance in order to have it. The romance seems lost.

 

The idea that you will eat at expensive places where the portion size is abysmal at best and shell out a grand for it is puzzling to me. That you would dare to eat pizza with a fork is not puzzling, though; that is infuriating. I understand food. I do. I understand expensive food also, but only when they give me my money’s worth. As an (un)established hipster, I know I should complain about Big Chill and so forth in Delhi. But honestly, I don’t have a big problem with Big Chill. The people who go there regularly and talk about it may be the cast of my worst teenage nightmares, but I have no problems with the place itself. I can eat there for about 300 to 400 bucks and have my stomach filled with good food. I won’t have a problem going there once or twice a year. I don’t understand going to Big Chill every month. The fact that you go to Ruby Tuesday to have your weekly gossip session puzzles me. When you go to a coffee shop and spend more than a hundred bucks more than once a month, that puzzles me.

 

I had a chat with someone recently who informed me that a big ass expensive camera costs less than a Mont Blanc pen. Don’t get me wrong, I knew of the existence of Mont Blanc pens. I had assumed they were like an adult version of Parker pens and the appeal they held when I was in school. It took half a minute before it hit me to ask, actually expecting a correction, because how could a pen ever cost more than a high end camera; any high end camera? It wasn’t possible. Except it was. I was informed by my friend that I had never had a more disgusted look on my face.

Me: What the fuck, is it made out of gold or something?

Friend: It’s Platinum actually. And I’ll buy it some day.

Me: You do realize I can buy a pen for two rupees and it would perform the same function as the one you would buy for more than sixty thousand bucks?

Friend: It’s not about that… God, you have never looked more disgusted in your life.

Me: Sorry… but I am.

 

The same goes for cars. Unless you plan on being late everywhere and expect empty roads so you can drive as fast as you want, you will get wherever you want to go in a less expensive car; or a bike which does not scream ‘Classic Freudian Compensation’. I understand if you want to buy an expensive electric car or something out of concern for the environment, but other than that, you’re just pointless. And it’s one thing if your conversation or your arguments or your ideas are pointless, but when you spend money I could travel round the world with in order to buy something pointless… you should try not to procreate because clearly, we have enough of you in the world.

When you forego a perfectly safe, faster public transport like the metro in order to drive a car, just because you want a car, and a second hand one will not do despite the fact that you will no doubt wreck it, it puzzles me. I’m sorry. There is a lady’s compartment, which happens to smell really nice, and it gets you most places in about half the time it would take you by car. You are clearly a snob.

 

And it’s quite alright if you’re a snob. But then don’t pretend it’s about anything but snobbery. Don’t like facebook posts about stuff you don’t care about. Don’t give shitty excuses like “It’s because the car gives you independence.” If you wanted independence, you would be trying to get a job. I admit, I would like to be independent, but I sure as fuck know that the route thereto is not asphalt and fast cars. I need a job first.

Eh… talking about this makes me dumb. Which is why the completely average analysis I had of the book and the life I have been witnessing for the past week, has not really come together cogently in this ‘discussion’. Let me just say, in what pompousness I can muster up – There is an excess of vapidity in some circles in Delhi that I find hard to live with. I don’t mind talking for eons about people, no matter how insignificant; but I have nothing to think or say when you talk about your cars and your clothes and your trips abroad that you spent shopping. The sad part is that not counting a few people, this is all that consumes conversation. Talking is always about things; literal physical things. For me, it’s another version of Zooey Deschanel’s conversation with models in New Girl – “That is a lamp. This is a table. It is very flat.” Clearly, a career as a rich Delhi housewife is not for me, even if I had the qualifications, which I don’t.

I may not post next week. Christmas is the excuse.

 

Embarrassing secrets. I pooped in my pants once in college. I was in my room and I had a cold, and things happened that made me question my life and its meaning. I had always thought that once I get to the point where I pooped myself, I would be reaching for the gin bottle and the sleeping pills. But I had assumed I would be old by then. So I soldiered on, after I spent a day locked up in my room because I was afraid it would happen again, this time in public.

I get hit on by people I really don’t like and it is very bad for my self-esteem. On the internet, at parties… always by people I can’t stand. So on the rare occasions where its people I like, I may or may not secretly get really flustered.

 

I’m trying to stay away from the news because it’s been reported already and we’re now at that stage of news about a tragic incident where a bunch of people give their crazy ass opinions be it on news channels or in Parliament. Then the people who are not crazy retort and thus an hour of television passes by in which no decision is made, and everything is the same. I will say this much – Something is wrong with the world when people affiliated with blaming spicy food or interactions with the opposite sex or blue jeans for rape or any number of insane ideas, actually think and say that castration is their big solution to the problem. There are no words for how far we have fallen and how insane things have become.

 

I’m watching Before Sunrise again. It’s one of the few movies that make me want to fall for someone. It’s the only movie where it seems logically sound that two people should fall for each other.

 

That’s all.

 
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Posted by on December 22, 2012 in Bakchodi, Random, Rant

 

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Violent Fantasies and some other stuff

Ok, let’s try writing.

I know I have something embarrassing to reveal. Technically two embarrassing things because I forgot to mention last time about my hiatus on the jogging out of respect for my unwillingness to get up at 6 AM. But the internal monologue hasn’t been particularly chirpy this last week, so I’m postponing coming up with something embarrassing that I can afford to let people know about till next week. Nothing in the rules prohibit me from such postponement under special circumstances.

Le’s ge’ to it, sha’ we?

 

I remember countless times in the past when I would cheesily point out November rain for being November Rain. It’s not unusual to have a light drizzle in November in Delhi. However, I don’t remember cheesily reminiscing about December rain. Except this time it’s happened. The only time I saw the sun today was once I left the office, when it was a rather weak orange ball of powerful nuclear reactions behind some clouds around the dome of the Supreme Court. On a completely unrelated note, I’m going to start pretending to be British, that I don’t like rain, and write an ode to weather and how it affects our mood. I’m sure it has never been done before.

But today has been one of those weird days when you start out in a pretty bad mood, owed partly to hormones and partly to circumstances, but things conspire to try and get you in a better mood. None of them work completely, but by the end of the day when you’re walking home in the rain with your Kindle (The Great Gatsby), your stomach digesting delicious food, with a purple umbrella, you’re not entirely angry at life. Every now and then, just to keep with the cliché and the weather, you play Singin’ in the Rain in your head and click your heels in mid air. You are not happy, but people will think you’re a crazy person. Some might argue that’s nearly the same thing.

But once you get out of the rain, into the metro station and in the hurry to catch the train, brace yourself and enter the men’s compartment. Brace yourself not because you will get raped. Oh no. Brace yourself because even if there are very few people, so few that there are actually seats to sit on, the place will stink like the depths of a Neanderthal’s asshole. Then all the tiny little details about people that piss you off come right back.

There are people in the world you just cannot like. While in my case, the people who fill this category may be more than with other people, I think it’s safe to say that everyone has a few things they instantly hate, constantly and irrationally hate to the point where you unceasingly fantasize about shooting someone’s face off, quite literally. Personally, in my killing fantasies, especially with people I really dislike, I don’t shoot. I get up close and personal, with poisonous darts or samurai swords. This may seem like a joke, but I assure you I’m not exaggerating. I have very high definition and intense fantasy sequences in my head about killing people. If Tarantino or Nolan or someone could get into my head, I’m sure they would pay me for the rights. I know it’s a surprise to people who are well acquainted with my charming personality but I do dislike some/ most people I come in contact with when around lawyers.

I hate it when someone doesn’t enunciate. When you’re trying to say “proclaimed” and all I hear is “prolvved”, that is not my fault, it’s yours; especially if you’re a full grown human being. And when I ask you to repeat yourself, you are not allowed to be annoyed. Because so help me god, if I am too scared and everyone else around you has been too much of a sycophant to tell you that you sound worse sober than what I sound like when I sleep talk; I will ask you again what on earth you mean by saying “grirrnal prussezur core, prolvved offendr”, and you  will reply. Slowly and enunciating at least every other syllable. If you passed the bar, and you talk professionally, you can do that much. You will not tut under your breath and say the same thing again, at the same speed and expect me to just go to the shittiest law library in the world and take a wild guess about what you were saying. Though that is what I did. But my lack of gumption does not make it right. So there.

I hate it when people look earnest. And I wish I meant when people look like Colin Firth (He was Not Earnest in the movie of The Importance of Being Earnest) but I mean I hate it when someone mixes innocence or lack of experience or awkwardness with being completely dull and witless. I understand innocence or inexperience or awkwardness. I don’t understand having nothing to say. I don’t understand when over the course of a month, you are unable to say or do anything to me that makes me think that you understand anything, be it some small phenomenon, a tiny piece of information, something about yourself, something you like, anything.

The people I don’t consider friends are not divided into people I like and people I dislike. If I like them enough I would be friends with them. No, my non-friends are divided into interesting and boring. One kind of boring is when you say a lot about stuff but I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. That I understand. But when you’re unable to say anything at all except a few terribly delivered cliché one liners, then I start imagining wearing gloves, pulling your head back, plunging a knife into your neck and just slitting your head off. The blood would be everywhere.

I hate it when people have an accent from a certain part of India. Sure, I have a few friends from there. One of my best friends in my first school was from there. But they didn’t have that accent; or those words. I know it’s not really excusable, but it is just a fact – if you call the number one “ikthhu”, I will find it very, very hard to not imagine stabbing your face. I will grit my teeth every time I hear you talk. I’m not proud. And I don’t know where this stems from. Ok I know. Our maid is from there. And she is one of those maids about whom your parents have actually had the following cliché conversations about –

Mom: Oh my god. I can’t take it anymore. I told her not to add the *random food ingredients I can’t even think of* for the fourth time. She wants to kill us. WHY is she so stupid? Why? I have to fire her!

Dad: Well, you know, if she wasn’t stupid, she would probably be doing something else, so don’t complain.

Again, I’m not proud. Also, as I mentioned to someone I recently met, I try to be aware of m prejudices and not let them affect my manner or behavior if I can’t get rid of them. Except when I’m drunk. So please don’t come near me with your You Know Where accent when I’m drunk.

I hate when people tell me to reconsider my decisions. Especially when they don’t know that I made those decisions after months and years of self-doubt, weighing options, looking at myself in the mirror wondering about a career in before picture modeling (I would be the before picture. Someone fairer, thinner, straighter and with longer hair would be the after picture) and actually trying things out. And then you come and tell me about what you think I should do, acting as if I haven’t spent a significantly large amount of time worrying and thinking about all the arguments and insights you put to me as if you’re the first one to ever consider it. I would get it if you bothered to ask me if I thought about a particular argument. I really want to punch your kidneys to death when you tell me.

When you look like you think you’re laying down some hard core bad-ass knowledge, but it’s actually a reiteration of a very old and oft used adage, I imagine peeling off your face with a samurai sword. The sword would be held horizontally at your forehead and with one precise slash, your face would no longer have to be a burden to people with eyes. Then I would hit your faceless head with a hammer as you try to make some noise with what you have left of your tongue and mouth.

 

In other news, I have rediscovered Dean Martin. As my cousin put it – that was back when men were men. I have also rediscovered my love for men with beards because of the Man of Steel trailer. Also, I have been watching Homeland recently. I have wanted to marry Mandy Patinkin since I saw Criminal Minds, and then realized it was him in The Princess Bride and heard him singing on Youtube. But its not just Superman and Mandy whose beards have gotten me hot and bothered. There are scenes in Homeland where Brody is a POW in Iraq and he has a scraggly unkept beard. And while I find him hot anyway (I have had a thing for redhead ever since Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) I really, really wanted him when I saw that. Conversation with myself.

ME: Oh yeah! Please, please don’t shave it off. Just give it a trim while you’re cleaning him up, but don’t shave it off. I don’t care if you don’t stop torturing him, just don’t take off the beard. He looks like a red-headed Jesus, and there’s nothing hotter than that.

me: My god, what is wrong with me? The guy’s a POW. He’s dirty and tortured and wounded and raped and peed on and what not. This is not healthy. He looks fine without the beard.

ME: Shut up. He’s not a POW, he’s an actor playing a POW, and I want to fuck him like a trapeze artist.

me: Yeah… yeah.

 

I will be drawing people I like in show business and putting them up here afterwards, along with all the other pictures because I just discovered tagging on blogs. This will be in between drawing faces of my friends if they ever actually bother to send me the pictures they want drawn.

 

I haven’t read as much as I would like to. I read Romeo and Juliet again for Crash Course. This has always been my favorite line from the play –

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”

Really telling of my optimism and joie de vivre.

I also read Life of Pi, which I liked better than the movie though the latter wasn’t so bad. I have no lines from it because… I don’t know. It was excellent though.

I also read Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett –

“_____ had a language of twenty-six unexpressive, ugly, crude letters, suitable only for peasants and artisans… and had produced poems and plays that left white-hot trails across the soul. And you could also use it to write the bloody minutes of a five minute meeting in less than a day.”

I can’t imagine what culture which has a famous curse about Interesting Times and its script this could be a comic take on.

I also read The Great Gatsby, which is just heartbreakingly beautiful. It makes me want to read more and more books, and there are no better stories than the ones that make you want to read more.

“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.”

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And on fine morning —– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Seriously, this book made me think, has some touchingly sad moments that makes your heart ache but doesn’t make you cry, and it affords you a smirk or two in the subtle idiocies of everyone in it. And it makes you want to read more. What more could one want?

 

That’s all.

Ta.

 
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Posted by on December 14, 2012 in Random, Rant

 

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Music Appreciation and more Promises

Fortuitous occasions should be written about, right? I think they should be. Especially when, as with people like me; people who tend to talk to themselves (quite literally, I do), and especially around vacations spend most of their times reading, watching shows and generally avoiding people (or secretly celebrating when plans don’t pan out though I never admit it. Except now. Damn it, interwebs, y u so public?) the fortuitous moments are mostly found when we are all by our lonesome, and could be easily forgotten. Which of course begs the question of whether the moments are worth remembering at all, if my mind could forget them so easily. Well, no matter, leaving behind such inane and pointlessly philosophical questions, I now present to you, dear readers, some facts about music, the subject of which has been brought on by certain fortuitous coincidences. I’ve used the F word three times already. Your move, Monty Pythons. Who I’m sure are reading this.

I have been listening to not my usual playlist lately. That is to say I have added some stuff to the playlist. I rediscovered  FNT by Semisonic. I fucking love that song and I don’t care that it was in 10 Things I Hate About You. I have also been going a bit overboard with the Dewarists, Shanker Tucker and a wee bit of Coke Studio, all of whom should be followed on Youtube by humans all over earth. Or maybe just India. Or people who, like me, have ears and similar taste in music. What do I know?

The F word coincidence was that Shanker Tucker’s Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo started playing exactly before I reached this part of Moab is My Washpot, which I faithfully reproduce for ye –

“The nothingness of music can be moulded by the listener into the most precise shapes or allowed to float as free as thought; music can follow the academic and theoretical pattern of its own modality or adhere to some narrative or dialectical programme imposed by a friend, a scholar or the composer himself. Music is everything and nothing. It is useless and no limit can be set on its use. Music takes me to places of illimitable sensual and insensate joy, accessing points of ecstacy that no angelic lover could ever locate, or plunging me into gibbering weeping hells of pain that no torturer could ever device. Music makes me write this sort of maundering adolescent nonsense without embarrassment. Music is in fact the dog’s bollocks. Nothing else comes close.”

Now usually, reading such a passage as this would turn me into a puddle of self-chastisement wherein I rue the day I ever thought I could write. I am not fit to lick the boot heels of one such as Fry, such as Yeats, such as any number of greats that in my fragile condition, I dare not remind you of. Assholes. But the fortuitous thing is that I happened to be listening to a particularly divine voice singing of not wanting a conversation or a balmy night (I assume the night would be balmy) to end. And even as I let myself get a little bent out of shape thinking of all the things Stephen Fry is better at doing than me, including getting men to like us, I am revived by the very thing he is talking about. I mean, how… what… eh…. is this irony? I am never sure if something like this is ironic. Especially because I just mentioned Stephen Fry and if say its irony and its not in fact irony, as legend goes, a homophobe baby would be born this very moment. And we don’t want that.

And now, since I have let young Master Fry talk about music (He’s still in school in the book) I fear there is no masterful way I can talk about it except in blatantly tiresome segues. And now, I note that I’m writing like him. Excuse me while I think about Sangria to contain my self-loathing. Joke. Inside joke. Apologies.

What I find is awesome about music is its ability to highlight small feelings and incidents. I am of the bent of mind where I don’t believe in great moments in a person’s life.There are great moments in history, sure. But no great moments for an individual. Allow me to explain. Every powerful life-changing moment in a single person’s life will inevitably be challenged by another moment, another argument, another person, anything else. I don’t believe in great truths or even simple truths (courtesy John Green). Every single decision or ‘truth’ you strike upon will eventually have to be revisited and moulded. And so every feeling is small, every thought is insignificant to a certain degree. By the way, someone enlighten me if this is in any way adhering to a philosophy that I have not come in contact with. What is great about music is that despite all the insignificance, it can capture and bring to life exactly why some insignificant moments and thoughts are worth remembering if for no other reason than that it was a part of life. All this ties up very neatly with  the above mentioned confusion about whether or not some moments are worth remembering at all. This again is fortuitous because said neat tying up was not something I planned.

Which is why while I don’t have a dislike of any type of music except death metal and rap (for entirely personal taste reasons. I don’t care if other people like it) I will always be partial to music which doesn’t try to talk about the big picture. Whenever I have seen a big picture I usually step back and realise that its actually a giant phallus. Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, I always figured that the big picture is actually quite small when you put it in context of the entire human experience of even a single person. And so I adhere to what David Levithan said about the Beatles. Which I tried to capture this summer through the following drawing.

 

That’s not the exact quote from the book. Google that if you want it you lazy fucks. But I really tend to be more partial to music which doesn’t try to be bigger than one single life experience of one person. Because unless you’re talking about a freedom struggle or emancipation or something, you are simultaneously not doing them justice and giving them too.much credence. Things are not that simplistic and they are also too insignificant for you to make such a big deal about it. So here’s  few other songs that I appreciate – Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo, Fascinating New Thing, Tujhse Naraz Nahi Zindagi (I really fucking love that this song basically says that things are just confusing and unclear – that’s a simple truth I can get behind), I can’t think of anything but Beatles now. Thanks David Levithan. Ass.

That’s all. Now fuck off. I want to read my pain.

—-

ME: *squints

me: Go on.

ME: I actually liked that.

me: ……….

ME: You should write more stuff like this. Where the wasteland that is your private life is not exposed for all to see, like some ghastly war wound that spouts blood and innards and nobody can do anything about.

me: There it is.

ME: I am nothing if not consistent.

—-

Anyway,for anyone who reads this regularly enough to miss it, I have not been putting up any gifs or pictures lately because I’m not using my laptop except to read porn and my laptop is where my inconceivably big collection of funny pics and gifs reside. Right now for example. I wrote this entire post on my kindle. In my head, y’all are like

 

And I’m all *insert self-satisfied gif here.*

—-

I have noticed that while I keep none of the promises I make to myself, due to a little thing called ego, I am keeping promises I made in this blog. Therefore, in an experiment that will no doubt have some major impact on my life, I vow to thee, readers who largely consist of my friends, that I shall be jogging at least five days a week during the course of these here holidays. If I don’t then the punishment of telling embarrassing secrets will be imposed on me. And since I have noted that telling these secrets have often helped me write, I have further decreed that they will be told without any writing skills and in the blandest, non-entertaining manner.

ME: You mean to say that all the shitty details of your past will be coming out, and you won’t be able to explain yourself or make entirely transparent self-deprecating jokes about it? *about to do happy dance*

me: Only if I don’t jog.

ME: Sure sure. *commencing happy dance*

me: They’re your secrets too, you know.

ME: Yeah, but I’m the side of you that delights in brutal honesty. *cackles

me: ……………

—-

See you next week. Or sooner if I get inspired and what not.

– Billy

 
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Posted by on November 10, 2012 in Bakchodi, Random

 

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