The pink suit man was sighted again. This time, he was wearing a black waistcoat with his pink shirt. On his wig, he wore an MGR cap. It was night, but he wore dark glasses. He still wore an olive green tie, still carried the same bag and still walked around with a joyous smile on his face. Yet, no one took any notice of him. No one looked at him and did a double-take.
I wonder if I'm the only one who can see him.
There's this large Scorpio car. White colour. Number TN-04 MM-3456. I see it everywhere. Sometimes on my street in T.Nagar, sometimes in Kilpauk, sometimes in the High Court and sometimes in Anna Nagar. Either someone has a very similar geo-existence, or someone's having me followed.
Does this have anything to do with the pink suit man?
Crackers were designed in a time when there weren't so many walls for the sound to echo from.
Also, as we are reminded often, "Dhoomrpaan karna sehad ke liye haanikaarak hai. Dhoomrpaan se kark rog hota hai."
In my dream last night, I go to Bali (Oh, I am going next week for a wedding. Ha.) and come back to find that India have lost the home series against England 4-0. I think that qualifies as a nightmare.
Oh, happy Deepavali. As I told my male advocate friends a few years ago, "Here's to more cheques and chicks."
Who is he? Whe does he walk near Vani Mahal? What's in his bag? Where is he going? Where is he from?
Is his mission in life to provide endless joy to people like me?
if felicity with language
makes our arguments endless.
we fight over words
we fight with words,
tweaking a word or two,
we find newer nuances
where there are none.
"i'm not scared,
"you're fond of me?
what am i - a teddy bear?"
"i didn't say you're being difficult,
i only said you don't adjust."
sometimes i wonder:
how do those with
At some point, one of them walked up to me, thrust an SLR in my hands and said, "Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?" I said, "Sure." She tried telling me how to operate the thing, and I just said, "I can handle it, chill." I took a picture, and then I took another one for good measure.
Then, I went back to concentrating on my corn and peas sub, and wondering if I should have asked for chilli sauce instead of honey mustard. After five minutes, the same girl walked up to me and asked, "Can I take a photograph with you?" I didn't get what she wanted. I said, "You want me to take a picture of you?" She said, "No. I want my friend to take a picture of you and me." Now, I was a bit shocked. But I'm good at hiding these things. I asked, "Why?" I was hoping she would say, "Because you're sizzling hot," but she didn't. She merely said, in a whisper, "It's a dare."
I said, "Yeah, sure."
She sat next to me, her friend clicked a photo. The five girls giggled. She said, "Thanks," and went back to her table amidst more giggling and screeching.
I had a weird dream last night where there was a hole in my right knee. Looking inside, I discover that my bones don't exist and they have been surgically replaced by some metal rods. Sadly, one of the bolts have come off, and I can see the knee lose all functionality. Now, my knee is bad in real life, but I've been ploughing on. I wonder if my body is me a signal.
There was one at Inox last night, and with Sridevi on screen and this woman two rows in front of me, I wondered if I was in a time-warp.
Then I looked at my ultra-modern orange pyjamas and realised that I wasn't.
From an email I wrote to a friend a year ago:
I never wrote on my jeans, because during the age at which people usually write on their jeans, I didn't own any jeans. I went through Law School without a pair of jeans. I had one, actually, which I wore only when I was forced to - the Law school choir's uniform was black shirt/kurta/t-shirt/top, blue jeans. I never liked jeans then. I wore loose, baggy pants with too many pockets, pairs and pairs of formal trousers deformalised and crumpled out of shape, pyjamas, shorts and veshtis.
Only my hostel room wall had stuff on it - random newspaper articles, poems written out on pieces of paper, posters of famous people, posters of not-so-famous people, a large Rajnikanth poster, tons and tons of college stuff/rock show publicity (I designed much of them), an empty cheese box with a cow on it, some prints of Anjali Ela Menon's paintings, CD covers of CDs I had lost... There wasn't an inch of space on the wall for anything. Some time in my fifth year, I redesigned the entire wall. Made it a thin band of posters that ran around the room, leaving large empty spaces. It gave me great pleasure to walk around the room with back issues of Rave, Rolling Stones, Sportstar, Times of India, Asian Age, a pair of scissors, and cellotape, standing on a chair, cut, paste, get down, walk a few steps backward, behold, shake head in dissatisfaction, get on chair, cut, paste, remove, readjust, review.
I miss having a wall of my own, sometimes. One I can do anything with, you know.
"Biologically, I mean. They just don't. Have you ever seen or heard or felt a woman fart?"
"They have the same digestive system as us, da. Obviously they fart. Maybe not as obviously as we do."
"Are you sure they have the same digestive system?"
"They do. In high school biology, we studied two reproductive systems and only one digestive system, no?"
"Hmmm. That's true."
"If you still have doubts, I think you should google it."
"You think someone else might have had the same question?"
"Macha, Google teaches you one thing. There is no thought you'll ever have that someone hasn't thought before. There's no question you'll ever have that someone hasn't asked before. There's nothing you'll ever do that someone hasn't done before."
"Why don't you become a swamiji, da?"
"Because I get the feeling that my disciples will only ask me questions like, 'Do women fart?'"
I couldn't take it after a while. I changed back to the great Karukuruchi P. Arunachalam demonstrating the correct way of interpreting Kalyani's gandharam. Those perfect touches of, oddly, the shuddha madhyamam, which make it so distinctly Kalyani. I remember Sir singing Shankarabharanam and Kalyani for me in the car once, only using ni sa ri ga. And he said of the gandharam, as a thumbrule, "If you shake it, it's Kalyani. If you don't, its Shankarabharanam."
After that, Arunachalam nails Etavunara only like he can - that rare blend of total control and sheer madness. He's in control of the madness, he's maddeningly in control.
My inner Semmangudi Mama is happy. The memories of Yuvan's egregious "Adadaa" have now been erased.