Perfect situation

Sometimes, life can be cruel. It always seem to choose the random few with dreams and hopes and bring all of it crashing down. And one of those poor sods might just be me. Yessir, little ol' me with a hundred bucks to my name and whose most prized possession may just be a tube of lip balm. I know not what I did to the Good God to have a life like mine and I don't think I ever will find out.

Last Saturday, two guy friends and I parted ways with the rest of our gang after watching a sad excuse for a film, to head home, seeing as to how we all pretty much live in the same area. So we stopped at Subway to grab a bite. So there I was, gobbling down my enormous, very stuffed sandwich, arguing with the two boys(Who are cute in a very small rodent way, if I may add. They're my best friends, yes, but hello?? Do I have to wait till I'm a hundred for them to grow taller than me?) about Thierry Henry and Mike Shinoda when in walks *Cue drumroll* The Guy Of My Dreams. There he was, with curly hair (Me likes.) an eyebrow piercing (Me loves and wants but is denied permission) and a black shirt (Me loves and lives out of these).

Oh what a majestic stride! What fiercely curly hair! Even the Amazonians would've lost their way in there!! I could just feel myself putting on sheep's eyes (When a sheep has a blade of grass stuck in its throat it tends to make a rather odd face. Eyes big and frozen. C'est est tres amusant.) and ogling him for eons and eons. Atleast, until he turned around. And saw me. Being beaten with a sachet of ketchup by my best friend. My pint-sized best friend squealing "Aaargh, I hate the Pussycat Dolls!!!" and the other saying "No. Their music is groovy, yaar!" Yes, I kid you not. He said GROOVY. Me, dumbfounded but screaming on the inside sitting with them, coleslaw and tomatoes on my fingers. The Guy Of My Dreams looked rather disturbed. Frightened even. I wanted to throw the sandwich, maybe on the dumb boys and yell out loud, "Where HAVE you been O pierced one? How long I have waited for you!!"

As luck would have it, the boys chose to have a food fight (Furfect timing) with MY sandwich in a restaurant I go to most of the time with The Folks. I could have died. "Dudes!!! Stooooppp eeeet. Pleeeease, yaa!!!" Yes, I went ultra-sonic. In front of the manager,the amused staff, half a dozen customers and The Guy Of My Dreams. And phat! went the cucumber on my t-shirt. Where's the bloody atom bomb or earthquake when you really NEED it? The Guy Of MY Dreams looks at me with eyebrows (Pierced eyebrow! Pierced eyebrow!) so high they almost merged with his hair. His face read "Poor kid". And the manager's face seemed to scream "Get out and don't ever come anywhere near my shrine of fast food ever again. Ever."

So I exit, annoyed, with a doggybag of cookies and two red-faced, loony loons.

See, see, see what I mean? Life S-U-C-K-S.

A day in the life of us.

March 25, 2006
8th grade.

Sitting in science class, all our brains dead from all the tests we had written (6,okay, dudes...including algebra!!!!) Treemortrauma was kind enough to make it optional that we take down some important notes she was giving us. Having written all of it ahead of time, I had nothing to do and resorted to observing my class and simultaneously noting down my observations in a notebook. I can proudly say it cracked the peoplehood and four other people up after school when I read it out loud, standing atop a bench. Here it is, unedited: -

I wish I could stuff cotton in my ears and go to sleep. The class seems to feel exactly the opposite...lively fools. JJ is chewing on the end of his pen right now. If Treemortrauma weren't here, I'd slap his chubby face. Gabbar and Kunki are laughing and smiling at some stupid joke. Ma'am turns a deaf ear to Cyclone's screams of " Ma'am, for God's sake, STOP...I DON'T WANT TO WRITE, PLEASE!!!!" Monkey is being his hyper self, hopping up and down, his hair flopping like a Lhasa Apso's. Gabbar is bopping South Pole's head repeatedly. Bop, bop, bop. Treemortrauma says, " How duss faallouu laand inkriss soil furrtility?". Really, who is even listening to her? P is bending backwards and has rested her head on the empty desk behind her, looking funnily uncomfortable.

" Lux called me baby!!!!!! He called me baby!!!!" shrieks Beauty. She's sitting right in front of me, writing Hindi. Talk about studious. "No, sweets, he called you Devi!!!!" I say. Her face has fallen by a few feet. Cyclone keeps fiddling around with his hair, making me lose my focus. He's cute enough...what's his problem? Metallica is shaking her head with such vigour it might just fall off. Ash boy is scratching himself in the weirdest of places...boys, I tell ya!!Blue has been swivelling around again and again with speed like lightning to ogle a yawning, tired and thoroughly uninterested Sree. Oh, well.

Ma'am says " Reddy, get out of my class nooooowww." Reddy jumps off his bench with surprising agility and says " No problem ma'am", while Treemortrauma looks on, insensitive to his irreverence. Ank throws a ruler at SRS nearly knocking his eyeball out. SRS aims at Ank, throws and misses. The ruler has whacked Ashboy squarely in the head. Ouchies. Ashboy's groin scratching comes to a rude halt and he's shrieking "Ma'aaaam!!!!!!" right now. And what's ma'am doing??? Screaming at Gabbar and Monkey, asking them to shut up. I wish Ashboy would shut up...he's sitting three feet away from me and bleating like a goat. "Ma'aaaaam see thiiis boyyyy...Ma'am, look, no, pleeeeeeeeease!!!!!!" he wails. Treemortrauma doesn't give a shit. She very bluntly asks SRS who's now thulping Ashboy " Are you mad?" SRS says yes.

Hottie is yawning so wide an elephant or two could stroll into her mouth and do the Salsa. Kunki stands up. He sits down again. Dibbadinky's looking at Cyclone like he's the fruit punch in the middle of the Sahara. Ooh la la. Treemortrauma's staring at Monkey. Is she ogling him? No...no..no way...that defies ALL laws of nature!!!!! Okay, she's only screaming at him... Pheeew. Pu has thrown an eraser at Nivi and it's hit her in the ear. "Ooooooow, Pu!!!" she squeals. Metallica's baring her metallic teeth....all 32 of them as she smiles at Kunki. Poor Kunki. Now, she's laughing like a jackass. Oh, boy...

Kovi pokes PR in the eye. PR lets out a stream of foul language, all of which is incoherent. Dibbadinky gives me a look. The freakazoid. SRS has now shoved a piece of wood down Ashboy's collar. Ashboy's blushing. Why's he blushing??? Oh, Lord... Answer me...what is wrong with these people??? I ask him why he's blushing. He stares at me like I'm talking Greek. Sigh. The bell is ringing. Treemortrauma exits, furious. " Dadiya, pooshnikai ( Fatso, pumpkin), get your massive ass off my desk da!!!" screams SRS, obviously addressing Ashboy. Ashboy stands up in response and waves his hands in the air like a triumphant track runner who just crossed the finish line. Yeah...this is only ten minutes of a normal day in our class. Ten minutes.

Monkey business

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!!!!!

The alarm goes off. The maid and the cook's nonsensical chatter(Told ya she's an expert at bitching) is enough to wake the dead and set them wandering around in broad daylight. So saying, I'm awake and not very pleased about it.

"Aackckcakakak-kikiki-koooo!!!"

What the hell??

"KKKKKoooooockckckckaaaack"

Oh, Lord God above, please don't let that be the cook. I get out of bed and hurry out of my room to see what all the fuss is about. " Amma, paaru maa, korangu!!" Says the cook. Monkeys. No way. Oooooooooh, I HATE MONKEYS!!!! Ugly little things with the worst manners, pink butts and huge eyes that stare out at you from underneath a mop of hair in dire need of conditioning. They've tried to steal my little sister once, no... twice ( She looked human THEN...it's only now that she's got in touch with her inner primate and shows all the signs of wanting to climb a tree.) They've eaten my ice-cream, played with my stuff and have made me wet myself with fear ( I was five...what WAS I supposed to do?? Call 911???). They send chills up my spine.

I opened the back door only to be greeted by a cheerful little monkey scratching its head and eating leftovers of last night's dinner. "Keeeeckoooo" it says. Yeah, well Good Morning to you too, my little simian friend. It chews on something that would have been a decent slice of bread five minutes ago. Soccer the dog is going positively hysterical, barking at the ignorant ape. It twitches. Soccer barks. It pauses half-way through its messy meal. The dog growls and barks woof-woof-wooooof, only to be interrupted by an ear-piercing "Keeee-aaack-keee-keeeeooo"

Remember the Crazy Sister?? The one the monkeys tried to take away?? Turns out she would have been much better off with them, for, in respsonse to the head-scratcher's shriek, she let out a deafening " MANU SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!!!! GIVE THE YELLING A REST, WOMAN, I NEED SLEEP!!!!!" which pretty much shut both the other animals up. I roll my eyes, and revert to admiring my ancestor. Only, it's gone!!! Where? How? Why? Millions of questions run through my head all at the same time. And then I see it. The Mommy monkey. Big, scary, fiery-eyed and very pregnant, she sits on the courtyard wall, like a queen on her throne. Oh, there's the tiny guy, hiding right behind her. If only I could reach out and strangle him and prove that evolution didn't happen for nothing. But, Alas, I can't...for his protective mamma's drawing close to the door. To where I'm standing. To my house. I'm gonna show this chick who's boss.

I reach out for something behind me, my eyes fixed on the pregnant primate. Aha! Gotcha...the broomstick!!!
I didn't take karate lessons for nothing!!!! I scream, and charge out the back door, waving the broom around like a lunatic. The pregnant female blinks. I fume. My parents have this weird fancy for collecting plastic bottles. Like the ones Pepsi comes in. I spot one and grab it with movements so fast, it'd give Neo of The Matrix a run for his money.
" Heeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!" I say. Which means, back off, monkey mamma, or I'm gonna show you one of the many things a PET bottle can do. So saying, I hurl it right at her. And, I miss.

The watchman, however, doesn't lose hope. He has abandoned his conversation with the resident tailor to come to my aid. He swishes around a metal rod. He yells. I yell. Soccer barks. My sister is out of bed and staring at us. The cook ought to have burnt something or herself, with all the racket. Finally, the monkeys leave. WHOOOOPPPPEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! I jump for joy. Realising I've done a week's worth of jumping already, I stop, go in and turn on Animal Planet. And what are they doing? Analysing the baboon species.
Sheesh.

My family- Why we call ourselves The What

My family isn't exactly the world's sanest, nor the healthiest. These vacations have provided my sister and I with sufficient time to draw up lists of various kinds. One such list was about the behavioural traits/habits/illnesses which, God forbid, the two of us might just inherit one fine day.

1. We run a risk of being diagnosed as either diabetic, neurotic or heart patients. We can get either osteoporosis or arthiritis. We may also suffer from lung cancer and hypertension. Lucky us?

2. By the time we are middle-aged we will resemble beer barrels and will have no teeth at all.

3. We are highly talkative and, again, by the time we are middle-aged, we will know three different versions of our family history from both maternal and paternal sides.

4. We will have a weird liking for hair colour and by our mid-sixties, our locks will resemble the rainbow.

5. We will call ourselves...hic...Brahminical Iyers, devouring a biriyani all the time.

6. We will call our children by each others' names. Meaning, The Crazy Sister would address her daughter as Manvi instead of calling the poor thing by her own name.

7. We will spend lots of money on vessels, crockery and bed linen, but nothing will be spent on soap and facewash.

8. We will tell our grandchildren about Jayalalitha at those Sunday lunches, the same way our grandparents, grand-aunts and uncles ramble on about Mountbatten and Nehru. Sheesh.

9. We will look at photos of our teenage selves and wonder if we still look the same.

10. Our first child might try to kill his/her younger sibling, stuffing dosa in their( The sibling's) mouth.

11. All the girls in the family will dance to "It's raning men" by Geri Halliwell whenever they meet over family lunches, 'cos it's so friggin' cool ( Our take on the way we were forced to head-bang to "Girls just wanna have fun" I really wonder what kinda loony family does these things. Oh, jeez, I forgot. MINE. )

12. When our adolescent daughter asks for a CD by some weirdly named band we will, unconsciously, say "Oh, I'll get it for you from Food World." because we think she's asking for vegetables. ( Think The Black Eyed Peas and The Red Hot Chilli Peppers.)

13. We will have this fancy for hurling saucepans, or even pressure cookers at any jackass who gets in our way. No kidding.

14. We will always, always eat peanuts while travelling on a train. We will also sing golden oldies and will run the risk of getting the skin of a nut stuck in our trachea.

15. When eating pizzas, beware, for we might just tear it viciously and smother it in ketchup like we do with dosas and chutney.

Note to the folks: - This wasn't meant to offend anybody. If any of you ever read this and don't like it much, punish me by letting me stay home instead of attending that wretched engagement. Or even that family reunion. And yeah, saucepans HURT, you dig????

(Much thanks to KD and her brother for giving me back my blog. I louwe you guys.)

Why?

I want you to know..
That the stars are shining like there is no tomorrow. And that chewing gum will not make me put on weight. Also, your favourite Kishore Kumar song is on the radio. I was at a party two weeks ago. We gave the birthday girl hell by holding her by the shoulders and ankles and kicking her. It was a bit like when you would hold me and threaten to throw me and then hug me really tight when I cried.

Yesterday, I ate those ugly orange-cream biscuits you'd always buy when you came home. "Biscuits are healthier than chocolate, sweetheart", you'd say. You will not believe it.. It's raining here. In your Madras city. Can you see the rain coming down in sheets on me? I'm singing Pink Floyd and dancing your mad dance. I'm playing the air guitar and I know you're laughing just looking at me. But I can't hear you.

I also want you to know, that I love you. Very much. You left too soon. Took all of us by surprise, you did. Leaving just like that. It's mid-November already. Two more months to new year's eve. Okay, one and a-half.. sheesh.. don't yell! I know you're yelling. New year's eve. Already. Only, this time.. there won't be any "Why aren't you out with a million boys and partying, doll?" There will not be any chilli-bajji and cappucino on the Besant Nagar beach. There will be no more phone calls from Bangalore, no more "Guess who, pretty girl?!" No more you.


Why did you go?
I miss you..

I'm slowly sipping my iced tea. I put down my glass and look around the dimly-lit restaurant and that's when I see him. His spiky hair, creased black shirt and denim jeans faded around the knees. He sits alone at a table for seven. He's attractive enough to have a lot of girls looking at him but apparently, he doesn't care. Either that or he's trying to attract even more attention with his odd behaviour. He pops a pill into his mouth and immediately clutches his head. His elbows give way and he puts his head on the table. "Boy, he sure is troubled", I think. "Could that..No...Maybe..Not in a restaurant!" I debate with myself. I make an excuse to go wash my hands, leave the table and walk past him slowly, trying to look as subtle as I could, looking at the pills out of the corner of my eye, but it is far too dark to read the name.

I make a pretence of washing up and head back. His hands hold his head and he swings from side to side. He makes me sick with worry and I know not why.
I sit down and try to eat without paying him too much attention. He sits up, scarily sudden. He screws his eyes up until they're nearly non-existent.And then, breaking all laws of decorum at the dinner table, or in a public place for that matter, he lets out a massive burp, loud enough to shatter the windows and the crockery and repulsive enough to want to make me scream in disgust. But, unlike him, I have tact. I make a belching noise in response. And now, he is revolted. Revenge, mon ami, is indeed sweet.

Shine

I look out of the balcony and my gaze falls on the moon. It's enchanting, radiant, the kind of beauty that poets could wax eloquent about. There are faint traces of shimmery yellow all around it, lighting up the sky just a bit, for all those depressed lovers with broken hearts to be comforted. For all the little children dressed in rags, chasing make-shift toys to look up at and love. For me to sit in my balcony and ponder over it for hours together. For peace of mind, for serenity, for everything the rest of the world tries so hard to be, so hard to give, but fails miserably. For upliftement, to make me smile again. The world is a beautiful place. And there just might be a God.

Banter

I don't want to grow up. I don't want to get caught up in the rat race, the convoluted dog-eat-dog world that already frightens me. However "Cool" it may be to look sixteen, talk twenty and think ninety-five, I'm fine with the way I am right now. I don't want the clock to tick its way into tomorrow. Tomorrow will be another day that will disappear no sooner than it came, another day that will take me one step closer to the much-awaited, yet dreaded, age of eighteen. Adulthood.

I want to be old enough to hug my mum in a supermarket and get away with it for as long as I live. I want to be able to tell my dad I love him in school and not have all the other kids sneer at me. The only time I was ever allowed to do that was when I was three and all the other kids didn't mind because they were into the whole Mommy-I-love-you-can-I-rub-my-snot-on-you-now? affair themselves. I hate having to care about what everybody thinks of my every movement, the way I carry myself, what I eat and how I dress. I wish my friends didn't care much either. I wish, that for one day, I could just go to school without having to worry whether my hair is sitting just right, whether the ends are curling out a little too much. How does it matter, anyway? Why is it that we're so bothered by such mundane things? And that one day cannot pass without our being completely absorbed by someone else's life story? I hate being a teenager. I don't quite know what I want or expect from people, from life... I'm far too confused for my own liking. I don't know what this post was for. I don't know.

Pink Prejudice

I have, much to my delight, been labelled "Goth" by many, many people, be they friends, cousins or neighbours. So, when I walked into school the other day, clad in a pink sari (No, I don't wear saris on an everyday basis. The occassion called for it.) I had high hopes of seeing boys' jaws drop. And oh, yes, they did... with fright. One boy in particular asked me whether this means I'm converting to Barbie-ism and am going to stop liking Floyd. WHAT? ARE YOU CONVERTING TO PERMANENT STUPIDITY? WHY WOULD ANY FLOYD FAN STOP LIKING FLOYD? Only, I didn't quite get what he was saying just then and asked, "What do you mean?" "I mean", he said, "That YOU are in PINK."
I, being my not-so-bright self stared at him dumbly. If my mouth had been open, I'd have looked liked Duh's twin sister. "Yeah, umm, I know.. It's not like I got dressed in the dark" and I snickered at my little joke. This was met with cold silence and a "You're not goth anymore, no? Damn. That sucks." That only further proved that the boy certainly had downed one too many colas/red bulls. Oh and yeah, I FINALLY understood what he was trying to get at. "Noooooo" I wailed like an ambulance siren (Think Vadivelu in Pammal K. Sambandham. Yes, I actually saw that movie!) "I've not renounced my being a goth!!! Why would you think THAT?" He was either in a hurry or too frustrated with me, but anyway, he stomped off.

A little while later, another senior asked me, "Oi, how come you're wearing PINK?" with such disgust you'd think she was talking about rotting corpses. "Why, do I look bad?" "No, it's just that...it's, y'know... pink!" It was my turn to stalk off. Only, like a twit, I stayed on and went, "Yeah, I KNOW... what's wrong with pink anyway?" "Nothing... only.... Paris Hilton... Britney..." Thank God for my fluctuating intelligence that was pretty much on then. "What?" Followed by a sharp intake of breath. I scared myself with that, actually. "No! No way!"
"Just saying, yaa... Pink, y'know...it's so...y'know..." No, I don't know. Enlighten me, oh pink-hater. "Chuck it." She said and walked away somewhere. Brilliant. I'm stupid because I like pink and I like pink so I'm a people- repellent. Pray tell, why is there such animosity for this colour? Has it eaten up your pet dog or given you a rash? Why the hate? Why?

All I am saying, is give pink a chance.

The Hairy Horror Hummer

It's 6:30 p.m. Saturday evening and I'm at the dentist's for my monthly check-up, which usually goes off really well because of the extraordinary care I give my braces. Oh, wait... Did I just say dentist? I meant (Cue thunder, lightning and a third-rate drumroll) The Hairy Horror Hummer (And the 'er' syllable echoes into oblivion) Like most dentists, mine comes with especially hairy arms which I am forced to stare at for fifteen minutes a month. I've counted 76, 324, 129 hairs so far, over the past two years, and that's just mid-forearm.

So, anyway, there I am, flipping through a Stardust that's screaming out "Trouble in John-Bipasha waters" (Yeah, so?) when I hear him say "Manvi, you can come in now." Ho hum. So I step into his room and, on account of having a terribly sore throat, croak out a "Good evening, doctor." "Aah", he says, doing a very bad job of trying to sound like Gandalf the white. "Heavy cold, I assume? The weather's simply awful. And now they're selling ice-creams in school, also, no? Ice-creams in excessive amounts aren't the best for your teeth, ma..."
Curse his kids. They study in the same school as I, and have most definitely told on me and my obsession with iced lollies. My articulacy evades me, save for an "Ummm... Yeah, I guess." "Sit, sit, sit", he says. What am I? Tommy your pet pomeranian? One "sit" will do, thank you.

I sit down and wait for him to put on two pairs of latex gloves, his green mask that makes him sound like Darth Vader staright out of Mylapore, et al. When done, he sits on his stool and starts humming along to a 1960's Sivaji Ganesan number. And thus begins my monthly check-up.

"Have you been regular with the elastics?" he asks. Ummm.... we're talking tiny blue rubber-bands here. They're supposed to hold my teeth together and help make them look all nice and perfect like a celebrity's. Sorry, but the only celeb I look like when I have them on is Sly Stallone, seeing as to how I almost always need to have a monkey wrench in hand to prise both jaws open if I want to speak. "Yes, yes, doctor....absolutely." I say and smile. "Aah...." Dang, there he goes again!!! "They don't seem to be doing a very good job, no? Manvi, you're going to go down in history as the patient I've treated for the longest time." he says and chuckles. Ooooh wow, lucky meeee.

With that overhwhelming statement, he squeezes a pair of pliers lodged between my two front teeth. Eeeeeeeek. And he pulls. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Someone stop him!! He then pulls out two dangerous-looking pieces of metal, some yellow ucky icky thing that is positively vile and says "Reshaping, reshaping" My brain, therefore, launches off into it's I'm A Fat Girl mode. How many calories does one donut have? Oh, God, I've had an entire donut with sprinkles today. But it was so tiny.... and so chocolatey!!! I love dark chocolate, by the way... Particularly Lindt's dark ch-owwwww!!!! What the hell? I completely forget that the Hairy Horror is working his black magic on me. He pinches my cheek really, really hard. !#^**#$&&% . "We have to reshape the metal caps, ma, why aren't you listening?" I sit up and pay utmost attention, or atleast try to.

He yanks, pulls, twists, turns and has a whale of a time hurting me. The sadist. With an "Ammaaaaa..." he has dislocated my jaw. My fingers edge towards his skinny neck, to be stopped by the nurse's "Daacter saar, pudhu payshunt vandhirkaanga" "That'll be it then, Manvi, you can leave...there'll be slight pain as usual, and I'm sure you're strong enough to handle that", he says with an ear-to-ear grin. SLIGHT PAIN? SLIGHT PAIN? Who ya' trying to kid? Even a friggin mountaineer whose legs have fallen off from frostbite wouldn't have known pain of this kind. "I'll see you next month, as usual?" You.Wish.

Duh-d.

'Twas quite a colourful conversation between Gabbar and Duh (Duh= Superstar athlete. Stupidity personified.) that ensued yesterday, the point being that Gabbar wanted to submit his geography assignment to the concerned teacher, but had to rush for his cricket class instead. Now, Duh isn't anybody's idea of smart. He reaches the very edge of his knowledge of English with an "I didn't do it, ma'am." Think Big Moose minus the bloonde crew-cut and Midge, with all the duhs intact.


Gabbar : Duh, I need you to help me.

Duh: What, ra?

Gabbar: Write my name on this assignment and submit it for me, please.

Duh (Picks up the paper, stares at it, mouth open.) : Errrr...

Gabbar: I have cricket classes now, and I have to change. When I get back ma'am would have left.

Duh (Looks at Gabbar, slow smile creeping across his face.): Eh? Hehehehehe.

Gabbar (Tying shoelaces, or atleast trying to.): What's so funny, da?

Duh (Smiling happily. Apparently, there ARE somethings he and he alone can understand.): Notheeng, da...Leave it.

Gabbar (Raises his caterpillar eyebrows): Go and submit it, then.

Duh (Smile vanishing): Eh?

Gabbar (Grits his teeth, intensifies his grip on his tough Nike shoelaces.) : Write (Gestures with a pen) my name (Thumps himself on the chest, then coughs crudely.) on the paper, okay?

Duh (Comprehension dawning across his face. He looks like someone turned on neon lights inside his head.): Aah.. Apidiyaa? Seri, wokay... Then?

Gabbar (Clenching fists. His fellow benchmates run to the toilet for cover.): GO AND SUBMIT IT.

Duh (Duh-d.)

Gabbar, in one swift movement, wrenches the paper out of Duh's grip, grabs a pen, scrawls his name across the front, sprints to the teacher's desk and flings the assignment on it. He walks back to Duh, makes a rude gesture and breaks out into a stream of Hindi curses. Duh bids him goodbye saying, "Bye, da...Why you took the paper like that, ra?" Gabbar replies saying, "Live demonstration for you, ra... If you want I'll also show you a suicide attempt, live."
And Duh grins, baring his teeth (That are so crooked, they put the Great Wall of China to shame.) "You are so jokey, ra, Gabbar!". Gabbar turns around, waves his cricket bat like a caveman wielding his club and retorts, "Oh, you have no idea." And he walks away into the distance until he's nothing but a tiny, angry speck.

Floored weirdness

People are weird, in the true sense of the word. One look at the madhouse of a school I go to and you'll know what I mean. With every turn of the staircase, the language changes, why, the very mood changes.

Ground floor= General weirdness. The tall and the beautiful, the brilliant and the duh-d, all over the place. There is the occasional swear word, the ape-like antics, the lip-gloss coated giggle. Yes, that is the ground floor.

The first floor= Tolerable weirdness. Little twerps who dress the way their mothers want them to, malippu in their hair, with no sense of shame or table manners. The kind who run up to you and call you either Akka or Anna and wail at the top of their voice if you tell them they're stupid ("I will tell to miss. You call me stupid, no? I will tell miss you're saying bad bad words.")

The second floor= Tiny spurts of weirdness. Like when you see sixth-grade boys running around a pillar in circles, the challenge being that one should not even lay a hair on the pillar. However unbelievable that may sound, it is just as true as anything that ever lived.

The third floor= Extreme, extreme weirdness. Intolerable to the point of wanting to stay off that floor entirely. Why, you ask? Oh, only because it is a second home to vile wannabes. Super-cool on the outside with low-waist trousers and skirts, styled hair, imported accents, et al. But on the inside, they have the mentalities of teletubbies. Only not quite developed. Save the peoplehood (I love, love, love my friends. So sue me.), the rest of our batch are bundles of raging hormones on legs.

Boys swagger (They think they look SO hot. I'm sorry, but the anteater that was on Animal Planet last week was much more appealing.) Girls do the catwalk (I don't do the catwalk, so, as my fellow floor-mates see it, I am not a girl.) And they co-exist in sweaty peace (You read right, sweaty. It isn't 42 degrees outside for nothing.) only because they find each other so attractive. It is, therefore, most necessary that I eat lunch with The Peoplehood of The Freaky, only for that whiff of sanity. If it weren't for them, I'd have drowned in the swimming pool a long time back (I can swim. The pool's just as pool-y as any other, people use it like they would any other. Need I say more?)

With that, I shall get back to analysing the kindergarten section of school. I bid you good day.