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.