SEMANTIC GAPS IN BOOKWORM CAFE

There are things that go beyond the possibility of measuring up and putting down in words. these are times like that. getting through at the USC TECHNOLOGY department is a high for almost everyone. I can see the ecstasy in my other classmates, almost feel their great vibes for college life young people just out of school, young people, some of whom still can’t believe they made it to this place, can’t imagine how very interesting their lives are going to get… can’t wait to find out. mine, it’s a different sort of ecstasy. it’s an ecstasy that grows out of knowing, quite precisely, what is on offer here, but not knowing if i will ever be able to have it. it’s an ecstasy that grows out of dreaming for years and years and years, wavering between despair and denial, and finally making a decision. Among all i hate the one who peek into my personal life the most

Since a lot of judge people read this blog (and i won’t even pretend they do not), ism sure it’s obvious that my coming to judge has been more of a decision than chance. I’ll cut the crap about pretending to be brilliant here. after studying literature at an international school and then an undergraduate year of technology, any common kid would crack the judge entrance, it’s a given. it’s been a decision. and huge personal sacrifices have been made. Even if i ignore the social consequences, a year of your life is an irreplaceable loss, especially a year of your youth. there are some decisions that go beyond minor considerations like being cool, being among friends, being seen with the “right” crowd, being unable to give away spaghetti tops to my girl friend, smoking whenever you want, so on and so forth. sometimes it’s just you looking at yourself in the mirror, asking, do you really want to do this, asking, is it worth it, asking, will this sacrifice really make a difference to your life, in the long run. to you. Of course, there are many brilliant people out in the world, in this city itself, who never went to judge… it didn’t kill them. Of course, there are many brilliant people who passed out of my old college, and who are doing extremely well in life. could i not have? i asked myself all that. it can be drawn on to a huge, never ending debate. but sometimes huge, never ending debates can all be resolved with one question. the one you look at the mirror and ask. the one that goes beyond all other considerations.

Could i live all my life with the regret of not studying undergraduate at judge? man, i love this place. it’s a love that goes much, much beyond interpersonal relationships, petty group politics, who’s whose friend and who’s not. i don’t care. ever since i’ve joined the university, i’ve talked to whoever has talked to me, i’ve heard out whoever had anything to say, and i’ll prefer to keep it that way. perhaps it’s been easier because i don’t have a personal score to settle with anyone at this place, i’ve known a few people in the past but barely acquaintances, and the few friends i have are recent and till date, haven’t had a major disagreement yet. i’m glad for it, because i’m really tired with pettiness, and honestly, it’s never been my cup of tea. i’ve always been too detached to hate/vindicate people with a steady effort; when i’ve been required to do it, it has always been a chore. and trust me on this, i haven’t made so much sacrifice in my life to be dictated what i’m required to do. i will do what i want to do, which is pretty much mind my own business. i have an endless tolerance for people as long as they don’t come in my way - ugly, unpopular, junkie, bitch, slut, simpleton, pseudo intellectual, people with bad taste in music… anything goes. and i really hope that will be all i need for the next two years.

HOOKAH LOUNGE: BOOKWORM CAFE’S EVIL

I am amazed how the delivery of maternal love from across the Atlantic Ocean prompted me to leave work relatively early and run to Chhotu’s. Of course you are going to say that the materialism in the form of the Soya Chaklis, Prezettles and Besan Laddoos and Maize Cookies was the real magnet, but in my defense, I did not even touch the Indian Laddoos. What is even more astounding is how this nicely prioritized itself over an invitation at the new University campus, highlights of which were a promise of mid-week Scotch accompanied by discounted ice extended by the Prof and Bouthan’s magical chholay. As I sat munching, I realized this was going to be a close fight with little knowledge of how wrong I was. The owner of our gym popped out of nowhere with white wings while fat bald Shankar Halwai had grown two little red horns and was hovering around like uninvited hijras(eunuch) at a wedding.

I had even left my bag behind at work, thinking that would force me to return and thus enter the gym. However, self-will and all other such angelic qualities that motivational speakers like to harp on were subject to a mass genocide this evening as the laziness quotient, subdued for a while probably because of the perceived Brownian motion of the brain cells, struck back with incredible vengeance employing a plush spread on Chhotu’s divan made in Iran, or some such exotic oily mess. The W keeps boasting about LSD from his limited narcotic experience and how it made him feel the various veins in his brain, which incidentally is the same effect on the listener. But who needs psychedelic drugs when you have such royal comfort for your behind. I am not at all exaggerating when I say I could feel each and every vein in the derrière.

At some point Chhotu noted that this was the height of laziness since we didn’t even change the channel when ads interrupted a slapstick comedy sitcom of Brad Garret’s, whose humor was exponentially increased by the spread. Well, maybe for him. Shankar wanted to have a little more fun and slipped in a KFC ad with buckets of nothing but copious golden fried unhealthy chicken. How I wished the chicken could walk up to me on those plush leg pieces and walk back the avian equivalent of Somalian refugees. Once the gym idea had been completely murdered, a phone call to KFC proved that they didn’t deliver fried storks and chickens to your door in this country. Dunno why they even have a phone then? A few Renaissance Youtube moments followed with me introducing Chhotu to such neo-classics as GMD and the Sutta Song. Bionic woman had replaced Garret on TV but refused to take her jacket off while running, even after the many requests my current state of inactivity allowed. So there was no point watching her.

The KFC had closed its doors on our stomachs by 8:30. After some Harold-Kumar camaraderie, we ended up at Carl’s, where to compensate for the gym miss, I had a jalapeño burger sandwiched with a delicious cow and some golden deep fried groovy aloooooo over an Avant-Garde discussion of incidents during the formative years when we had heard our Dads swearing. The Brownian motion intensified as we were about to leave and I just had to smuggle out some black jahar (as the Dawg has rechristened it) in my translucent cup meant for water. The sudden activity from running away from the chasing Mexican employee who was running as if reminiscing her border crossing days made me miss dope like I miss Tina. Failed at having stopped me, it’s as if she invoked the memory of some ancient Incan God because the moment I sat in the car, I was overcome by an exhaustive bout of coughing. Or maybe it was the virus’ continued (more than a week now) infatuation with yours truly, shattering the notions of possible withdrawal symptoms.

Without access to any of the herb, Chhotu introduced the idea of hookkah. We couldn’t connect to any of the unsecured networks while driving around to access Local Google. Sheah! And they call this place the Tech Capital of the World! Once home, Chhotu started reading reviews of these places and expressed fear of large not so fair and lovely men at such an hour at these places. I acted like that pissed me off and walked out on his open jaw and door.

The Blue Lady was singing ‘Under Pressure’ to me when I noticed that the load from my bag from work was potent enough to signal the passenger seatbelt sensor sign. Deep isn’t it? The White Lady though, scarred for life from the hurt of showing misguided blind sheep the way during dark shepherd-less moments, shining like a Crazy Diamond against a navy starless uniform was showing me the path home. On chaining up my light jacket as a feeble protest to the sudden and unannounced onset of cold after sundown these days, I realized I was dressed for a funeral - in complete black like Johnny Cage, a prisoner to the demons within his inner self. I just hoped the funeral wasn’t for any part of me. Once home, had to feign mental sobriety and disguise the coughing for the sake of a long distance phone call from Aunta, who for a change, made no mention of our family fortune teller’s latest predictions about me.

Maybe the meeting of an old friend who goes by the name of August has sparked this random laziness, or lazy randomness, as he calls in from the Welfare State, or maybe it is the unsuccessful anticipation of the mind to attain Nirvanic calm. August, you SOB, stop f!@#ing with my mind and trying to make me Comfortably Numb. I don’t want to be like you. I want to scream from the rooftops about my struggle with daily mundaneness, reach out to the White Lady and share a tear or two of anguish while the rest of the sheep sleep. I saw her during the day today too - feeble and tired against a supposedly clear backdrop. No one else did. Only I did. The Blue one has competition again these days I tell you. The White one may be round these days, and not as ever beautiful as the Blue one, but she gives me warmth and I can cry out my fears and lose my tears in her scars. But for how long? Isn’t it only a matter of time before she too will leave me. Of course she will return, but will it be her again? Will she be my White Lady, or some poetic teen sensation too drunk in her moonlight to pay her real Romeo any heed?

DEJA-VU

If on that cloudy momentous day, back in 2001, when I bid adieu to a veritable opponent, somebody had told me that my nemesis would be back to bite my on the rear nine years later in another continent, I would have laughed harshly on their face. I had just finished the final exams in class VIII and was feverish with the erotic thrill of meeting a new sensual seductress called Ms. French who would be substituting old bushy-mustached Mr. Hindi. However, life has a funny way of serving you lemons repeatedly, sugarcoating it in amorous French (ah, that still makes my heart skip a beat) – “déjà vu”.

So, yesterday I found myself sprawled in a stranger’s living room squinting through the Hindi script of ‘Iss Kambakht Sathe ka kya Karen?’ and acting like I was following, it when all I was doing was waiting for my cue to practice my false laughter, of which I got a lot of practice, I must admit. I can actually imagine my class VIII Hindi teacher, given up on dying her hair now, pointing her index finger at me and guffawing on her rocking chair, which is creaking in unison. Of course, that is assuming she is an avid reader of this blog, which by any stretch of imagination is as incredulous as Colin Farrel getting the ‘Dancing Hero’ tag.

The language barrier apart, I am quite satisfied with the group. At least, it will give me something to do other than listen to the W drone on about Californian laziness, maturity et al. Read some interesting notes of Sriram Raghavan’s ‘Johnny Gaddar’ here by Jabberwock. My interest is piqued and so, will take advantage of Nazi discounted Tuesday movies offer for the first time.

Since I am talking about déjà vu, let me slip in what happened at lunch today – telepathy. Just like the smell of cheese can mobilize Jerry like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, any sort of Piscean being near a grill can do the same to me. So, needless to say, I got the grilled trout with extra rice instead of the veggies (I am mentally allergic to most of them), and I was thinking to myself, ‘Geez, how Bong is that?’ I am sure both my great grandfathers were smiling down from the heavens, or wherever they are, as I was enjoying my maach-bhaat along with some UEFA cup action on the plasma in our cafeteria. Sure, there was salsa instead of jhol and some stupid teams called Manure and Coma instead of the great Mohun Bagan and a little lesser great East Bengal, but I could very well have been sitting in the Salt Lake stadium having Ileesh in a to-go box. Suddenly, a manger commented ‘Wow, that’s typical Bengali food’. I flashed one of those dumb ‘You are so smart. Gimme a promotion now’ smiles and passed the equally dumb ‘Salsa for Curry’ joke and was momentarily distracted from the insipid game by the polite laughter that resulted.