By popular request

A great demand by ananya led me into writing my shortest poem dedicated, of course, to myself.

Fact
I write,
Trite.

An Idle mind is a Devil's workshop

If necessity is the mother of invention, then idleness is the grandmother of this blog. Two days having elapsed since I've been freed of PSM's clutches (hopefully till my internship) and other exam terrors, I've been thoroughly idle after a long long time and I am absolutely revelling in this strange sensation. Now this idleness is not really a gift, this is something which I' ve enforced upon myself before I plunge headlong into the murky and deep waters of my final year (the last and the ultimate frontier) especially when I don't even know how to swim. I fatalistically reasoned, since I am anyways doomed to a year of the ultimate in slogging and ghasoogiri, it makes better sense to remain as idle as possible and to conserve energy for the crucial days ahead. Something akin to hibernation which is so in vogue this season.

Having thus decided, I became busy to prepare myself to remain idle. All offending mentions of ENT, Oph and PSM tucked away, any escaping pages firmly pushed backed into the drawers and my offensive final year books locked in the cupboard for some days, I settled myself on my cushy bed with 3 pillows and a couple of story books to give me company. That was two days ago.

Three sunrises and two sunsets later, I 've finished both the story books, have posted my melancholy in poems for all to comment upon, have made a few snide comments myself and have Orkutted all those who have had the misfortune to be online at the same time as me, several times a day. I have slept for 12 hours straight without any guilt, have munched upon endless packets of Kurkure (Okay..., 4 to be honest) and have seen TV till my eyeballs were ready to pop out. Initially, I was surprised (Yay! Ananya, u r not studying), then euphoric (Yippee! I am actually not studying) and now I am bemused (Hey, what are you doing, not studying yet?) .

I have come a full circle, having run out of ideas to amuse myself. I am in that transition stage, the feeling that you get when you are somewhere midway on a steep and slippery slide where you have left the safety of the handles above and you don't know how hard your bottoms are going to hit the bottom of the pit. So, now neither do I want to hit my books yet nor do I want to read another story book. To amuse myself, I even offered to sweep the house when the maid played truant and went shopping (something which I clearly detest, never mind that its purpose was to replenish my own things). Now I have reached that stage of idleness when my mind, too idle to think of new ideas, can only think of words to write and complete this blog which itslf is an exercise in the futility of idleness.

So I request all those idle people who took out time to read this blog to furnish some ideas on how to beat idleness. But do hurry up, for I've 40 hours before the spell weaves off and I have to start grinding my nose in the horrendous mill of studies from Monday morning.

P.S. I thank you all for bearing with me and coming this far. It speaks wonders of your persistence in idleness.

The road less travelled

It's a long road that I must tread
One that fills my heart with dread
For I know not the pitfalls ahead
Nor the dangers that lay spread.
The forks wherein I may astray
Or the paths where I must stay
I know not whom shall I meet
Whom to doubt,whom to greet.

It's a lonely road for me to walk
No one to share, no one to talk
But many to mock,many to scorn
This was my star when I was born.
True, how can anyone understand
The fine lines etched on my hand
When I myself have sought in vain
To decipher what my Fates ordain?

It's a difficult road for me to take
But it's a journey I have to make
My heart is weary,my body sore
But my mind wills try a bit more.
I know not why did I choose so
Now I have no choice but to go
Go on I will, till I perish or I gain
All I seek, to cherish all the pain.

Life

The hour before dawn is dark
The world barren, the view stark
Above are the clouds, leaden and grey
While the sea below is still and sombre.

Soon the silver sky begins to lighten
Turning into pink and then golden
As the warm rays strike the water
The sleeping sea begins to bestir.

The water ripples, the waves are slight
Joining forces, gaining size and might
Their grey faces frilled by white lace
Hug the shore in a powerful embrace.

The waves come and go
In a rhythm, steady and slow
The timeless ebb and flow
With the tides, high and low.

Their onslaught is never-ending,
So is their retreat never-ceasing
Always beating the tattoo of life,
Against the shore without any strife.

A pattern as old as the Earth
Beginning long before man’s birth
One of Nature’s cycles, centuries old
That will continue till Earth turns cold.

The last song of dusk

As the sun’s rays falter
And the sky turns darker
The wind begins its song
To mourn the day that’s gone.

At first, it is soft and slow
A mere hum, loving and low
Soon swells to a wail and cry
A loud lament piercing the sky.

A song blown everywhere
Reeking of loss and despair
At times the tone does drift
But the rhythm; never shifts.

To the sun, says the sea,
Tarry awhile, stay with me
And the wind beats its cadence
But the sun departs in silence.

The dual lament rises and falls
As the setting sun answers no calls
Wiser, the two entwine to sing a lullaby
For the night and to bid the day goodbye.

Rubbish

Come, in the morning time
You see a beach so pristine
The sands are golden and clean
The blue sea has its own sheen.
But come a few hours later
Left behind by the receding water
Is a beach awash with sewage
The sea’s price for human bondage.
It’s enough to make one sick
All that sight of shiny plastic
And hundreds of dead fish.
It does make one so wish-
When will we learn not to litter
And make this world a bit better?
For the sea keeps no secrets
Reclaims its own, returns the rest
All that man offers in unholy homage
And all of man’s filth and garbage.

Vicious or viva-cious?

Why me?
My university vivas, with external examiners, no matter how hard I try to keep them sombre and boring have to evolve in to a masala episode which I try to recount and forget the embarassment. Sigh.

First year... Physiology
Examiner: So, examine the sensation of upper lips on the subject.
Me: Er...ma'am?
Examiner: Examine the sensation of upper lips.
Me: uh..ok
(I take a wisp of cotton for testing fine sensations and examine the sensation of upper lips on a forty year old supine mama.)
Examiner: (Laughing hard) What are you doing? I said examine sensation of upper limbs!!!
Me: Oh, oh, Ma'am, I heard upper lips.
Examiner: Don't you have any common sense?
Me: Sorry ma'am.

Second year... Forensic Medicine
(It is November, I am cold and shivering.)
Examiner: Are you very cold, should I turn off the fan?
Me: Yes sir, thank you.
(Examiner gets up turns off the lights and we are momentarily in darkness.)
Examiner: uh, sorry, sorry.
(He finds the right switch. Light on. Fan off.)
Examiner: So, what is nymphomania?
Me: Sir it is a .... (you kno what right?)....
Examiner: What is the meaning of nymph?
Me: Er...
Examiner: What is the word nymph derived from?
Me: Er...
Examiner: Do you know what is a nymphectomy... you don't know?
Me : Er... (Desperately wishing he switched to some other topic!)

This year... PSM
Examiner: What is your height?
Me: 5'10''
Examiner: So what are the advantages and disvantages of being 5'10''?
Me: ( sheepishly smiling, showing my broken incisor, waiting for him to talk sense)
Examiner: Don't you think you have a social problem? This being preventive and social medicine, think..
Me: (thinking about tall women not have adequate pelvises and safe deliveries, but that's a gynac problem, so I sit there and stay shut up)
Examiner: Don't you think it will be difficult to find a bridegroom for you? I mean, your choice will be so limited.
Me: Sir, I don't have a problem with shorter men.
(At this juncture, the internal examiner, our beloved Dr. B, covers her face with her hand, Manoj Kumar ishtyle and breathes heavily.)
Examiner: Yes, you will not have a problem, but the husband will have, he will have to wear heels.
Me: Then I will not be with him na.
Examiner: That is what I am saying , you have limited choice.
(He actually starts singing) Jiski biwi lambi uska bhi bada naam hai..
Me: (I grind my teeth, I can hear the PSM RMOs sniggering outside the cabin.)
Examiner: (finally we proceed to the viva) How can you say that your height is not abnormal?
(And we end up discussing biostatistics and genetics...)

Gems of PSM part 4

Contributed by Aniruddha Agarwal (with slight modifications by me):

Same lecture, for a different batch:

1. So many play, they play, here play, then mental becomes (he was talking about so many factors playing a role)
2. Ghar me paani aaya, mental problem becomes!
3. U must ask case pat-pat-pat-pat, he will tell you khat-khat-khat-khat (zombie language it seems)
4. If you laugh a lot, maybe you the mental (obviously referring to the audience)
   
5. Nowadays mental-mental (abducting-adducting his hands repeatedly...) too much rampant!

Gems of PSM part 3

An unforgettable lecture on "Mental Health":

1. If you pass in theory, you will automatically pass in practicals. (That is why i'm blogging instead of studying for pracs)
2. Previously, General Practitioner was Godfather.
3. Nobody is care to the old people. (It is but natural to worry about one's future)
4. Other is... very important thing is... things which is necessary for everybody. (Wow, I never knew that!)
   
5. Silchin (or something like that) is one of the comedy serials which my child sees (He is hinting that he can perform better than TV actors)
6. Overall development of child is very important rather than he will be bookworm and all.
7. How his delivery will occur.. stress, strain.. I have got 12 weeks (A desperate attempt to show that he understands the feelings of women)
8. When you see individual case, you will not remember for life (the exact opposite of what all other departments teach)
9. In front of the they you have to do. (Aah, voyeurism!)
10. IQ above 75-90 is also subnormal (he is hinting that his IQ lies between 75 & 90 and everyone in the audience is subnormal)
11. In new Park, extra mental health is given (I couldn't find it)
12. This is long run which is happening in Bombay. (Regarding some spastics society training system)
13. International Switzerland project was done in the community...
14. This is the very much there in the rampant.
15. If you hypnotise, you give him, he improves the better.
16. Mother is after money, father is after money...
17. Have you visited psychiatry ward? Kaisa hai? Mere time mein lock hota tha! (He conveniently forgets to mention that he used to be inside the ward when it was locked)
18. Devi aa gaya, devi aa gaya! Isko namaskar karo, devi aa gaya! (This is said with the deepest of feelings, right from the bottom of the heart, with acting to match)

Disclaimer: The one taking the lecture is solely responsible for all mistakes, factual, grammatical or otherwise.

Om Shahrukh Om

This is what the movie should be called. From the first frame to last its Mr. Shahrukh all the way. The pointless movie is also interspersed with some cleavage of Deepika for keeping the audience awake (Om cleavage Om). The audience is anyways awake, you tend to get a headache after 17 minutes of watching the movie.

There are dialogues, yes, which are repeated at least 17 times, once by Om, then by reincarnated Om, then in the background, then by his mom which are repeated by Deepika, then by..... There is a dialogue from Gone with the wind, which Shahrukh (Rhett Butler) tells Arjun Rampal (Scarlett O'hara, ahem) — Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Kirron Kher is loud and Shreyas Talpade is not Shahrukh, so he gets liitle screen time. Its quite unconvincing, the way reincarnated Shahrukh dumps his current family and goes back to his bhoodhi ma and faithful aged sidekick.

There are songs, endless, pointless and an item number by guess who... Shahrukh!!!
There are many stars singing Om Shanti Om, for some strange reason, as no mention of Shanti arises in the reincarnated Shahrukh's life at that point of time.

The movie is a delight for pyromaniacs. There are a lot of fires, which fail to burn Shahrukh, who is defibrillated for burns. And his soul goes into the soul of an already conceived child... who looks exactly like... Shahrukh! The reincarnated Shahrukh is very different from the previous one. He has six-pack abs and keeps saying "What the fish" after every 5 minutes. And the Deepika lookalike (who is played by Deepika) is also very different. She chews a lot of gum and along with displaying cleavage also displays her legs.
There is a Deepika bhooth (who is played by Deepika) at the end of the movie who kills Arjun Rampal. You are delighted. The end.

To summarize the whole movie is a promotional gimmick— to promote itself!

I have watched Karz, 3 times. It will be the best reincarnation movie, if there is such a category of movies.

After reading this over, I feel the review is more horrible than the movie itself. I promise to improve. My IQ has fallen after three hours for S*** bombarded into my brain.

Gems of PSM...contd..Ananya's list

1) Adolescensce is a period of rosy dreams, adventure, love and romance.
2)Some people commit suicide by drowning, many by smoking.
3)The responsibility of the family is to 'socialise the stream of new-born barbarians'.
4) A river is a direct connection between the alimentary canals of the people living upstream and the mouths of those below.
5) Cholera is the "father of Public health"
6)Houseflies are called "porters of infections"
7) Good habits like wearing sea-belts can protect us from diseases( e.g. Venereal diseases)
8) Hospitals are termed as 'ivory towers of diseases'.
9) Health continues to be a neglected entity despite lip service
10)It is left to posterity to review our errors and accomplishments. This is how medicine has evolved down the centuries and will continue to evolve...

Cheers!Do tell me one thing, after all this hard work, I hope I don't flunk!

Gems of PSM

After my brain underwent liquefactive necrosis reading the eternal Park, I decided to take my revenge... Here it goes gems from Park, chosen from the very best...

1. Yaws is a shining example. (so is Park)
2. The vital layer is the "heart" of slow sand filter.
3. The "heart" of activated sludge process is the aeration tank.
4. Randomization is the "heart" of a trial. (there are other organs in the body, you know)
5. Many villagers in South India do not wear shoes. (And they wear alligator-skin boots in the North...eh?)
6. Stale fish should be condemned. (they have my sympathy)
7. Natons and civilizatons are linked together not only by ideas, but also by bread. (A good attempt at being thought-provoking)
8. Creation of public awareness is the sine qua non of a successful public health programme. (hey, look, I speak other languages just as badly)
9. A model is the abstraction of reality, not reality itself. (wtf)
10. There existed a civilization in the Indus Valley, known as the Indus valley civilization. (Ahhh, I get it now...)
11. A dependance producing drug is one that has the capacity to produce dependence. (if my i.q. was 15, I wouldn't be here in mbbs)
12. A physiologist got Noble prize for describing this substance. ( I mean, wtf, if you mention his name, nobody's suing you for copyright theft.)
13. Time is money, someone said. (who cares, if someone said it or not, i mean, WHO CARES...)
14. The Act makes the beginning of a new era in the history of vital Statistics registration in India. (yawwwnnnnn...)
15. Garfield has stressed the need to meet the demands of medical care by seperating screenees into well, asymptomatic-sick and sick groups. ( Kaun Garfield, the cat, or is he the elusive physiologist...?)
16. The voluntary Health agencies have been compared to motor trucks which can penetrate the by-ways, and the official agencies to Railway Trunk lines which must run on tracks established by the law. (Park can be compared to a park where I fall off the bench and fracture my cranium)
17. Length can be taken most accurately with an infantometer, with a fixed head piece on which the infant lies supine with its legs fully extended and the feet flexed at right angles to the lower legs. (lower legs.. lower legs???)

I ll keep adding to the list. This list like Park is limitless...

Kurti Kudi

This post is actually a continuation of the previous one of mine and the culmination of the self-indulgent behaviour that i am indulging in.(But seriously,when one is deprived of ideas to write on and extraneous forces compel, coax and cajole to write something for the sake of keeping up appearances of the blog, then where can one best turn to, if not the Self?) So for those who didn't like the previous post or follow the statement in parenthesis, I assure you to go no further than this fullstop because the rest of the blog is equally obscure.

Now, that I have made my point that I know nothing about fashion,I also do admit that I simply love Kurtas and Kurtis( which have, according to my cousin N, gone out of fashion. But, then, who really cares?). I wear kurtas everywhere, be it to college, outings or even parties!This is safely vouched by my ward robe which is literally overflowing with kurtas of all hues and prints. At last count, there were 33 kurtas and 21 Kurtis in all to grace my wardrobe and plans are obviously afoot for the acquisition of more. And these Kurtas are not really very different from one another nor can they be termed as landmarks in fashion. In fact, according to my friends, each one looks suspiciously like the other in the same earthen shades of reds, greens, mustards, dark blues, browns and blacks. (Mind you, no pinks and pastels and the colour of the season is mint. Oh well!)

So what makes me wear these kurtas day in and out and bore everyone trying to make them see the subtle differences in the textiles, the prints and the patterns and then generally getting put-off when friends, having failed to see what's so different about each Kurti and exclaim,
" Hey Ananya, tere sab kapde ek jaise hi dikhte hain" . And it is just not the girls, guys too. My batch-mates have been weaned off the novelty of seeing me in kurtas and now none of them take kindly to my friendly advice on how guys should not be wearing pastel and flowery prints shirts on birthdays. K once told me. " Ananya, tu hamesha aise kapde kyun pehenti hain?" Hello, I am just wearing Kurtis and not Kimonos was my affronted reply!

It is so convenient to blame everything on your genes and I wouldn't be wrong if I admit that genesis of my kurti-kooching is my wonderful Mother, who is perennially dressed up in cottons and handlooms and who has been dragging me to all expos and exhibhitions ever-since I was knee -high. It is sheer delight to see her point the differnces between the fakes and the originals and to hear her expound on the ikats and the saptapars, the chikans and the kanthas, the chanderis and the kalamkaris... She has made me fall in love with the coarseness of the khadi, the magic of the mulmuls, the cottons of Orissa, the weaves of the North-east and the mugas of Assam. So now, I too can do a decent job of knowing the different cottons, the silks and the 'mixs' simply by sight and feel, though one can never really match up to a connoussier. I, too, can now identify which state a cloth has come from simply by a look. Now this is not what one would term as being fashionable but then each one to her own. At least by wearing these kurtas, I along with my Mom are getting a chance to indirectly help the silent, hidden weavers of India, the sole and the slowly dying-out guardians of India's rich heritage in textiles.

So now, I rest my case and the next time anybody complains as to why I am dressed up in an 'auntyji-type Kurta again, you know where I am going to direct that doubting dodo to!

P.S. I must admit that wearing Kurtas is not at all as hunky-dory as it seems... the high-maintenance and the innumerable starching and the ironing is really a pain...but then again I have my venerable Ma to do the honours!

The F-phenomenon

Those who know me will also know that I am definitely the most unqualified person to talk about this. However, because I am continuously bombarded by inputs on this F-thing all the time courtesy media (Mumbai Mirror to be more specific), cousins, family, friends (Not the BBC ones!) and acquaintances, the least I can do is to probably air my views or rather the lack of them on this topic.
Fashion is eponymous and synonymous with Mumbai. So much so that everyone, right from my maid to the sixties women in my building, keep themselves abreast and draped in the latest trends. And mind you, doing that is not really easy as one day you go to sleep affirming that grey is the dullest shade ever while the next day you wake up to find that ‘Grey is the latest black’. The coterie of fashion designers and the innumerable fashion weeks keeps the confusion alive. It is always fun to read the latest in colours, in cuts, in silhouettes and the stilettos and what-nots that the media keeps feeding to ignoramuses like me! And the terms are really creative too; cigarette pants, belly-busters, tanks, empire cuts and a whole jamboree of stuff like that.

Earlier I used to think that following fashion trends was for the classes and not for the masses. Sadly, it took my sprightly 10-year old cousin of mine to show me the way or rather let me flounder. For an entire year and a half, every time I would see her, she would be dressed in flaring wide skirts, awash with colour and bold prints. Every time I would refer to them as skirts, I would be patiently corrected, “These are not skirts, didi, and they are called gypsies”. Those skirts were so bright and seemed so conducive to hide my bulging adiposities in all the wrong places of my body that I gave way to temptation and brought two of them intending to wear them some day.

However, the next time I saw her after a long hiatus, gone were the skirts and she was dressed in what seemed to be coffee-colour slacks to my naïve eyes and brown tunic with frills and puffy sleeves and everything else that makes a woman feel good about her extra x-chromosome.
So as soon as she entered, I was like,
“Hey, N, what happened to your, er…um..haan...Gypsies”, glad that I had finally got the term right. “And why are you dressed in this frock with slacks below!”
“Oh, didi”, came her weary reply, “Gypsies have gone out of fashion a long time ago. These are called leggings and not slacks and this is not a frock, it is an empire-dress!
So what had she done with her entire wardrobe? And what was I to do with mine now?’ Did you give them to the gypsies? I lamely joked.
“No, didi, to an orphanage near my home. Give me yours too. I will give it to them!”

This was really an innovative solution. Not only do you get to follow all the latest trends in fashion and but you would also be helping someone out. But sadly, for an old ‘miser’able hoarder like me who still wears her 5- year old salwar-kurtas to college, this is a totally antagonistic. So here am I, still dressed in the kurtas and kurtis (another story) stitched by my local darzee and trapezing through life like a true behenji! Cheers!

From Jassi to Jesse

What is the difference between Traditional and Modern thinking, I was asked by a panel of experts (for a scholarship thingy), and I, spluttered, raved and ranted, till they realised what a nervous wreck I was and pitying me, kicked me out of the room.

I mused on my way back home, coming up with a thousand different ways I could have impressed them.

I guess the major difference between the traditional and the modern is the way they follow rules. A traditional person follows rules given to him without any reasoning and a modern person makes his own set of rules. This is when we realise that none of us are modern. Caught between a South Indian-demure-devoted-God fearing-obedient-girl image and a perverted-unthinking-crass-hooligan-student image, I realised, I was traditional in both these spheres. In each society that we move, we ultimately get tied down by the respective rules.

Back home, I follow my parents' orders and give into familial pressure and my supposed modern escape to college, has turned out to be the place where I give into peer pressure. The sudden spurt in visits to the beauty parlour, listening to a different tune, enjoying different (ahem) movies, eating out at expensive places, are these things a welcome change...? They just seem to be yet another set of rules that I have followed subconsciously.

What I mean is when you realise that your lifestyle is drastically changing from what it was, how much of it do you ascribe to a simple transition and how much to pressure? Is it a person transforming a traditional thinking to a modern one or is the person abandoning a set of traditions only to move onto a different one?

I guess we all subconsciously like to follow rules. We just choose the set of rules that we like the most and label ourselves and others, traditional or liberal, or whatever. It would be nice to make my own rules once in a while. Nice things, unfortunately, are damn hard to attain( it applies to men, cell phones, books, chocolates, clothes et al).

Attacked

This is an amateur interviewer's account of a mediocre interview followed up with an attack by transvestites.


Venue: The Grand Hyatt Lobby


Our egos were flogged by the fantastic–looking waiters and waitresses. We behenjis did not feel home. Not even at The Grand Hyatt where, standing in the lobby, we had the behenjiness to ask an attendant where the lobby was.


Then we stood waiting with unconditional awkwardness as the hunt for the interviewee began. We were herded into the lobby-eating-place (excuse me for my limited vocabulary).It was a good cup of cappuccino that the waiter brought along. When the interviewee finished drinking and ogled at us we realised that the interviewee had not ordered it. But neither had we. It was an embarrassing situation and the interviewee had to pay for it. And then we didn't expect him to be a smarty which he turned out to be. He said he'll give only a short interview. A shorty short interview. We had permission to shoot only for 15 minutes. So a shortier video. A fiasco.


And then of course the eunuch attack.


I have never seen eunuchs attack in full force. But they did. At Chamya, our official photographer. It was a well planned attack.



Black dots: Chamya, me and shraddha
Pink dots: Them
Yellow& black: Auto
Red: BEST bus

We didn't see them coming from between the autos at the traffic signal. Our photographer being the sole possesser of "Y" chromosome in the vicinity, was immediately targetted. They actually grabbed him in a bear hug as we girls scampered to safety. His camera dangling from his neck must have been attractive. He never told us how much money he paid them to spare him.

Moral: If you don't pay for cappucino you haven't ordered, eunuchs attack.

Pee Yes Am

That is what I am going to do. Day after tomorrow is the PSM Prelim exam. One of the turning points in the life of a medical student. It makes you turn hard enough to make you dizzy. You turn back to look at the innocent days of a pigtailed girl frolicking in the corridor of a South Indian school oblivious to teh torcher she would face five years from then. To the time lost solving differentials and integrations, which were supposed to be difficult, to have learnt and attempted to understand Newton's discoveries and inventing a different physics on paper. All for this.

All this for a blog I would write as a third year medical student struggling to give up sleep and laziness, struggling to be motivated to turn a page of Park. Yes, we come back to turn, again. It's always someone's turn to feel frustated. It's mine now. I don't want to learn the dimensions of Latrines. I don't want to learn about Macchhars and Makhkhees. About the fact that Indians are squatters who prefer anal washing. That economic development is the best contraceptive. That some people commit suicide by drowning and some by smoking. That randomisation is the "heart " of a trial. That cholera is the father of Public Health. That Yaws is a shining example. That accidents occur due to unusual animal behaviour.

May be this is why our country is in such a dire state. If we actually studied PSM and understood its implications the public health standards of our country would be possibly better.

May be it's my turn to launch the National Interest in PSM Preparation and Learning Emerges(NIPPLE) Programme.

I have wasted 20 minutes writing this. I could have taken a walk in the Park.

Sarcasm and Sewri

(For lack of activity on this blog, I had to chapofy from gosumag)

Owing to my contracted imagination, poor memory, undeclared frustration and utter lack of knowledge, I request to be excused for writing on what you might find to be a mundane subject. Sarcasm, it seems to me, is the right medium to describe this delightful place which I am fortunate to tolerate everyday.

Out of the many avenues of entering Sewri, I choose the Railway Station. Even with blaring sinusitis I have managed to identify the arrival of this station, owing to the enchanting (mal)odour of dried fish. It always strikes my consciousness hard enough to catch me off guard – every time. I get off the train only to hear the monotonous crackles of an unseen antique speaker which I have come to associate over the past three years with (un)timely railway announcements. Two policemen (one of the many kinds of men you will meet soon) stand guarding something, about which I have been curious for a long time. They occasionally pester the hawkers to reinstate their authority in the public’s eyes. I find them irritating because apart from their royal moustaches and pot bellies, they have nothing else descriptive about them, reducing the size of my article by a few lines.

I also unavoidably spot the Polyuric-men standing around the periphery of the station. These men have residual cave-men instincts and mark their territory sincerely everyday in their favourite niches. (Sometimes, I feel they are necessary as their large scale generation of ammoniacal odour neutralizes that of the dried fish.) I find this ironical as Sewri has the highest density of public toilets than anywhere else. (‘Anywhere’ being the finger-countable places I have been to in my whole life.) It makes the typical morning of Sewri a riot of colours – colours of buckets of all sizes and shapes, meant for different purposes and lined under different taps.

Leaving the station behind, I encounter my first dose of major excitement. It is time for some serious athletic activity. Every year in the three months of monsoon, the narrowest pavement leading out of the station has its tiles freed from cementing bondage. Anyone who dares to step on them is thrown off balance and is swathed in mud from knee to toe. So an aerial view of this pavement probably resembles a large number of adults engrossed in a difficult game of hopscotch. Of course, to make this game more exciting, there are overhanging tarpaulin roofs which cave in as rainwater accumulates and give away without any warning. It drenches me in gallons of water especially when Murphy knows that I have unedited Gosumag articles in a vulnerable canvas bag.

In these regions, you encounter the first signs of any wildlife in Sewri. The wildlife is quite sparse, mostly comprising of colourless strong willed mongrels with inhuman canines and odd mating habits. Another constant four legged species is the friendly cow tied in an unfriendly fashion to the old woman who owns it. Day after day, the cow stands ruminating respectfully with its derriere exposed to the hundred hands which take its blessings regularly.

In Sewri, I never fail to get a Gutkha-carpet welcome. Here, every man and woman revels not only in consuming gutkha but also in watching its tiny plastic packet flutter innocently onto the street. Also, the gutkha chewing-men staunchly believe that the world is their spittoon. I always guard myself from sudden spurts of blood-red well-masticated betel leaves striking from unexpected directions. I am fortunate to witness the process of the formation of some of the largest stains on the street. (You get the best results if you spit off a speeding motorbike.) These paan stains along with the gutkha packets adorn the streets of Sewri which get converted into a wild canvas of the modern artist.

I apologise for introducing the most proactive member of Sewri’s active social life towards the end of the article. I call him the Leering-man. This man (who I am sure is found in many other places) provides hundred percent entertainment on my way to the 8 o’clock morning lecture. Be it calling me “Garam garam murgi...” or the occasional grope or shove, he becomes another victim of the cave-man instincts lurking in these areas.

All this and much more have made me an ardent admirer of life here. But what I wish to share with you is the philosophy of life in Sewri — ‘If life comes to a standstill and you ruminate too long, they will touch your rear. So don’t chew too much, just spit...’

The BBC

All the members are seen in this snap.Unfortunately the creator(in red and in specs)and her muse(In blue, standing beside her) have both been obscured by other behenjis in front.

sari

BEHENJIS PAINTING THE DEAN'S LAWN RED- The colour of Joy and Celebration.

this has obviously been sourced from a website....

Beautiful Indian woman outfit may be spelled either "sari" or "saree". The etymology of the word "sari" is from the Sanskrit word 'sati', which means strip of cloth. This evolved into the Prakrit "sadi" and was later anglicized into "sari".
This wrapped and draped dress is worn by women from India in its various incarnations. Sari is not just a national dress but also a symbol of Indian culture and essential part of India as the country. If you are asked to describe an Indian woman, you will definitely mention sari and Indian bangles. Besides, you will picture a dancing Indian woman(a bit ridiculous statement though), and you will be absolutely right.
Sari plays a significant role in Indian culture. There are a number of myths and tales dedicated to sari. One of them says the following. When the beauteous Draupadi - wife of the Pandavas, was lost to the Kauravas in a gambling duel, the lecherous victors, intent on humiliating and harassing Draupadi, caught one end of the diaphanous material that draped her demurely, yet seductively. They continued to pull and unravel, but could not reach the end, and thus undrape her. Virtue triumphed yet again in this 5,000 year old Indian epic, the Mahabharata. Legend, fantasy, history or fact, it is the first recorded reference to the enduringly attractive Sari - the longest running 'in fashion' item of feminine apparel in the world.
In a metaphysical sense the Kauravas symbolize the forces of chaos and destruction, trying to unwind what is in effect, infinity. They are finally forced to stop, frustrated and defeated.
There is ample evidence of the sari in the earliest examples of Indian art. Sculptures from the Gandhara, Mathura and Gupta schools (1st- 6th century AD), suggest that the sari in its earlier form was a briefer garment, with a veil, and usually no discernable bodice (oops).
In extant North Indian miniature paintings, (particularly Jain, Rajasthani and Pahari schools from the 13th to the 19th centuries) it seems to consist of the diaphanous skirt and an equally diaphanous veil draped over a tiny bodice(oops again). This style still survives as the more voluminous lehanga of Rajasthan and Gujarat. Gradually this skirt and veil were amalgamated into one garment, but when and how this happened is not precisely clear. One theory, not fully substantiated, is that the style was created by Noor Jahan (d. 1645) wife of the Mughal emperor Jehangir (reigned. 1605-27).
Indian civilization has always placed a tremendous importance on unstitched fabrics like the sari and dhoti, which are given sacred overtones. The belief was that such a fabric was pure; perhaps because in the distant past needles of bone were used for stitching. Hence even to the present day, while attending pujas or other sacred ceremonies, the men dress up in dhotis while women wear the sari.
What is actually a sari and how to wear it? The sari is a multi-purpose garment that enhances the perfect figure and covers well the not so perfect ones(hehe... note the point your honour...). In fact the Indian woman's figure seems to fit in so much better with the sari as compared her western counterpart.
Sari is an untailored length of cloth, the fabric is highly structured and its design vocabulary very sophisticated. The material always light enough not to interfere with the fluidity of the drape is another source of varied tactile delight - cottons, silks, cottons mixed with silk, chiffons and tissues are some of the preferred mediums. The saris are embellished with medallions, fine floral 'butis', scrolled leaves, branches and creepers, stylized peacocks and parrots. Experiments with the endless designs and materials are unlimited. Sari is complemented with jewelry, for example bangles.
Sari can be worn in many ways. Underneath the sari one wears a waist-to-floor length skirt, tied tightly (agreed) at the waist by a drawstring and a blouse that ends just below the bust. A distinct part of the indian sari is gently or a 'pallav', the one end of the sari that goes across one shoulder to fall down the back, which differs in look as compared to the other end of sari. The blouse or a 'choli' has never been as versatile and trendy as it is now. There are embroidered blouses, cholis, some with strings for greater ventilation(strings....ventilation??), some with high cuts that are deep both in the front and in the back, all of which gives the wearer a look that can range from confident to sexy.
Opulent women outfit makes Indian women even more beautiful. (behenjis Rejoice!!!)

Sundae on a Saturday

It was a hot, humid Saturday afternoon and the members of the BBC were having a lazy afternoon lunch in the Kalpa-droom, lectures and college having been dispensed with.
We were all munching and talking desultorily about some vague topics when my eyes spied the cover of the dabba in which i had brought food.
Since it was a Sundae box, the cover had a big, bright, mouth-watering photo of a chocolate sundae with the ridges of vanilla standing firm while chooclate was running down the furrows and down the sides...mmm..mmm..
Then, i had a madcap idea to go and buy a sundae then and there and finish it off!The BBC members all trooped out in unison and marched towards the great Aditi. Having driven the manager crazy with our doubts and indecisiveness about everything, be it the flavour and the size to our seating and sitting, we then ran back to the college looking for a secluded place to eat the whole thing.
Presto! The Dean's Lawn, the green and the flowery paradise was open to us,the behenji mortals.
There, we were, seated on the velvety grass and hunched beneath the shady palms,its long leaves gently swaying and rustling up our(especially my wild) tresses.
Someone then opened the box, gently, while we waited with baited breaths.As soon as the lid was prised open, all of us, armed with our plastic spoons literally pounced upon and attacked the delectable mound of cream and chocolate.
Soon, white merged with dark chocolate and became an indetectable, amorphous coffee colour, frozen cream became cold milk, ice to water and the solid chunk to a floating custard. Spoons flew, dresses were splotched, lips were smeared, cheeks were smudged fingers were sticky and faces grimy.
Atlast, the scooping, digging and licking bore fruit as the box was licked clean and there was the joy of satisfaction on our faces about a job welldone...

Footnote:
The purpose of this post was not merely to express our skill in collective gluttonry but also to express my gratitude and luck in having a few, true good friends who are capable of making such a positive difference to my life.
This also reminds me of my favourite line from Munnabhai.."Yeh mat socho ki zindagi mein kitne pal hain par yeh socho ki ek pal mein kitne zindagi hai."
Long Live the BBC!

Behenji Bitchology

The poem below has been written by Viraj.As a member of BBC, i am publishing it in this blog and i am hope the president of the club is happy to accept this contribution as it so aptly sums up the members' unexpressed philosophies of life and complements as well as compliments our thinking.
All credit, comments and controversies to be kindly or unkindly addressed to the original author.

BITCHOLOGY

When I stand up formyself and my beliefs,they call me a bitch.

When I stand up forthose I love,they call me a bitch.

When I speak my mind, think my own thoughts
or do things my own way, they call me a bitch.

Being a bitch means I won'tcompromise what'sin my heart.
It means I live my life MY way.
It means I won't allow anyone to step on me.

When I refuse totolerate injustice
and speak against it, I am defined as a bitch.

The same thing happens
when I take time for myself
instead of being everyone's maid,
or when I act a little selfish.

It means I have the courage
and strength to allow myself to be who I truly am and
won't become anyone else's idea of what they think I "should" be.

I am outspoken,opinionated and determined.
I want what I want and there is nothing wrong with that!
So try to stomp on me,
try to douse my inner flame,
try to squash every ounce of beauty I hold within me.
You won't succeed.

And if that makes me a bitch ,so be it.I embrace the title and am proud to bear it.

B - Babe
I - In
T - Total
C - Control of
H - Herself

B = Beautiful
I = Intelligent
T = Talented
C = Charming
H = Hell of a Woman

B = Beautiful
I = Individual
T = That
C = Can
H = Handle anything

My take on International womens' day...

In order to reach home from kandivili station which is approximately 3 kms away, i need to take a share auto. I have to get into a 'damu' auto because it passes by a stop which is close to my home. Though Lokhandwala is a posh area, damu nagar is the habitat for the lower-class to work for the residents of our township. So u can very well imagine what kind of crowd i get to share the auto with,majority of the time.

The auto-wallahs are too undoubtedly foolhardy as well as stupid. Since there's always a huge crowd at the station and a great demand for the autos as it is the only way for us to reach home, especially at peak hours in the evening,most of these autowallahs tend to seat 6 to 7 people in one auto. There will be 4 people squeezed in behind and 2 guys on eiher side of the driver in the front and then there'll be another guy who will manage to fit himself somehow in the front,weight and waist permitting. The passengers dont mind as most of them are lukhas anyways. Only the office-going blue-collar, straight-jacketed residents of Lokhandwala and the women object to these kind of 'mass'-transport.This makes the auto-drivers disinclined to take women passengers and the women get stranded everytime, everyday.

It so happened that on 8th, the Int'l womens' day, I was as usual shouting myself hoarse, yelling"damu. damu.." at every auto that was passing by me near the station at the last stop. One driver passed by me and another female standing beside me who also wanted to get into a 'damu' auto, shook his head while we said 'damu' and then assented to another guy standing few steps away from us who was also shouting 'damu'. This engraged me somuch so that i ran after the auto-wallah all the while demanding whether he was 'damu' or not. He kept on going ahead and finally stopped some 25 metres away as he couldn't shake me off. Even then he kept mum while i repeatedly asked"' yeh damu hai kya?" The driver as well as the lukha within had the nerves to pretend to be deaf. I started haraunging the lukha and told him to shift aside so that I could climb in because I knew it was a damu auto. He kept pretending to be a statue, and finally said "What you telling me.Tell him, no!"I was so stupefied at this 'English' that i burst laughing at him and then floored him with my best English as possible; "Hello if you don't know english then dont speak like this.Mujhe bhi hindi aati hai.Chalo ab shift ho'"

Suitably chastened, he finally shifted, looking helplessly at the driver.On top of all this drama, the auto -wallah had the gall to say.."Madam, aap lady paasenger hai, isliye hamne mana kiya ,kyunki abhi char sawari ko lega." I finally brushed him off saying that "lady passenger ke liye itna respect hai, to unko mana hi kyun karte ho?"
Finally the victory was mine as not only did he have to take 3 passengers, the 3rd was the same lady beside me who too had wanted a 'damu'!

Yippee..this was my struggle and my success on March 8th. Unfortunately, these situations happen eveyday, everywhere , everytime with all women.
Who said being a woman was easy...

P.S. On a lighter note, here are some resons why i would like to be reborn as a woman..

1. Women are not only the fairer sex but also the luckier sex because a woman is 'woo-man' someone who gets to woo a man as well as can be 'wooed-men' someone who can wooed by a man. Unfortunately, since in India because of the atrocious sex ratio, men will always outnumber women and thus rarely will a guy get an oppurtunity to be wooed by a lady unless he is a stud like John Abraham! So not only do we get the cake, we get to eat it too...
2. A woman can equally be ease in her sarees and skirts as well in his shirts and jeans. On the other hand, i cant envision a guy getting a chance to wear a skirt unless he is lucky enough to be in Scotland(either by birth or money)... :-)
3. Women are often considered as a weaker sex, which is entirely wrong. as i have learnt from personal experience that being considered weak can really prove to be advantageous many times, if you know how to use your charms well...

So Happy womens' day...Bless us all...

Happy women's day

I will not celebrate Women's day until...


1. 50% of railway compartments are reserved for women.
2. At least 90% of husbands agree to vasectomy.
3. Sex ratio of India is at least 1000.
4. There are no battered wives.
5. Women can marry when they want to and whom they want to.
6. People are not surprised to see female bus drivers.
7. Women don't cook all the three meals of the day.
8. People don't get up to give seats to women out of pity.
9. Women don't die of anaemia.
10. Female sportswomen are paid equal to male sportsmen.
11. There is a seperate supplement in the newspaper on Women's World Cup.
12. Daughters are allowed to burn pyres.
13. People forget what dowry is.
14. Female foeticide is wiped out.

I will not celebrate Women's day until... there is no need to celebrate a women's day......

Two much for today

A Tale of Few Words

Few are my worries
Fewer my joys
The fewer my delights
The fewer my tries..

Few are my tries
Fewer my victories
The fewer my victories
The fewer my joys..

Few are my words
Fewer my lines
The fewer my poems
The fewer your sighs..


To Want or Not to Want


"Aspire to be the best"
Is easy enough to say,
Is like to think of the Everest
Then just to climb up a few stairs
And to feel your chest heaving,
And the glaciers of sweat.
Pouring into the Ganges
Of dreams ignored and left
Locked, to be unspoken about.
As we tried to bequeath
The dreams away,
To the passage of time.
When the dreams are forgotten
Or have been buried unsaid
As we still are trying
Climbing up an anthill;
Which refuses to budge.

And the dreams take a leap
From the Everest to the Channel.
May be a swim across
Would soothe and heal.
The mind needs rest
And the body can feel
That if swim it is,
Then swim we will.
But the rivulets of sweat,
Which are increasing now,
Are drowning you further,
Are pulling you back.
Forget the Channel-
Let's try the Dead Sea now.
You don't know how to swim,
And it won't let you drown.

As you float in ignorance,
You can feel all the salt.
It is covering your body,
It is engulfing your thoughts.
But it is too late to worry.
It is too hard to try.
May be you should have,
Tried learning to fly...

(phew! its a bit too long...)

Stray thoughts

Stuck in yet another tedious lecture,
My mind lent itself to stray conjectures,
My brain racked with stray thoughts,
To these questions, answers i sought.

What does being a medical student entail-
Is it having your leisures curtailed?
Moreover, what is it to be a doctor,
Is the outcome worth the endeavour?

What feelings arise in a doctor's heart
When patients expect him to give death a start?
When the eyes of the suffering mutely hope for a miracle
While he knows, there is only scope for a debacle...

What is it to be considered a Saviour,
Having remedies forTB to a tumour,
To be thought of knowing every cure,
When the doc himself is not so sure.

What keeps doctors so sustained?
The strength to do the same, again and again.
The ability to re-enact the great drama,
Smilingly,willingly, left unscarred by the trauma.

Yet, after aspiring to acquire degree after degree
How many will treat all and the sundry and for free?
With the noble thought of rendering humanity a service
Thus fulfiling the long-made, old futile promise...

These nagging queries may well remain unanswered,
For some may find them strange, some absurd,
These are, but, the stray thoughts of an idle mind,
Indeed, aren't doctors a boon to mankind?

Dr.Sam Krishnamourthakova

This blog needs no words...

(courtesy mr. chintan desai)

The Auction

She had called him that morning with a purposeful tone in her voice which always meant he was in trouble. Now what was that he had done this time....? It was something he had forgotten, oh yes, her birthday. He stood outside her door wondering whether that little foolishness on his part was enough to incite her to break up with him. He stood with flowers and a newspaper wrapped gift in his hand which he would never give her for she was getting married to Karan next week and had gone out with him that evening. It still did not sink in.

He had won her, but had lost her love. He had spent a third of his whole month’s earnings on the gifts. The flowers he gave them to the old lady who sat next to the tea stall selling toffees. The gift he would keep as a burning memory of a hatred which soon would be quenched by mere indifference. He was a painter. His strokes as aggressive and as exquisite as the veins that ran on his forearms fuelling his passion for art. She was his inspiration, his admirer, his critic and his only love. And now he had lost her, forever. She married Karan, an affluent businessman who kept her happier and more occupied than a bankrupt painter ever could.

He sat in one of the back rows, watching his painting being auctioned, camouflaged by the crowd. It was her birthday. He watched her bid and battle for his masterpiece, the one he had painted for her, and wrapped in a newspaper, for her birthday, years ago. He was the only one to notice the single tear flow down her eye when she could bid no more.

And then, across the room her eyes met his. He stared into the eyes of a middle aged unhappy wife whose successful, ambitious husband steered her away unmindful of her sadness which he did not understand and did not care for. She kept looking at him as she walked away. And her eyes confessed the burden she had been carrying for so long. The way her circumstances had auctioned her off to the highest bidder who had demanded her life’s biggest sacrifice. Her eyes were full of the invisible tears for she had lost her only memory of her love, a memory of what could have been possible. A gavel banging the table brought him back to reality. Sold. He now had money that would last him three lifetimes. The love he had thought as lost forever and had abandoned, had always been in her and its only memory which he needed now was now gone forever. He saw her disappear in to the crowd, their eyes unwilling to break apart till the end.
He had won her love but had lost her forever.

(All right... I see the rotten tomatoes... and eggs ...)

(To be continued next week is a graphic account of adultery and passion.... keep reading)

Worth and worthiness.

To say if anything is worth doing,it is worth doing well is true and praiseworthy.But it is equally important to remember that one must make every thing worth doing. No task, however big or small is not worthy enough to be done.This is aptly illustrated by an anecdote which i had read in my childhood and has remained in my mind eversince.
Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the great educationist was once invited as a guest of honour to a public gathering.He accepted the invite and reached the venue punctually,However, while all the invitees, participants and spectators had arrived,the programme did not start on time. He questioned one of the organisers the reason for the delay. The organiser replied that they were waiting for the sweeper to come. Seeing Ishwarji's look of surprise, the organiser further elaborated.." Sir, the stage is very diry.We are waiting for the sweeper to come and clean it for you.How can we expect a man as great as you sit on such a dirty stage?".
On hearing this, Ishwarji immediately lifted up the broom and started cleaning the stage himself. As the organiser began protesting, he explained that no job is dirty or menial. One should never think that a task is not worth doing. Instead one should wonder whether the task,however big or small it may be, is worthy of being done by us because ultimately all of us are just mere servants of the worthiest taskmaster..the GOD.

U can learn from anybody, even ur enemies...

Since i develop an acute exacerbation of an attack of writer's block whenever i am face to face with this blog and yet i hate to disappoint our worthy editor-cum-founder who is always demanding for new blogs at a rate which is commiserate with her speed of cracking fatta one-liners i've decided to draw my inspiration from "Quote of the day".
The quote is..."quite obviously the title of this blog" So this is what i've learnt...

• Never disclose names of ur enemies.i.e.people whom u don't like.
• Bitching is an art unto itself..if u r not skilled or gifted, then keep ur trap shut or get trapped urself.
• Service with a smile should be thy motto...The phonier the smiles that u give, the sooner will they develop severe complications of EDTAs(Extreme Diabetic Talk Attacks).
• Bitching behind backs is passe...the capability not to bitch is an ability...
• Never talk sense or write non-nonsense stuff...So as the readers will see i've learnt and imbibed a lot of gyaan from my enemies and have put them into practice...

P.S. These opinions r not the writer's own but only a reflection of her enemies' ...so in no way should she be held accountable...

P.P.S. The writer sincerely apologises for all the drivelling crap written above but this only proves how desperate times give rise to despo measures.

P.P.P.S. There r many slips-of-the-tongue in this article because this article is meant to be purely tongue-in-cheek...

P.P.P.P.S. So no offence meant... :)

P.P.P.P.P.S i posted a blog................

I hate val's day

Indians are a really a big-hearted and open-minded class of people.Imported ideas immediately capture their imagination.This is why, Indians start going into a parasympathetic overdrive(except politicians who get reflex sympathetic activity and literally see red) at the very thought of approach of Valentine's day...girls gossip as well as bitch about prospective guys and gifts,dresses and dates while guys think of infinite ways to blow up money and make fools of themselves. Indians invariably lust once every year on 14th feb, year after year but how many really bother to simply love on the other 364 days ?To top it all, would the response been equally eager and enthusiastic if the day had been named after Kama, the Hindu god of Love?

The Little Warriors

They may be so beautiful
When they speak out aloud
Little children smiling at you
Little bundles of joy
But they do for the whole day
And well into the night
Selling goods on the railways
Selling the joys of young life...

They polish your new shoes
They are cleaning your house
They bring your newspaper
They play with your child
They sweat all their blood
So much and so easily
Never ever giving you a clue
That they are yet tired....

You make laws to protect them
You write poems on their plight
Then one day you realize
Their hunger and their cries
They are the deprived
They are the slaves of their fate
They have started their battle
They have no time to waste....

When your day has been tiring
When you are sighing with a yawn
When you are ending the poem
And you look out on the lawn
A faint voice is whistling
Under the moonlight’s calm
A little warrior is still pushing
His wheelbarrow on.......

Check Mate

I was standing on the edge of the train leaning out into the wind. I was only conscious of the wind in my hair and the feel of cold metal which my fists gripped to hold me back from losing myself into the black void outside. A strange aroma arose from the land beyond and I felt one of my eyebrows rise bringing me out of my delusion.

And then I saw them.

They were majestic. Seven of them. With their chests wide, their bodies erect, pride on their faces, poised at the threshold of victory. Their capes fluttered in the wind and as I passed them the whole world seemed to slow down for me, just to watch them. They were soldiers on a chessboard. Only the king, the minister, a knight, 2 horses and a foot soldier of the white army were erect. The king stood, a serene smile on his face, an expression of intense relief signalling the end of an era. The king of the black army seemed to be squatting his hands entangled in his hair, the lonely emperor of a lost battle. Then as a I came closer to them I saw them standing in the strangest posture- their heads were bent and one hand was placed between their legs. Then I saw the stream of urine spout from their anatomy.

ONE TIGHT SLAP!

This is all I wanted to give them. But I was helplessly hanging almost outside the train and could only avert my eyes from them. Why do men in the city of Mumbai suffer from incontinence? On the tracks, into the drains, by the side of the roads thousands of bladders empty by day and through the night. What do women do then? They LOOK for loos or control themselves. But for men the whole world is their loo, isnt it? This incident makes me deter from touching any guy's hands. Forget contraceptives the government should start supplying free Foleys catheter to the Mumbai men. At least it won't stink as much. So much for my chessmen.

Ahem

Today I discussed with one of the hot babes in our college how women spread gossip...

There are basically two phenomena

1. Spatial which is subdivided into

--Progressive

--Regressive

--Paradoxical

2.Temporal

Progressive gossip is generally very wide in scope with a horizontal exponential mode of spread. It is generally done in large groups with lot of giggling and involves people unrelated to the gossipers too personally. It is faster than light. Believe me.

Regressive is a dead end in the chain of gossip. It generally happens when the news is too unhot to be concerned about or when it concerns the person too much.

Paradoxical is one of the most effective methods the conscience of a woman (read: bitch) has developed to evade guilt. It is a vertical spread of information where a one to one spread of information occurs. Each woman (read: bitch) extracts a contract of silence from the recipient. The recipient assumes the role of the communicator and in turn extracts a similar contract of silence from the next recipient in the chain. It is a very effective method which though being slower than progressive gossip is as watertight as the most watertight thing whatever it is. A 100 women might know the secret but it never is discussed.

Temporal is the fact that a piece of information loses its importance as time passes and slowly is transmitted as its virulence decreases. The time of course varies with the individual and the spiciness of the news.

Last words... Men BEWARE... Women CAN'T keep secrets

(Oh and I am blaming it on Yudhishthira, he who cursed that womankind can't keep secrets because Kunti had not revealed that Karna was his elder brother until the end of the war.)

Some imp points...

As a concerned board member i would like to know the criteria for calculating the average...i mean whose all marks did the Hon'rable president take into consideration while doing the calculation..i mean.,i am seriously worried by how did we miss our target i.e. 412/550 or 75% by just 1 mark..Is it time to revamp our studying methods???

Meal 2 remember

This is a random entry of a lunch to remember. I dont remember the exact date but think it was around last week.A new exercising of my writing skills.The three women were seated around the last table on one of the four rows of tables laid out in the canteen. They were in their late teens and seemed to be waiting for another girl to join them. they waited, waited and they waited. So they finally gave orders including for the absent member because they expected her to be present by the time their food arrived. As it so happens she didnt arrive but her food did, along with theirs. They finished eating their meal but were tempted by her untouched papad and shrikhand in her untouched thali and left no traces of their remains. And then they ordered ginger-lemon juice as two of them were in the throes of a bad cold. As it happens the ginger had no lemon and was too gingery for human consumption. And there ensued a battle to consume the nectar with one of them diluting the juice in the bottle occasionally, not realising that the volume of consumption was actually increasing. The climax of the scene involves by the so far absent friend arriving and causing a havoc by showing belligerence towards the waiter who had not brought her papad and shrikhand. Followed by more belligerence towards her tablemates as the picture became clearer. This was of course borne by the other three, two of them whom she found curiously red eyed with watering noses and with tongues exposed in opened mouths making frequent licking and panting gingerly motions.

This shows how a good lunch can be made to sound boring using the right language.

Skin

Its so late in the night (10 30 actually thats late enough for me)

And I must warn the readers who are ananya and hopefully ashwin that this site is created for the MOST frivolous topics possible because that is what I am good at...

We were sitting at the doctors debate when Baberanjan and I noticed this fantastic babe in a few rows ahead who was bending herself better than beckham could ever aspire to bend. You know such things come to your notice very easily..( I know its a lame excuse but keratin does catch ones eye)...And we admired (oh yeah welcome to the land of Lesbos) a sheer glistening 6 inches wide patch of skin.. (Unfortunately) we did not get an oppurtunity for further examination..And so it happens that everywhere in trains, buses, roads etc women bend to pick up things, lean forward to hear better, keep baggage in the top rack on the train..

And the aunties watch.. and whisper...disapprovingly... my own family disapproves (quite vocally though)

And all aunties seem to mind it a LOT..

And I say-- hypocrites..

The aunties are so unaware that sartorially speaking the saree has a much more panoramic view compared to what we struggle to achieve with our tshirts. And what a view too...! And they dont seem to mind it all even though its 360 degrees of pure hypocrisy showing through!!

(i ve run out of things to say at this point)

Ok i ll bet ashwin has more experience in these kinda things...

Ball room dancing...

Its not easy being a behenji esp when u r looking for any guy to partner you..Only a behenji would know how not to be able to arrange a partner for the biggest event of Aavishkar..Ball room dancing by the one and only Sandip Soparrkar...

In honour of all the pigs

I contribute an Oink!

welcome to the BBC

Lets start with an auspicious .......WOOF!!