Mujhe pak raha hai.
So I am not going to be blogging till this phase passes.
(As if anyone cares about it.)
Friday, July 18, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
3 equals 27
Believe me, I am not getting my Maths wrong. 3 does equal 27.
Getting repeats in OBGY lectures in KEMH is an age-old traditon. 118 lectures are held every year and you should have attended atleast 97 to complete your 75% quota. Now most people do complete this quota by hook or mostly by crook(courtesy proxies). But since the attendances are usually misplaced, the department hands out random repeats. And having done the folly of attending quite a few(read too many), I could hardly be glad when I got the dubious distinction of being a topper amongst the BBC again by getting the highest no of repeats - 27 to be exact! Now to repay this deficit, one has to attend with our joons who have 4 lectures a week. Since my joons had the distinction of being useless when it comes to attending lectures, I had resigned myself to wasting 4 hours per week in these lectures for 7 weeks till 19th July.
Then someone had a brainwave.
Divya made a list of names and roll nos of the 11 of us who hang out whenever time permits and smsed it to all of us. Now we have to attend serially according to our roll nos and mark the attendances, dutifully keep track of our turns and remind the next roll no for her turn. It is obvious that 3 actual attendances should be sufficient to cover up all the deficits with some surplus (especially for those of us who have been lucky to escape with 15-16 repeats. [:-(] )
Anyway the wheels have been set into motion...hopefully things work out so that the repeats are not carried forwards to the PL. Also hope that the attendance sheets are submitted properly and people don't spot the glaring similarities in the way 11 people sign especially on days when it is Saumya's turn! But then as a wise aleck once said, "Man lives in hope. Without hope, there would only be despair".
Touchwood!
P.S. 7 down...20 more to go.
Getting repeats in OBGY lectures in KEMH is an age-old traditon. 118 lectures are held every year and you should have attended atleast 97 to complete your 75% quota. Now most people do complete this quota by hook or mostly by crook(courtesy proxies). But since the attendances are usually misplaced, the department hands out random repeats. And having done the folly of attending quite a few(read too many), I could hardly be glad when I got the dubious distinction of being a topper amongst the BBC again by getting the highest no of repeats - 27 to be exact! Now to repay this deficit, one has to attend with our joons who have 4 lectures a week. Since my joons had the distinction of being useless when it comes to attending lectures, I had resigned myself to wasting 4 hours per week in these lectures for 7 weeks till 19th July.
Then someone had a brainwave.
Divya made a list of names and roll nos of the 11 of us who hang out whenever time permits and smsed it to all of us. Now we have to attend serially according to our roll nos and mark the attendances, dutifully keep track of our turns and remind the next roll no for her turn. It is obvious that 3 actual attendances should be sufficient to cover up all the deficits with some surplus (especially for those of us who have been lucky to escape with 15-16 repeats. [:-(] )
Anyway the wheels have been set into motion...hopefully things work out so that the repeats are not carried forwards to the PL. Also hope that the attendance sheets are submitted properly and people don't spot the glaring similarities in the way 11 people sign especially on days when it is Saumya's turn! But then as a wise aleck once said, "Man lives in hope. Without hope, there would only be despair".
Touchwood!
P.S. 7 down...20 more to go.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Devil Wears Naadaa
It was another uneventful day in college. The morning was punctuated with dismal statements. Some like, "I ll have to become a cheerleader in IPL, if I dont clear PG-CET...". There were umpteen discussions on "tie the saree" day photos. This made me ponder. On why we took all that trouble every year to look good and feel unbearable at the same time. Though I am sure I achieved the latter, the former is doubtful, as most people said just one thing to me, 'wow, you look so tall in a saree!' As if I didn't know it.
I was on the way back home. I was still pondering. I was sitting next to a thickset fisherwoman in the train. And a woman entered the compartment. She was six feet tall. Her face was beautiful. She wore a lehenga-choli with lovely windows here and there. For ventilation. The dupatta unfulfilled its purpose effectively. Everyone stared at her. Oblivious to all the attention she glided to the nearby seats and spoke aloud. In a masculine voice, she booked a place for herself. The stares intensified. People sitting close to her reflexly flinched.
She was a he. A eunuch. The woman, next to whom she sat, was at the epitome of recoil. Stares became whispers. Someone had a digicam. A request for a pose. 'Say cheese'. A flash in the ladies compartment. Whispers became conversations. It was a relief. She seemed to be just like one of us. Mansi. Her profession, dancing. Not barging into trains and slapping people on their heads and begging for money. Conversations became laughter. More photos, group photos, this time. She had a cell phone. It rang 3 times. She answered them loudly, like anyone of us, in a crowded train. She had friends.
She got up to leave. The stares were back. She walked past the eyeballs and descended gracefully onto the platform. The whispers turned into jibes. Chakki. Not Mansi. Not she. Not he. Just a beautiful body in a tasteful attire. And a hope to be accepted. Something which all of us take for granted. The desire to look and feel feminine. And fill up the gender column in every form. Without a thought. Where there is no third option.
I was on the way back home. I was still pondering. I was sitting next to a thickset fisherwoman in the train. And a woman entered the compartment. She was six feet tall. Her face was beautiful. She wore a lehenga-choli with lovely windows here and there. For ventilation. The dupatta unfulfilled its purpose effectively. Everyone stared at her. Oblivious to all the attention she glided to the nearby seats and spoke aloud. In a masculine voice, she booked a place for herself. The stares intensified. People sitting close to her reflexly flinched.
She was a he. A eunuch. The woman, next to whom she sat, was at the epitome of recoil. Stares became whispers. Someone had a digicam. A request for a pose. 'Say cheese'. A flash in the ladies compartment. Whispers became conversations. It was a relief. She seemed to be just like one of us. Mansi. Her profession, dancing. Not barging into trains and slapping people on their heads and begging for money. Conversations became laughter. More photos, group photos, this time. She had a cell phone. It rang 3 times. She answered them loudly, like anyone of us, in a crowded train. She had friends.
She got up to leave. The stares were back. She walked past the eyeballs and descended gracefully onto the platform. The whispers turned into jibes. Chakki. Not Mansi. Not she. Not he. Just a beautiful body in a tasteful attire. And a hope to be accepted. Something which all of us take for granted. The desire to look and feel feminine. And fill up the gender column in every form. Without a thought. Where there is no third option.
P.S. For the uninitiated, naadaa is a piece of string which holds a petticoat or lehenga around every woman's waist in this country. It is the unsung hero of why saree days are a success in KEM, year after year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
