There's so much you can do with a Kurkure!

We are a trendy Punjabi family who love the good life and do everything to make it fun. My brother B.K. has the most colourful collection of shirts, we fondly call him rainbow man. My sister-in-law Anupama is so beautiful, she’d give Hema Malini a complex. My husband Amit loves to wear his pair of baggy jeans and starter cap and looks hilarious trying to imitate his favourite rap star. And I, Monika, used to look like the gorgeous Nargis in my youth, some people still think I do.

In the spirit of everything cool and funky, we always experiment with new & exotic cuisines. We had bought ourselves matching ponchos and decided to make something Mexican for tea. While making burritos, we added our favourite Kurkure to the recipe. Even real Mexicans couldn’t have made something this mast!

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About using Twitter on your phone

Twitter really shines when you're away from your computer.

By hooking up your mobile phone, you can receive updates from those you're following (or just some people) when you're waiting in boring lines. And you can send updates, like "OMG, there's a monkey walking down the street!"—which, lets face it, you're unlikely to see while you're indoors. It's all done through text messages (aka "sms"), which you probably use all the time anyway, so there's not much to learn. Twitter doesn't charge anything for this, but be sure to know what your text plan looks like with your wireless carrier. Also know that you can shut text messages from Twitter off at anytime by replying with "off" (and back on by sending "on"). And you can even specify that it turn off automatically at night over here.

see it for yourself

Hyper-linker

• I've been listening to Cake as I write this. Cake is an indie-rock band, and they're so-so.
  
• I found a quiz on the India Uncut website. (And what a website it is! Super stuff; congratulations Amit Verma, for writing and managing so well)
• The quiz led me to this page. It doesn't make a very great read, but did you ever know the line was so bluddy long?
• This is a good online newspaper. Better read, I find, than a lot of American ones. (While you're at that, if you wanna know where some of the flashy, dripping-in-your-face-with-colours-and-eye-straining-graphics Indian websites get their ideas, check this out.) It has been around for a while, and is a regularly updated, often used website. I found it when I read an article that talked of legislating against the underwear-baring, lower than low baggy pants that are worn almost everywhere around USA now. I also happened to read about the zoot suit riots. Good stuff.
  
• I used to regularly read the curious gawker, but I had not once visited the other, casual, more personal blog of his. It is SO good. I enjoy his style a lot. Check it out here.
• And because I may have told you to read my blog and you come and see this bulleted list of links instead, and that irks you, you may want to read Kaushik's blog. I disclaim any responsibility of your well-being for after you read the blog, and also, don't hold anything against me :)
• You may want to leave a comment. Just so.
  

The pursuit of philosophi (Will Smith took my y)

I enjoy writing. It's one of the few things I truly enjoy engaging in, and when that doesn't work out well, like it didn't - so many times over the past year, when I'm at a loss to find words to string together to explain what it is that I'm feeling, I would be so terribly bothered by it. Because, well, it's not just about a pastime here. It was more like sustenance, I used to blog a lot more from home and after that, everything just got so disconnected and, um, random.

So I decided to do a blog post about that today. About the story when things started to go downhill for me, when I wasn't aware that I was indeed on top of a hill, when I had so much that I never knew I'd bargained for, and how...uh I'll save the punchline for later.

(Isn't there a justify on this thing?)

Yesterday I decided that there was a significance to the address of my blog - blackframedspectacles, although until now, I myself deemed it to be a random, get-people-to-wonder-bout-it sorta name. Yesterday, I decided upon its significance. It's a nice story, even if you don't know me personally. In fact, all the better for that.

Mom bought me those frames, I think the rage was Sania Mirza coupled with Kal Ho Naa Ho, that made mom acknowledge those hideous frames and bring them home because I was too lazy to go out to the shop and select some for myself. Let me say this for myself, or at least how it was then, that I was no great judge of appearances, accessorizing or the other appalling a's. I just went with the flow (of course, I did have judgments to pass on certain others, but they were none too scathing, and none had any effect on my general attitude) and didn't really find them much too bad.
But they were bad. In fact, the colour of my skin made it worse because of the contrast it created - thick black frames and sometimes alabaster-white skin. (I have tanned excessively now, but ANYway...)
I got through NUJS, came to Kol...blah blah, we know the story, and one night when I went down for dinner, I revealed them to the world. Everyone, as a rule, detested them. They didn't say it to my face, of course. People are polite when around I years. But that made it worse for me, because I tend to imagine, and speculate and ruminate and brood and just run myself to ruin solely with my thoughts. It's amazing how I can actually manage it, but I have created situations, problems within situations, the loss of a solution to that problem due to a turn of events within that imaginary situation and spewed the anger resulting from that on people. My alcove-mate was witness to one such hysterical outburst, and I asked her, very uncharitably, to leave my room. But I digress...

The spectacles, of course. I did have a different pair of spectacles, decent, thin ones but I lost them very soon, while I moved to my assigned room. So I realized I was stuck with this for a long time, and I didn't mind it much. Or so I thought.

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Day by day, there was a growing alienation between myself and my peers because of that introspection that I got lost in much so often, and it wasn't even that much fun. I would want to go out and have fun without a thought and yet something really strong would pull me back to my chair and keep me there.
And then a day came when everyone decided to tell me how much they hated me and those ugly blackframedspectacles. How they even hated my blog because of it, and they spat on my presence in cyberspace. They told me how they wished I was never born, and why I should get away from there as soon as possible.

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Now, this situation reminded me a lot of my time in kindergarten (not the paragraph directly above this, that's just bull) when I was mostly observant, very quiet and sometimes given to being bullied.
That kinda happened. And this year, I came back with new spectacles, and man, have things changed.
Life is very different now, here. I suppose my blog was just meant to stand as testimony to the role those spectacles have played in my life. The past they brought to life, the present that they made me value, and the future because I will turn them into a laser gun and burn anyone I look at through them.

Please take your seats. We will begin, now.

Harold Pinter's wife's name is Antonia Fraser. They are, legally, married. She just didn't take his name. (Of course, wiki says she has a 'married name'. But wiki's just bullshitting, we all know that) As didn't Anne Hathaway. Is there a connection?
Who knows? Is there any way to find out? Ol' Bill lives no longer at Stratford Upon Avon, it got too crowded with tourists and visitors after an "immortal bard" made the little place famous. Woody Allen was right in mentioning that one must always notify the post office if one is moving, unless one doesn't care about posterity. While on the subject (Woody, P.O., etc.) Kommie's a lucky man.
He will be receiving his very own copy of W.A.'s complete prose. Soon after I finish reading it.

I have been reading a lot of plays lately. It began with Edward Albee's 'Who is Sylvia?'. A brilliantly scripted play (which Plabs' [as Flavia Agnes puts it:] hypocritical morality couldn't stand) that deals with some of the lesser discussed issues, for want of diverse practical examples, academic thoughts and practical influence. At the bottom of it, it's just a spousal spate of bickering. The entire tension that the play runs on is because of its controversial theme - which is the fact that ultimately throttles us. That something that can be looked upon so "sanely" takes up a lot of space in our taboo lists.
Do you have taboo lists? I guess I do. And in my endeavour to run away from run-of-the-mill taboo lists, I have quite a unique one, the desire to post which may hopefully lead me to blog the next time around.
The thing with me and blogging is that I wish to maintain my habit of writing. It is so long since I've used 'I' and not in short messages or IM conversations.
It's almost taken over me. My time in the day is consumed so much part of it, by intermediary things like travelling, speaking on the phone, 'making arrangements' and replying to messages.
I digress.
I was talking about plays. There's a play 'Exit the King' happening at Rangashankara, and I'm not even being paid to advertise. But an interesting "uncle" at a relative's place who works with TFA has been helping out with the backstage part of the production. And I'm gonna watch it tomorrow. That's Thursday for the Calendar-ily challenged.
And then I picked up a book of three plays by Henrik Ibsen which I still haven't read.
I did read some more by Albee, such as 'The American Dream' - a work which lies almost wasted, as in the middle, the orientation is slowly lost (maybe on me, maybe on the author. Who knows? Tch, woody's right) and it looks like it would turn into a shouting match.
One play I would not want to watch.
And I read Lolita - as an adaptation by Albee, (which is incidentally pronounced, Ol-bee, like the a in all. You would've guesssed right?) and not the original by Nabokov. Which I want to read, since I would sincerely like to use words like Nabokovian. I haven't had ocassion to use Kafkaesque yet, although I have read a little bit of Kafka.
He didn't write plays though, to the best of my knowledge. Or I haven't read them. (Amazon reveals that he wrote two plays: 'Kafka's Dick' and 'The insurance man")

And then I read some Shaw. I had borrowed a book from Jhelum, which I've hopefully returned. Man and Superman, Candida...

I thought I'd read some more. I did read a super play by Tom Stoppard which had a lot to do with Marxism and music and it was interesting, until I lost the thread somewhere.
Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead is nowhere available. Not on the net, at least. Treat if the reader can find me a copy, anywhere.

Will be updated later.

Not so tragic, then

I was, as I'm afforded the rare privelege of sometimes, surfing the net and reading some blogs that I hopped along on with links and such. There were jounal entries there, heart-wrenching tragedy stories and people piping up with acknowledgments, and what's more, claims that 'their' story is exactly the same.

I've led a happy life, everyone. Yes, I've had tales of domestic violence - but somehow, I feel not quite in the usual direction. There were taunts and tirades, but the final blow-up would even things out, where might was right and mother's not particularly weak. Something happened to me these past months to block out the impact of any pain of those fights I've witnessed and incidents in the back of my mind as a painful reminder of reality and things like that. But I don't feel the pain I used to, anymore. I remember having talked about it with four different, and close people in my life and it all resulted in my exaltation as the bearer of pain - but after a year here, heck the memories aren't there almost.
I thought extensively today about the rigidity in my jaw. How characteristically it's taken its place in my face after all those years. I used to be really quiet and observant back in kindergarten and a few years after. I remember because the people I used to travel in the auto to school with would treat me like a statue, call me stone and make jokes about the silence and rigidity.
I've chubby cheeks and victorian features (fair-skinned, full lipped and curly brunetted) and I've noticed that my attitude couldn't be said to suit my face. But yeah, I do have bigger problems than that, thankyouverymuch. It just feels a nice mix, and an odd botch-up of things like values, perspective and my life; to have to treat a face-attitude anomaly like some "real" problems people have.
It's absurd. And that's my flavour for the season.

Thanks to TC (couldn't find anything closer) , for the dramatic introduction to the concept.