If I were a Vampire

I do not spend much time working.
Instead I get online and find things like this.
Have spent some time since, singing 'If I were A Vampire' to my self in the manner of Tevye.

Random

Ancic has risen 23 spots. He is now ranked 69 in the world.
I wish I knew my texts as well as I know the tennis rankings.

On Fleeing Libraries

The MSN homepage has an article every week or so on where/how to meet men. The answers rarely change- and basically amount to any space outside your house. Which is self explanatory, since it would be odd to have potential objects of interest hanging about at home that you hadn't noticed before.

So when I go to the library I am not thinking- 'now I will go to a sort-of-public spot and browse for people'. Though I am vaguely aware that of all places a library is among the most acceptable- as it implies (perhaps not deservedly- because I don't always read everything I issue) that one is there out because one reads books. Books are good.

Today a boy; and I really wanted to ask him how old he was because he did seem too young to be that (and the only appropriate word that comes to mind is a bit archaic) forward was rather surprising in his persistence on making conversation. Having lived in Delhi for almost four years, I am no longer incompetent at making my displeasure known at unwanted attention from boys with too much time and distorted notions of what constitutes an acceptable mode of expression. But this boy- he didn't seem rude or letchy, or anything terrible. Except weird and possessed of a large vocabulary. Which made me want to not be rude, but also to race away. Which I did as soon as I found the books I wanted.

Now it occurs to me that he might have been bored and harmless. Perhaps I am too suspicious.

But kids are creepy.
This much I know this much is true

d school

The D school canteen is now metal and glass- fancy stuff. The outdoor, makeshift version was nice. I did worry about the unwelcome addition that birds may have made (never happened), but it had charm. The new one has a roof. And no sunlight. The mutton cutlets are the same though.

We sat in the winter afternoon sun, S and I. So pleasant it was to just be: mildly traumatised at our lack of direction, complaining about the complications that boys embody, and discussing the many attractions of Pahadganj. A skinny dog walked past and settled on a pile of leaves near my left foot. An equally skinny, but more curious young thing- past the pup stage, but not yet fully grown- at that age when they eyes, tail and ears seem larger than normal- stopped by to make friends. I wanted to take it home, but I fear it will not get along with the cats that currently rule the hostel. Cats which are reproducing at an alarming rate I might add.

Three young men settled, some distance away. One opened a bag, took out a laptop and placed it on the ground- the leaf strewn and definitely dusty ground. What must it take to be that casual with a laptop? I tend mine like one would a rose cutting, which I have found to be a particularly recalcitrant and delicate sort of plant. Constant dusting and virus checking and that kind of thing. Not allowing food near it, washing my hands before using it and not allowing people with colds to venture near- in case they sneeze and release germs. They, on the other hand, didn’t even have a case for it. I wanted to go over and see if it was scratched from this rather disinterested manner of use.

One got up to dance-demonstrating what we took to be a new dance move- because the other two seemed to offer suggestions and make modifications. That was the end of the dancing. And all this while Tarkan was playing. First that cheesy and annoying kissy kissy number which all of us recognise, and then some stuff from later albums. Which I identified and S didn’t, because I went through a major Tarkan-phase two years ago after finding a poster somewhere and discovering that he was sponsored in Basel by the Doner Kebab Association (DKA). This has pleased me muchly. Doner kebabs are my friends. I find the existence of doner kebab society rather sweet- like an idli-chutney organisation, or an appam appreciation group. A harmless fringe activity. Here is some of the poster.


This is where I lived last year. Tarkan smiled creepily down us, and Herb and I had interesting discussions about his appearance. He has always been a source of much entertainment in one way or the other. Once when delirious with fever, and sick from the antibiotics I thought I saw his eyes move. He has not accompanied me to my new room. When I fall ill I do not want to feel like I am being stalked in my own chamber.

heath ledger

heath ledger is dead.
and i am feeling more sad about this than one normally would about someone that one doesn't know.

end of the year

It’s the end of the year (or so it was when written), and I’m trying to race but only crawling through Tom Jones while also writing this post, and knitting between chapters. Am surrounded by a mess of blankets, hot water bottle, pencils, pens, photocopies, laptop plus wires, balls of wool, books, clothes and a hula hoop. Similarly adorned are the other surfaces in the room which is driving me nuts but haven’t the energy to fix this. Can hear the music from two parties cutting into each other. From the back comes a rather drunkenly rendered version of We Will Rock You. To the right some guy is going on about Beautiful Girls. Ah- and now they’re all Staying Alive. Meanwhile the rockery ones have moved on to some sort of guitar noise thing, punctuated by shrieks.

Am returning to Tom Jones. If only this Fielding guy would stop digressing and get on with the tale. Two steps forward one step back. Thats how the book progresses. Like a snail on sleeping tablets- where did I get this phrase from? Eagleton I think. He’s full of animal imagery and is the only fun thing I’ve read in the last few days.
Coming soon- one post about Nepal

Aaja Nachle

Didn't have much of a script. The one moment of interest was when the landlady mourned her state; “main ek file hoon” (imagine a sniffling howl of discontent here- its important to the effect). It was rather brilliant, actually, and sort of made the movie worth it. Along with Madhuri Dixit and her dancing, which in any case was the subject of the movie- as the title demonstrates. Perhaps its because I’m old fashioned and think that dancing should be about both hands and legs- but it did seems as if the choreography barely tapped into the skilful footwork that Ms Dixit is capable of. Most of the title track was composed of shots of her walking away from the camera and turning towards it luring the audience with her smile. Which though very alluring is not the only good thing that she can do on screen.

The supporting roles were very well cast, especially Irrfan Khan- who I would like to see more of. He really was good as the bad guy. So was Akshay Khanna as the not-really-bad guy. Though it is too much to expect an urbane, incorruptible, Mp, who looks like Akshay Khanna, is of royal descent and does think of himself as reflecting the opinion of the people. But then again, as one born into money why would he need the extra cash, as offered by shady businessmen? He has enough of his own and a golf course at home- must save on the club membership. The dialogue between the two of them was very fun and sexy- more of it would have been nice, but that would have meant less dancing-smiling and more story.

One thing bothered me about the film. The landlady wanted to audition for the musical, to participate and enjoy herself. The clerk-husband stops her, and on seeing that he has hurt her (the action of a ‘boring’ man) he decides to offer himself instead. Effectively stealing his wife’s thunder- parasite- feeding off her desire. She wanted to be in the limelight. She was told that she couldn’t and then he did it instead of her. Even when the position opened up for Laila’s mum, a second time, she wasn’t considered- not by Madhuri Dixit who knew the situation and is presented as one of superior talents and intelligence in the film, and certainly not by her husband. Basically she remained a file, just opened and closed by a less ‘boring’ man. I think it was her state as a file she was trying the change- not the clerk’s.

The volte-face of the corrupt businessman and politician (who wept what I thought were crocodile tears at the end) because of a musical-pageant thingy wingy was too much to swallow. Perhaps we could send all our politicians and businessmen of dubious moral character to watch the film, or a colourful show at an amphitheatre. Is this what the film is suggesting about the powers of Diya’s dancing and direction?

But then again it was a nice film to watch. If only for the energy. Right after a bout of foul exams, just what I needed. Not to read Le Divorce, the cover of which fooled me into thinking that it would be a French version of Under the Tuscan Sky. Soul-searching masquerading as a fun-flick. This I do not approve of.