It's been over a year!

Hallelujah, I've been a (lazy) bum.

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Once again, I find myself writing whilst suffering from a paralysing cold (the flu cold, not the winter cold), and upon Jayant's reminder (which Gmail gladly served upon me, with awesome efficiency).

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Much has transpired.

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The future has arrived at our doorsteps. We (batch of 2004 law students from a certain educational institution that doesn't deserve to be named) are finally in our final year. So to all you uncle-jis and aunty-jis who insist that we simply must have another year left - No. We don't. But we do mourn the end of a rather long, er, vacation. Obama's "happened" (snore, double snore, triple snore), and I'm so sick of hearing about it that I'm beginning to fall asleep at the "O" - "O" for Over-exposure, anyone? "O" for OhBloodyHellNotAgain. (But that's just me right now, being apprehensive, mistrustful, crowded, pseudo-rebellious - for all ye know, he's going to be brilliant. I just get a bad vibe, 'tis all!) I just have to say to us - Let's ease up! I mean, he isn't our President! Sigh.

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And other things've happened too. My brother's become an amateur photographer (the moon's his exclusive muse, but she's been a bit shy lately because of all the, y'know, craters and Chandrayaans). Zeta-Jones gave Carla Bruni (she's a songwriter too, by the way, in addition to being the world's "coolest celebrity", a former model, and the President's whore - I wonder if she'll ever make Sarkozy sing us an immigration love song) a breast-inferiority complex at a recent Gala to honour Sarko (the Gala was for Sarko, not the breast-inferiority complex). The Indian stock markets crashed. Delhi's apparently more polluted than it ever was (What? Seriously? In spite of the goddamned smoking ban? Gee. On a serious note, it's because of the cars. So don't buy cars. Buy buses instead - give your whole neighbourhood a ride). I got myself another addiction - watching Kung-Fu Panda. David Foster Wallace died. Elizabeth Taylor almost died. George Bush didn't die. James Dean was born again. God came down on earth.

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Believe what you will.

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Oh and it's Dostoevsky's birthday! 'Tis true.

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(Pardon the hyphens. I'm having formatting troubles. Again. It's not my fault this time.)

Barbershop (and other things)

Well, yeah. So much has changed over these last few months - for instance, I grew a beard over one entire month, only to have it hedged off in three minutes flat, alongwith my hair (which I didn't want to have hedged off, by the way). The saloon visit was quite a riot: The barbers of "Modern Hair Saloon" seem to despise me because I'm a "dallyite". They huddle together and whisper conspiratorially, and I'm like "You're barbers, for fuck's sake"! Well I don't actually say that, because I'm meek, but I wish I could say that. So I sit, looking tremendously idiotic, in that chair-contraption-thingie, a cheap orange sheet draped around me, while they decide who should have a go at my formidable beard (quite the hedge, I must concede). After a few minutes, wherein I'd counted precisely the number of blackheads on my nose, one of them approaches me apprehensively. I have the sudden urge to growl, but I don't do that either. All in all, I must have looked like a very hairy, very orange, mannequin.

"Sadhu-bhai," he says, "Hum sirf daadhi nahin kaatenge...baal bhi kaatne padhenge."

Sadhu-bhai? Now I wish to behave like Victorian novelty, turn into an elderly lady and exclaim, "Well I never!" But I don't do that either. I look around myself and realize that I'm vastly outnumbered. Sigh.

I just smile at him and tell him, "Haan, theek hai. Kaat lo jo kaatna hai." Wait, that didn't come off right. He's goggling at me and my disastrous Hindi, his lips mouthing a very meaningful, "Saala chootiya."

Anyway, he takes it all off with a mix of precision, cruelty and utter devotion, and I become a new person. I feel light, unburdened...

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But then, about a week ago, I contracted a miserable flu that worsens in proportion to the medication I consume. There are four specific stages to this monstrosity of a cold:

Stage I - My nose runs quicker than the Nile on a slope, and I'm reaching out for handkerchiefs (always in short supply) like a kerchief-obsessed stick-insect;

Stage II - I refuse all medication with bravado and vociferousness, and prefer to restrict myself to various forms of alcohol and cigarettes (I can't have the medicines because they'll react with the alcohol...*sigh*);

Stage III - My brother (he must have left his brains behind during birth) provides me with his "home-remedy" ( a cigarette soaked in Vicks Vaporub, which I must smoke quickly for it may fizzle and die) and I feel as though I may fizzle and die. I slide smoothly from Stage II to Stage IV, with only a few puffs and a few hundred earth-shattering coughs;

Stage IV - I suddenly realize the reasons for medicine manufacture, and saunter off to a chemist. I stock up Vicks Inhalers, Vaporubs (this one, for my brother), Amoxicillin, and B-Complex "Fortified with Vitamin C". I attack these with fervour and a heretofore unseen sense of responsibility. I feel confident that I shall make it through (this is today, by the way).

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Then again, check out Diamonds and Rust for a more complete (and hilariously subjective) account of the "things" that have come to pass. Note how the first female President competes with new Pune club rules for blog space. Kudos!

I, personally, am infatuated with a mouse:

I turn around, and she is there again,
Why does she watch me so?
She does not sleep, or eat, or drink, or smoke,
But is quite so fascinating all the same.
Her eye is queer; it is hollow and cold,
And I know she does not approve;
I drink my wine the way it is drunk,
So why does she watch me so?
I run in vain, for she is quick, this one;
And I wail in silence, for she listens;
And I wail even more, for she does not speak,
And I wail and I wail and I wail.
I would pray to the Lord, but I know she would laugh,
And mock me for my insincerity;
She does not pray herself, this one, and
Indeed, holds my God captive and forlorn!
I find the darkest corner, sit myself down,
Think how it is insufferably, cheerfully bright;
I wish to make it darker, I do!
But she always holds the light.

Do forgive me for excessive brackets, for breaking all known "Tense Rules" (improperly defined as rules that are - uh - tense), and for actually daring to write mouse-oriented poetry. Mice can't read, can they?