Why growing up sucks

The trouble with trying to be an adult, in getting your backside off your comfort zone and trying something new, is this. Once you are done, you still want to rush to mummy and show her your drawing. You still want her to look at the box and two lines you have drawn and tell you its the best damn horse in the world. You want your efforts appreciated, even though you know, and she knows, and she knows that you know, that by this time you should be drawing horses that look ready to jump off the page.

OMG!

OMG! OMG!
Please bear with me! I think it'll be a while before i can stop talking in exclamation marks!
I just joined a library!
What do you mean, that doesnt deserve such excitement!
Do you have any idea how that changes my life!

You know the truckloads of pressure you are under, when every book you want to read, you have to buy? You cant just pick stuff up on a whim. The depleting bank balance, the filling up shelves, you are answerable for it all! I feel terribly guilty for the 10 percent books that i have bought and am almost certainly not going to read. I fear they will go through life with abandonment issues, all because i didnt know what i wanted.

But now? I can pick up stuff without any consequences whatsoever! Except for loss of time, but who cares about that! I can read crap! My dad can read crap! For 200 a month! Eeeeeeee! The remaining exclamation marks and the accompanying words will come with bullet points.

• They have a pretty good YA section! Percy Jackson! Artemis Fowl! Phillip Pullman! All stuff i want to read but dont want to buy!
• They have the Wizard of Earthsea! This is one of those books i cant not read, even though i am unlikely to like it much. (So what if i bought and read it and didnt much like it about a month ago. I'll never have to do that again!)
• They have the first book in The Wheel of Time series! For some reason, i bought the second one first and there it lay. In the "unlikely to read' pile. Until today!
• They have all P.G. Wodehouse (not that i mind buying those) and all Terry Pratchett! (i've already bought most of those, also i dont know what they were doing in the pre-teen section).
• They have 18 branches or something in Bangalore! Dont ask me why i care!
• I'm hoping the library will help me come out of my comfort zone. Try something other than SFF.

There. I think the exclamations have gone. To all those friends of mine sitting in Europe and showing off their public libraries, Ha! I now have a private one.

Landmark, my love, looks like you might finally have some competition. Also, looks like i might be able to keep my hands off the second season of 24 after all.

24, one season later

When write my own TV series no, i promise not to


1. Make it 45 minutes long. Its an entry barrier for people starting late and wanting to catch up. I also double promise not to take Anil Kapoor in it.

2. Have dialogs like this:

Hero: Do blah.
Any Other Character: I cant, because of these perfectly legitimate reasons.
Hero: DO BLAH.
The Same Other Character: Fine.

3. Kill people off randomly. Hell, i'll probably not kill people at all. There can be so much drama in life, why bring death into it at all?

4. Make the hero dig a deeper and deeper hole for himself and then when i get bored, pop him out clean through the other end of Earth.


5. Make the audience feel manipulated.


Which is probably why no one will watch my series. Which is a good thing, i sometimes think, when i imagine the humongous number of man hours spent watching stuff on Television. I'm going to try and stay off Season 2, but September end is so farfaraway, i dont know how i'll survive.

For the very first time in my life

I made maggi today. Fine. You can pick up your jaw from the ground now. Despite the very many years i have spent on this earth, its not really all that surprising given that i have never, as my mom pointed out, had to cook for myself. Home or hostel. Food has generally been SEP. It wasnt bad, the maggi, although it turned out looking more like something made out of little cylindrical tubes of rava. In my newbie enthusiasm i broke the maggi into tiny little pieces, not one of which were of slurp-able length. Aah, one lives and learns.
One has also stooped down to blogging about what one had for lunch. As long as one has come this far, one might as well register one's grievance against the content on the maggi packet.

What the hell were you thinking, Dear Sir/Madam,* when you printed on the back of the packet, not instructions on how to cook whats inside, but long touching stories on how a 5 year old made maggi on his ownsome lonesome for his Mom's birthday? Did no good, I'm telling you, not to the dish i ended up making, and definitely not to my ego!

* Dont you wish all letters could start like this?

A (short?) story

John Scalzi had this fanfic contest a few months ago. I sent in an entry, just like that. Now that the results are out and i didnt win (sniff, sob, bawl and all), i thought i should put it up here. Apart from the obvious reasons, this is also because stuff i've written that is not on the blog tends to get lost. In defunct mailboxes and sites that have since disappeared and machines that have been formatted. (Okay, so its happened once, but if i dont learn from my mistakes whats the point in making them?)


So, yes. I am telling you this post is more for storage purpose. You are welcome to go through my basement, but you are also welcome to not. So many disclaimers because, umm, it is rather long. Also, it doesnt have a title.

Has the Outside always been so pretty, John wondered as he lay lazily on a chair made for just that. He’d been trapped for weeks in the Inside of some "top secret project he cant tell you about". Today he had finally come out of it and decided to spend the day reacquainting himself with this world he inhabited. It had started well. The Sun and the blue sky he had taken in without much of a shock to his system. He’d then moved on to trees. He didn’t look particularly happy about their existence now. He couldn’t believe how lucky they were, being able to make food simply by standing in the sun. Why evolution had to give up that line of research to take on one that led to his 10 fingers with opposable thumbs he’d never understood. Hunger had been gnawing at his insides for over an hour but there was no way he could get himself out of his chair. And all those trees showing off were not really helping.

Wil looked under the bed for the three hundredth time. Nothing. Does anyone have such a clean under-bed anymore, he wondered sourly. He almost wanted a monster to be under it, with his script in its dirty yet non-salivating jaws. Because then he’d have something to do, an enemy to fight, a script to rescue, and in the end, a rehearsal to go prepared to, happily ever after. Now, all he could do was look at empty under-beds. Sure, yesterday’s gaming had been pretty wild, but he couldn’t believe the script, the script for tomorrow’s rehearsal, the script without which he’d just have to go there and be a pretty face, that script had been involved. He could imagine the producer’s icy tone. What is that you say? A big bird came and took your script? You could have respected us enough to make up something more imaginative. A crawling horse, a flying kitten, something? Yes, he had to find something.

And as it usually happens, when the right thing to do is not the fun thing to do, people run away to the land of excuses. The place where all excuses come from, brought to life by human need. To do something they shouldn’t. To get out of something. To beat common sense and responsibility and convention and accepted wisdom. To be. To not to be. Stock excuses, now those are easy. Most people can get them off the top of their head. Bad traffic, my alarm didn’t go off, the wife says no. It’s the creative excuses, handcrafted to fit your situation and none else that need to be worked on. For those you need to go deep into the land, finding little pieces that fit the big picture in your head, shaving this, sawing that, refining the big picture all the time till you end up with a piece of art. Art, now that is not formed by fitting lego blocks as per instructions. In the land, you will not find pieces that fit together. If that is what you want, the stock excuses department is that way, have a good day. But if you look at a piece hard enough, you can turn it into what you need. It is a dying art, this, one only people with some imagination and whimsy continue to practise.

John roamed the lands, his hunger forgotten in the excitement of all that was possible here. Strange things were all around him and he was having fun trying to see how each might work as an excuse. There were trees here too, but they didn’t look like they were taunting, they looked to be showing him possibilities. Somewhere in the murky recesses of John’s brain, an idea was born. It wasn’t even fully formed yet, and already he could see it had taken control and was changing him. He stood still, scared, not in a bad way but in an oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening-what-does-it-mean-i-haven't-even-thought-it-through-but-how-cool kind of way. He let a few minutes pass before he looked at his hands. Yes. Green. Chlorophyll-ed. He went and stood out in the sun. Food.

Wil closely examined the broken finger. Not his. He was fascinated by everything around him. He took in one thing at a time, sure that the whole picture would overwhelm him. Done with the finger, he looked around and saw the clown sweater. His clown sweater. His INFAMOUS clown sweater. He put it on. And smiled. The world seemed familiar again.

Wil then moved on to larger objects He found a Superman Cape hanging on a tree and put it on. It went really well with his clown sweater. He jumped from trees and ran really fast and in general was the Superman Wil aged ten would have been. Which is when he saw a pair of eyes looking at him from within a clump of bushes. "Here, here, come out," he tried. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if just a pair of eyes came out. The eyes stayed. He took his cape off and waved it around like a Matador. The eyes pounced.

It was on him, whatever it was. Cat? Wings?? Horn??? Start again, his brain said. And this time, no naming body parts. A cat. No, call it kitty, sounds cute and fuzzy and not at all like an evolution defying creature put together by hand. So, a kitty. And at the back... Pegasus. And that from a Unicorn. Recapitulate. Kitty. Pegasus. Unicorn. Kitty. Pegasus. Unicorn. Kitty... PuTTY! "Here PuTTY, here PuTTY". PuTTY, in the meantime, had been mooning over the clown in his sweater, purring and making other happy kitty noises.

It was the kitty John saw first. He was already smiling when he saw the clown on the sweater. He knew there was only one way that sweater could end.

"Hi Wil," he said, without looking up.

Eh?

Well, Wil didn't actually say Eh. But his face did. It rearranged itself into an Eh?

"It’s John." Eh? "Scalzi." Eh? "Velvet Wesley Crusher." Ah!

"John! What are you doing here? Did you see my kitty? Isn't it just the most amazing thing? Look at those magnificent wings. And horn! I'm calling it PuTTY...," Wil prattled on.

‘PuTTY’ was sitting on all fours, looking into the clown's eyes. John reached Wil and raised his hand for a high-five. Next thing he knew, the magnificent wings had come down and scooped Wil up in one graceful motion.

Wil was now sitting on PuTTY, face rearranged to spell EH???

"I come in peace," said John, lifting both his hands up.

"Green Peace!," exclaimed Wil and went back to an Eh?

John tried using his experience with cats to make friends with PuTTY. Granted, PuTTY wasnt exactly a cat, but 60 percent of it was, he knew nothing about horses and he had to start somewhere. John gathered some catnip leaves from nearby and gave them to PuTTY. PuTTY responded, which made Wil calm down a little. His brain finally got around to processing the message his eyes had been sending him for a while now.

"Umm.. John?"

"Yeah?" said John, who couldn’t take his eyes off PuTTY.

"You are green."

"Yeah," said John distractedly.

"Not exactly your colour, you know?," Wil tried again.

"Look," John said getting irritated. "Its about a little more than looking pretty, okay? Here, let me show you," he said and walked towards a patch of sunlight. "Thats all i have to do for food. For the rest of my life. Stand. Chlorophyll-me up, baby! Millions of years ago, two roads diverged in the woods that day," he thundered, "and today they meet in me."

"ZOMG! They will have to create a whole new position for you in the food chain! Wait, will it still be a chain? Cycle! Tree?" Wil wondered, as the implications of what he was seeing hit him. "John?"

"Something’s wrong," growled John. "I don’t feel full." "Ears," squeaked Wil. John felt them and realized they had grown. Pointy. Lumps were sprouting all over his body. "Greenskin," he croaked, before falling over in pain. This tended to happen with improbable excuses. They decayed to the nearest stable state - something that required minimum suspension of disbelief.

Wil’s brain had had enough. Had too much, in fact. So it decided to forget what it knew and start from scratch. Take what it could see as given and work from there. So, John was turning into an Orc. Okay. What do i know about Orcs? Oooh, what do i not know! Here was familiar ground. Here was where the What kind of a Orc are You quiz he’d scribbled on the back of his script would save lives. Orcs came in all shapes and sizes and most importantly, attitudes. Dealing with them depended entirely on which mythology they subscribed to.

"John? Are you in there? Listen! I’m going to get you out of this. Joooohn!" he screamed, as John (or Orc?) got up with a roar that startled PuTTY who jumped and up went Wil. John had made considerable progress towards Orcdom and had acquired an armour, a spear and the above mentioned roar. Orc was marching towards him slowly, fighting with John for each step. Wil shouted out his first question. "Would you like to eat me?"

John knew his share in John/Orc was shrinking. The power of Orc was overwhelming; all he wanted to was to give in. Focus, he told himself. Focus on something that’ll remind you that you are human, that there is good in you. He saw the horn on PuTTY. Thats it! What was better than a Unicorn horn to remind you of being noble and good? Orc meanwhile had reached a very similar conclusion for very different reasons. John and Orc march as one.

Wil noticed the increase in speed. "JOHN," he yelled out. PuTTY meanwhile had prepared itself for battle. And also, apparently, him. Wil found himself with a spear in his hands. Desperate, Wil yelled out his second question. "Whats you favourite colour?"

John/Orc had almost reached PuTTY. Already, John felt clearer, more focused. All i need is that horn, he thought. PuTTY had given up all pretensions of being a soft kitty. It hissed and spat. Its eyes shone with a manic glow. John/Orc charged. Kitty sprang. Wil aimed his spear at the Orc’s arm and yelled out his third question. "Does this hurt?"

Somewhere, a Volcano let go.

Wil opened an eye. Nothing green or dead. Encouraged, he opened another. He saw the ground rushing beneath him. Realized he was still on PuTTY but no longer trapped by its wings. He let go. Fell off PuTTY and rolled harmlessly into a clump of grass. Opened eyes. One. Two. Saw John/Orc standing over him. Screamed and ran. Or tried to.

"Stop," said John. John. Not John/Orc. John.

Wil turned back. John. Not green. Close. Open. Still John. Not green. Breathed.

"What happened?" he asked. "Looks like PuTTY found another toy at just the right second," said John, nodding in the direction of the volcano. And there it was, flying just above the lava, dipping its horn in it, making pretty designs and in general back to being a kitty. "And you?" "I managed to hold on to PuTTY’s horn for a second before it got distracted by the volcano," said John. "Turns out that was enough." The two friends slapped each other on the back, did a little jig and left. They didn’t say good bye to the land. They’d be back. They’d been there before.

John was full. Hell, if he had been an Orc... okay, too early for Orc jokes. Wil had fed him till he was ready to burst. Wil cleared his throat. John knew what was coming.

"Yes, Wil?"

"Will you be my excuse for tomorrow’s rehearsal?"

Virtual reality

It is a cloudy weekday afternoon. The kind you've always wished you could spend sprawled on a bed with a book, a coffee and some conversation.
"I'm feeling sleepy," i tell him.
"Welcome to the club. I am its President," he says.
We fight over that a little, then go on to wonder if there is any way we could sell our sleep to all those insomniacs and old people out there who dont have any. Donate even. It smacks of communism, i think he likes it.

"Have you heard Pee Loon?" i ask him. He lives under a rock as far as Bollywood is concerned, and i am his dealer of new hindi songs. He comes looking for a fix once in a while when he is completely out of stock, and i'm usually able to supply. "Not today," he says. He is on some weird Kumar Shanu and Abhijeet trip and is not in the mood for anything else. Which i might have otherwise let go, but he has just said no to Mohit Chauhan. I'm offended and i let him know.

He is stirred enough to defend his choice. "Romantic songs of the 90's, it doesnt get better than Kumar Shanu". I tell him to sleep it off. I cant really fight because i dont remember a single K.S number. "Let me help you out," he says, realizing this. "Badalon mein chup raha hai chand kyon". Damn. He doesnt kid around, this one, he has started with the big guns. "Der se hua par pyaar to hua re". I shrug, i havent heard. "Ek din aap you humko mil jayenge". He scores. "Tum Mile, dil khile". "Aye kaash ki hum hosh mein ab". I'm down and out.

After some silence filled with his gloating he asks casually, "So, what were you saying about Mocho?"

And then for a while i hear nothing but the sound of several pieces falling into place. At the end of which i'm embarrassed, sure, but i'm also in a happy place in the distant past. We had this senior in college whom everyone called Mocho. A quiet fellow, what little i saw of him, but any time he made an entrance, people stopped what they were doing to greet him with an "Arre Mocho". I never figured out why, but they all seemed really happy to see him. And thats where i was, in college, one of my happy places, probably my happiest. I wonder how i never asked why they called him that. Mocho. Its such an awesome nickname. I want my Mohit Chauhan to have it.

"Let me help you out some more," he says. "Ek meetha marz dene aana tum kabhi". This is ridiculous. Mocho has sung songs i dont know about?? "Its in Welcome to Sajjanpur," he says smugly into my silence. "You must have heard Guncha", he says. I shake my head. "Are you going to keep shaking your head till i come to Masakali," he asks finally. It is then that i realize that that is exactly and entirely my big war plan. I cant think of a single Mocho song other than that. I dig deep and come up with "Pehli baar mohabbat ki hai". And then i submit "Pee Loon" in case he'd forgotten.

By this time he has lost interest in the fight. For all practical purposes, he is fighting from both sides. He decides to get personal. Its good strategy. It'll either make the fight interesting or put an end to it. "What lyrics. Pee Loon. Aisa lagta hai nasha karke aaya hai". Thats it. "Download the song. Listen to it. You can then apologize to me," i say and walk away.

He apologizes later. The song has spoken louder than words. Mocho has won.



A few points:

1. Does the fact that this conversation took place over chat, with me sitting in my office in Pune and Monu in his department in Kharagpur make it any less real? (Other than the communist inclinations i imposed on him. Those are entirely my imagination). Chats are my primary (and for the most part only) medium of social interaction these days, and in spite of all its limitations i'll be damned if i let anyone tell me its anything less than face to face talk. Different, sure. But not real? No way.

2. I hope this post has put an end to all the (very valid) cribs about my being cryptic.

3. I also hope none of my seniors read this. After 5 years of no interaction preceded by a year of strictly necessary interaction, it'd be damn weird if they saw themselves featured in my happy place.

4. Monu's insistence on putting an h in Kumar Sanu's name reminded me of Pronoy Roy. He was once interviewing Amartya Sen and insisted on pronouncing his name as Omartyo. Which irritated me immensely! I wished Amartya Sen would stop answering his questions and tell him - "I dont know whom you are talking to. That sure as hell isnt my name!". Stupid, i know, but there it is.

Expectations

I rejoiced when your ideals tumbled
From the impossibly high ledge you'd placed them on
Your expectations of people would fall with them, i figured
And help me rise in your eyes

But you held on to them, expectations
Like nature, you abhorred vacuum
So every time an ideal fell
I was to rush to take his place instead

Monsters Inc

She'd seen it just once, the monster in the cupboard, but it had been enough. She'd kept away. It hadn't been easy. A cupboard was precious, it was supposed to contain bits of your life, neatly arranged. This one not only ate up the space on its inside, but also a healthy bit of the outside. Bits of her life lay scattered in her room, with nothing to be found when she went looking for it.

Finally, after a lot of time and life and negative space and dreams of courage and victory, she decided it was enough. Yes, monsters were huge scary things that devoured, but if that was how it had to be, at least she wouldn't have to clean up this mess. And if not, well, she had the cupboard for life!

As she stood with trembling fingers on the cupboard handle, she realized that life had once again played one of its little jokes. She'd actually be disappointed if there was no monster.

And with that

Status quo has left the building.