Violent desires

I need an M&B and now. This whole god damn house is wall papered with books and I can't find one freaking mush novel. Think I'm going to scream.

Besides this guy whose blog I read and whom I thought was one of the weirdest, funniest guy I had come across has in fact proved to be a- little- more- than- I- can- handle of the former.As he himself suggests what he deserves is a cruel castration for his limited understanding. Oh crap!That's not true, any form of understanding would be crediting him with some kind of intelligence, no form of which he appears to posess. Maybe I should leave a scathing comment on his blog but does he deserve it? Or perhaps it would be more gratifying to knock him down with the bag of doorknobs he talks about.

Living with Chickungunya is certainly not pleasant!

“Eros is good”
Beautiful velvet swirling sensuously around every inch of your near bare body can get dangerously addictive. Neither food nor sex can equal the erotic tactility of water.

Powerful strokes cut through the water at precise angles, a couple of hours after which limbs liquid with the exertion relax at the edge of the pool. Combined with the waters heady caress, there is pleasure in the pain. Every particle of my body surrenders to this sweet agony.

But like any psychedelic drug, dosage needs to be consistently upped to obtain similar results. I slowly increase the number of laps till I’m almost working out three hours everyday covering a stretch of two and a half kilometers. A few weeks into this madness and the body resists what the soul craves for. “Swimmer’s ear,” the doctor sympathetically clucks and pronounces. A fungal infection of the ear that could leave me 60 per cent hearing impaired or to put it more bluntly deaf. But hey the first whimsical question that pops into my head which I give tongue to is, “What about mermaids then?” “Earplugs and eardrops,” he prescribes, not unkindly completely ignoring my, what I considered then, valid question.

Free ears, something which I never thought I’d ever say (I know it sounds like a corny slogan for a right to information or something) can only be appreciated relatively, when you are forced to go about with stuffed ones. Not only is it incredibly painful it also surprisingly heightened my olfactory senses. This seems like a good thing but it really is not. The aromatic delights of a dead lizard somewhere in some far flung corner of the club is not something you wish to revel in. Also the pain is a bloody impairment. A hundred and twenty laps takes what seems like an interminably long time, almost an eternity to complete. A three day respite will do me a world of good. To free ears. Cheers.

“Eros had better be better.”

Wasn't born to follow - The Byrds

Oh, I'd rather go and journey

Where the diamond crescent's glowing

And run across the valley

Beneath the sacred mountain

And wander through the forest

Where the trees have leaves of prisms

And break the light in colours

That no one knows the names of

And when it's time, I'll go and wait

Beside a legendary fountain

Till I see your form reflected

In its clear and jewelled waters

And if you think I'm ready

You may lead me to the chasm

Where the rivers of our vision

Flow into one another

I will want to dive beneath

The white cascading waters

She may beg she may plead

She may argue with her logic

And mention all the things I'll lose

That really have no value

In the end she will surely know

I wasn't born to follow

Nothing really – Go fish!

The other fish at the pool were giving me snotty looks and it took me a while to figure out why. My pretence at hibernation was apparently assaulting their delicate sense of sight. Reluctantly, I head to the preening arena otherwise called the beauty parlor in common parlance, to shed the additional plumage.

I utter but a mere whimper when the waxing lady there gives me a sharp look and barks “Control! Quiet down. It’s not like it’s your first time” and continues to happily try and part my body (or rather my epidermis) from soul. Of course not lady, you should have heard me when my waxing virginity was taken. The thousand tiny points of tingling unbearable pain had me change the atmosphere from a swank up market place to a Nazi torture chamber in minutes.

“Hindi?” she growls after a few minutes of caustic silence. I am still indignant, but relent (just a wee bit) and answer, “Illa, Kannada”. Her rigid face eases out a few of what I mistakenly took to be wrinkles but which actually turn out to be bunched up skin in its effort to bear semblance to a frown. “Oh I thought you were Hindi,” she says. “Illa Kannada”, once again I assert, this time pleasantly.

Now I don’t know if I have to be offended or pleased. Pleased at her pro-south Indian attitude or offended that she took me to be one of those you know who. Oh hell! At least now she won’t pretend at leech anymore and try and bleed me to death. I go along and play the let’s be as many languages as possible today game with her. “Tamil?” for the heck of it, I disinterestedly question. “Telugu,” she answers. I quickly switch to being cities. “Me Hyderabad,” I nod matter of factly. Geez! didn’t expect this to go so good. “Me Hyderabad too,” she gleefully confirms.

This was fun. I switch back to language. “Actually at home Tamil” (a literal translation of what I said to her in Kannada) I try. Alas the follicular expert didn’t take too kindly to this back and forth banter and turned back into leech monster. And not such an expert either. Drip! Drip! Horrified eyes watch in morbid fascination two large drops of iron rich make their - suspended in time for eons, but inevitable and fatal- descent towards terra-firma. Two seconds later, delayed reaction sets in. Screams rent the air in a freaky déjà vu. I feel like a born again waxing virgin.

'Untrue South'
What is with people desperately wanting to sound intelligent or with others trying to lure you with what a friend of mine calls reverse-reverse psychology (of which he accuses me of employing –pah!). Also my roommate and good friend (love ya really!) has been really annoying me with all the Hindi she’s been spewing left, right and centre , polluting the ‘holy’ mann ina maga’s land. And she’s not the only one. The other day when all was well with the world, I skipped along to buy some curd.There I was all tanned and as brown as any South Indian could get, looking slightly lost, as there was all milk and no vendor around. I could have made off with a handful of the stuff but that was not what I really wanted at that point.So, I sigh sadly and am about to turn back when a voice speaks from somewhere in the hazy background which was perhaps the only thing that could have made me change colour. I turned a deep shade of claret, fuming inside but you know, me being me, maintained my cool. I mean I was really cucumber, I was almost icy when I managed to reply to his blasephemous ‘kya chahiye? Dood? (made on the soil of namavaru Rajkumar- mannina maga himself- I mean the ‘doodwallah’ bah). My icy stare is doing nothing to faze him, so I accompany it with ‘halu beda, mosaru idiya?’. Still no impact. “Nahi hey”, pat comes the infuriating reply. God I’m going to give up on all original Bangaloreans if they choose to be so subservient to an Aryan language and race.

And man do I blame people like my above mentioned friend. So it’s okay (barely) to use Hindi in Hyderabad but here in Kannada land to use it is unforgivable. Even in Bangalore, her first words are of the horrid non-dravidian tongue when she approaches strangers (vendors or otherwise) –“bhaiya…” Lots of my original Bangalorean friends pretend or perhaps refuse to learn their native tongue. It’s a pity and a shame.