You are a Part of It!

Hello there.

Happy Onam!

I know, I'm 83.2% South Indian already. I just need to stop puking at the sight of sambar.

In all seriousness, the continuous ongoing cultural exchange here is a truly delightful thing. Some of my closest friends here speak Malayalam as their mother tongue, and though they come from a different state, and a few others have even lived in a different country, the lives they've lead so far, and the kind of experiences they've had, are not really that different from the one I've lived or had. 

This is what binds us together, the Kannadigas, the Malayalis, the Bengalis, the Tamilians, the Assamese, the Hindi speakers and the (sole) Nepali: the universality of the experiences we gather as we grow, the lessons we learn as we walk, the stripes we earn when stumble.

But leaving aside that philosophical crap, hostel life has been a blur so far. The days whiz by without us noticing, and the weekends disappear at the speed of light. We just don't get the time to miss our hometowns and the people we've left behind, that much.

But of course, you always miss it. You miss the sights, smells and sounds of the city you grew up in, the city which knows you as much as you know her. Kolkata, as I type this, is gearing up for the loud, noisy, festive, lively carnival every year, called Durga Puja, and I miss every bit of it.

I miss my family, of course, but at least I get to hear their voice whenever I want to. How do you listen to the sound of your home? How do you bottle up a city's humming spirit and it's thrum of life, and carry it with you to listen to, when you miss it too much? 

But it's alright. In a different place, you learn to appreciate your own language, and your own culture a lot more than you did in your own place. You learn that diversity IS truly beautiful and that you are a part of that diversity, and you are contributing to its beauty. 

 On that note, I leave you. 

See you next time!

Living That Hostel Life

The Biomedical class is going on as usual,

My eyes are getting heavy, I'm seeing things dual,

Sir's 'OKAY?'s are resonating inside my head,

My traitorous thoughts keep returning to my bed.

The DC power supply has now ceased to work,

My bulb has gone off, but the teacher continues to irk.

Alternative or direct, no current is now passing,

'When will he go? Oh when will he leave?' my mind keeps asking.

This pretty much sums up my college life, so far. 

It's been a little more than a month since I've started living in Mysore, Karnataka, to study at the All India Institute of Speech and Hearing, an institute, from where incidentally, my father had passed out exactly 30 years ago.

I wouldn't blame you in the slightest if you had no idea what an audiologist and speech language therapist does, and if you think I said that because I was about to give you a lengthy explanation of what I'm actually studying, then you're very much mistaken. 

Google is a verb now. Example:

GOOGLE IT.

No, in all seriousness, college is very interesting, and despite the hectic schedule, the hours of rehearsals for the Annual Day and the hours spent cutting bits of cloth and metal wires for Friendship Day decorations, hostel is fun too. 

Besides me, there's only one other Bengali girl in my batch, and others are from different states. 

And if there's one thing that I've learnt from my stay at a girls' hostel so far, as long as you're with people you like and who like you back, you can bear any amount of crap thrown at you with a grin.

And the freedom is...heady.

Sniff it with caution.

And on that note, I say Ciao for now.

Stay tuned. :)

Surfacing!

What? It's past the middle of the year already? Wow. Time does fly when you're watching TV 24/7.

HELLLOOOO! I have been slightly busy these past few weeks, and a lot of things have happened, some good, some not so good and some downright stinky.

I received my board results and I scored:

English: 86/100 (I don't know why or how. I did expect a little more.)

Physics: 95/100

Chemistry: 95/100

Biology: 95/100

Mathematics: 95/100

Also, I turned 19 on the 30th of May, and I didn't receive any sudden flash of wisdom or some great enlightenment. I continue to remain fat and stupid. All aspiring 19-year-olds out there, don't get your hopes up.

I DID however, receive a superb phone courtesy my parents, and frankly, I'm in love with it. It's not an iPhone, but to me, it IS better. *proud mom moment*

Many of my other entrance exam results were disappointing, though a few were not. I did get through St. Xavier's college with Integrated MSc in Biotechnology, although I'm waiting for some more results to be declared. 

If you're feeling sad or depressed and on edge, and about to throw in the towel, I just want to tell you to hang on. It will get better, I promise. I have faced the darkness, and yet here I am typing this, am I not?

Hang on.We'll get through this. We'll emerge as stronger people.

Until next time!

Why Doesn't My Brother Flush The Toilet?

Hello, dear reader.

Wassup, m****rf****r?

If you've been following the news, you'll know how pleasant the weather is, right now in Kolkata. And if you believed me, go BBC yourself.

Imagine this: it's 6 in the morning, and your bladder's ready to burst, and you grope your way towards the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and as soon as you open the door, you're hit with a blast of the strongest odour of pee that you've ever come across (though chances are, you live in India and you've had to use a public toilet at least once and well... you get the gist) and suddenly doing it in a bottle doesn't seem that bad an idea.

Hey I get it bro, you were sleepy and you couldn't find the flush lever, so you just did your thing, and you left (probably without even washing your hands), but think of the next person who uses it and suffers severe, irreversible damage to the olfactory receptors and dies. You will be solely responsible for a very, very smelly situation.

Plus, your girlfriend might think you're some kind of a Romeo-Superman incarnate, it still doesn't justify me having to suffer the sight of your yellow excreta every time you become 'forgetful'.

Every time you don't flush or just half-heartedly tug at the lever, I die, I die a little inside.

Maybe you do it because you like the smell. Or you do it because you really care about our planet Earth and want to save some water. Or maybe you don't flush because you just like being an effing pain in the ass.

Also, you may walk out the bathroom like the world's your bitch, but oh I was listening, I was listening for the full, hearty symphony of a full toilet flush and then the thoughtful spritzing of water to do away with the careless 'stray drops'.

But guess what? I didn't hear any.

Isn't it absolutely adorable having a sibling who's so thoughtful and considerate?

That isn't a rhetorical question. I'm asking YOU, because I really have no idea.

Love you, Dada? Hehe. For the sake of all things holy, I hope you never read this.

Love Thy Damned Neighbour's Voice

Now I'm sure many of you have dealt with weirdass neighbours at some point or the other, and I'm about to tell you a little bit about mine.

It just so happens that my neighbour's kitchen and my room are kind of close together, and we almost, almost share windows. And let's just say you wouldn't exactly have to strain your ears to catch what they're saying when they're in the kitchen.

Now both the schools that I've attended in my life have been really close by and I would just get up 15 minutes early to reach on time, but my neighbours' kids apparently needed to wake up nice and early and apparently their mother would have to do all the screaming that was required to get them out of bed in the KITCHEN, and no other place.

Example:

Neighbour: 'GET UP,YOU LAZY BASTARD! GET UP! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR SCHOOL! GET UP AND GET READY, don't just LIE there!'

These words would penetrate the thick curtain of sleep and pierce my brain like shards of glass and  I would actually wake up, and would actually start getting ready, because I'd feel so guilty. 

Yes, she unintentionally rendered me a great service, something which even my alarm (set at two-minute intervals with inspirational messages like 'WAKE UP, FATTY!') had failed to do.

The husband is no less weird, and he'd often tell me when we met downstairs in the morning to 'hurry up' like he told his kids, and I'd smile nervously, tighten the satchel straps and quicken my steps.

So kids, what have we learnt today? 

Neighbours are nice. 

Even if they are complete fucking bonkers.

5 Reasons My Relatives Are Revolting

1.    They won’t remember my birthday, but they will remember the day results come out. And they will take an unhealthy amount of interest in every exam I take, and will wait eagerly to hear how I performed. The worse I do the better.

2.    They will always pinch my cheeks at weddings and tell me how ‘big’ I’ve grown. Apart from the pseudo-compliment which is actually a snide nod towards my not-so-waif-like-figure, do they honestly think I would still remain the diaper-clad, drooling baby they last saw me as?

3.    They will always, laughingly no less, tell me how difficult it would be to find a husband for me, since I’m ‘so’ tall. It’s all I can do to not point out that the average height of most people in Europe is similar to mine, and marriage to me is as repulsive an option as going out to jog in the morning. Very repulsive, in other words.

4.    They will turn up out of the blue at events and ask me ‘Do you remember me?’ displaying their molars to the fullest extent and look at me with expectant eyes, as if seriously expecting me to remember one of the clan I’d last seen at a distant cousin’s birthday party or something.

5.    They will bore everyone stupid about how rigorously they’re dieting and yet will insist on a third helping of everything. At least be considerate and leave some mishit doi for this ‘big’ girl.

      Now I know they're family and I love them, but sometimes they do get on my nerves a bit. But what's life without a few (unintentionally) funny uncles and aunties? Do let me know the things your relatives do that annoy you.

      See you next time, lovely people.  

TEN Bong Things You Should At Least Pretend To Know

Just the other night, I thought of writing a post about things which are quintessentially Bengali and lo and behold, the very next morning the Sunday edition of the paper had an A-Z list of words that are a part of Bengali vocabulary. My list does include a few of those (simply because they canNOT be omitted), but mostly consists of things I came up with on my own.

Bengalis are the Bengali speaking people of India, and mostly inhabit the state of West Bengal, though they are scattered all over the country, and the world. Here are 10 things that, when you come across, you should know are essentially Bengali:

1) Boroline: This little green tube filled with white cream apparently has a miracle cure for anything under the sun, from chapped lips to cracked hips. And every Bengali knows the jingle 'Shurobhito Antiseptic Cream Boroline!'... And I always, always lose the little black cap to my tube. Ugh.

2) Nicknames: If you're Bengali,you might have a sexy name like Nikhil or Priya, but then all comes undone when your mom calls you 'Babana' or 'Mumpi' in front of your friends, and you're left to pretend that you have suddenly lost the power of hearing.

3) Durga Puja: It's a festival, it's a carnival, it's a celebration, it's Valentine's Day(s) and it's a chance to say 'EFF OFF, Diet!'

4) Sweets (Mishti): You have to taste it to believe it. Just do it. Go on.

5) Phuchka: You have to taste it to believe it. The soft spicy potato filling in a crumbly fried potato... thing, oh it's heaven. 

6) Sunday bazaar: It's the therapy of all therapies, a kind of custom which has been handed down from one Bengali generation to another. The male of the household goes off to the local bazaar with 5-6 of these special bazaar bags and comes back an hour or so later dripping with sweat, bags bulging and wearing a triumphant smile on his face at having successfully bought the biggest carp of the season.

7) Which brings us to our love affair with fish. We need fish. We scream for fish. And if you're Bengali and you don't like fish, well then, you aren't Really Bengali.

8) New Market: It's the Bengali shoppers' paradise, the ultimate place of affordable and fashionable clothing, and one where bargaining is not only expected, but considered to be something of a fine art.

9) Gamcha: We are too cool for towels, for us, it's all about that long, thin piece of cotton, almost invariably a shade of red, green or orange, that soaks up water and with it, our personal turmoils. It's our friend, our only friend.

10) Feluda: Move over Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, we got Feluda over here. Immortalised in Satyajit Ray's works as the 6 feet tall, strapping detective who believed in the power of the mind, he is the hero of all Bengali heroes. There can never be another like Felu Mitter.

 

Thanks for reading! Every culture has certain typical characteristics, and that makes the world such a wonderfully colourful place. See you around! 

I GOT BLUE HIGHLIGHTS... Wait, NO.

I can barely keep my eyes open, but I'm still going to keep typing, because well, I am awesome. And incredibly stupid.

Hello again! Thanks for clicking on that link, and thanks for reading this and uh, I'm going to start right now...

Ever since I turned 18 I've had this longing to do something wacky and different, and what better than to get blue highlights for my hair? So, today after days of salon-hopping and appointment-making and making frantic calls that always ended with me saying 'Yes, yes, blue. No, not blonde. Blue. Yes,' I walked into the salon from (ANOTHER) exam and slumped on the seat.

Long story short, my hair was vigorously shampooed, conditioned, strands of hair to be streaked singled out, bleached and dyed, during which time my mother, bless her, managed to have two fairly satisfying naps and I informed all my girlfriends about the wonderful new transformation I was to undergo, and sneakily observed all the different customers trickling in, all patting their hair and asking the hairdresser what will 'suit' them the most.

At one point, this incredibly adorable four-year-old boy walked in with his nanny and he looked absolutely terrified when he was made to sit down on The Chair. And what followed took me back to the days when my father would haul my brother and me to the local 'men's saloon' every other Sunday to give us the classiest haircut possible: The Bowl. And because of that and my seeming lack of secondary sexual characters, I'd more than once been called a guy, to the point a bus conductor yelled out 'Hey bro, look out!' as the bus skirted past me. Thanks a lot, dad. Thanks a lot.

Anyway, as my cheerful little Nepalese hairdresser pulled away the white towel with a flourish, there was a definite feeling of anticlimax. WHERE IN THE BLUE HECK WAS THE BLUE?

So it transpired, my hair was so effing black, the blue was barely visible. Unless of course, you viewed specific portions of my hair under some zillion-watt stadium lights. She was so disappointed, she took 50% off the colouring cost and promised to have the coolest red colour ready when the bleached hair began to show. At the end it was my mom who was consoling her that it was alright, and I didn't mind, and I'd definitely come back. I have to admit, I was feeling the blues too. Okay sorry, bad pun.

I really wish I had some cool pictures to put up, but noone wants to see stupid black hair, do they?

This is exactly what my hair... DOESN'T look like.

Thanks for reading, again! More next time, you lovely people.

A Heritage Site I Never Knew Existed!

In October 2012, my family and I toured Europe with a bunch of people we bonded really well with, and since then these four families and mine have formed a little travel group, and we meet up for quick getaways in places around the city, and needlessly to say, I have a Whole lot of fun. 

Last weekend, we booked a bus and in little over two hours we found ourselves in the stunning, ancient palatial 'Itachuna Rajbari' that had been built by a Maratha warrior of the Kundan clan. As I walked through the grand entrance, my DSLR at the ready, the sheer size of the place took my breath away. It had an air that was steeped in history and the demeanour of a formidable grandfather who had once served in the army. That was a random thought. Here, have a look:

This one was from the top of the stairs at the other end (which you can see here) of the yard:

There's really nothing more to say, but loads to see. 

 I took all of these while roaming around the place, but many doors were locked, and many windows shut tight...

I think they probably had gas lamps back in the time of the Rajbari, but I guess bulbs make more sense now.

 I found these creepy-looking bald dolls shoved to one corner of a verandah... cannot really imagine a royal child finding these adorable.

 This is a beautiful mirror, don't you think?

The Rajbari all decked up in the evening:

All in all, it was a grand trip... and believe me, the best part was spooking ourselves at night by roaming the dark corridors, all huddled together and giggling nervously. We didn't see any ghosts, but that doesn't mean they weren't there, does it? 

Until next time, you lovelies.

Are You Mentally (Un)Healthy? Find out here!

‘Lights will guide you home,

And ignite your bones,

And I will try to fix you.’

Lights Will Guide You Home,

Coldplay

Do you ever have one of those phases when one song plays on loop in your head, and in some weird, disconnected way, makes complete sense to you?

 Yeah, I don’t.

Just kidding, I totally do.

HEloooOOooooOOooo! My apologies to the 5 people, who read my blog for not posting since last time; exams are crowding thick and fast upon me( yes, AGAIN), and I can tell you all about the nitty-gritties of the trauma post-School Indian students have to deal with, but maybe some other day.

Today, I will conduct a test to check my own sanity. With the help of one of my numerous Biology books which serve more as weight-lifting tools rather than imparting any knowledge to me. Just kidding, I don’t lift. Not even my finger.

Now, this book has listed some points under ‘Characteristics of a mentally healthy person’ and they are:

1)     Feeling comfortable about self. *wrong answer buzzer sound* Oh hell no. I’ll feel comfortable about myself the day my thighs stop resembling the trunks of Banyan trees. Really old Banyan trees.

2)   Right feeling towards others. Beaver please. Did you see what that b****y a*****e commented on my status? Oh I have right feelings. Right feelings of cutting off certain tongues and setting them on fire.

3)   Ability to meet the demands of life. The auto driver asked for change. I didn’t have change. How difficult was it for him to understand I didn’t have change? So I may have called him a few names. And sworn on his dead grandfather that I’ll never ride an auto again. But I can totally meet the demands of life. Just don’t ask me for change. Just don’t.

So let’s see what my score is! A ONE out of THREE? And that too after being overly generous and lenient towards myself?!

I’m doomed.

That is it for today, beauties. I’m just going to grab some yoghurt and cry myself to sleep…as usual.

Thanks for reading!

You Know It's Summer When...

Hola, amigos. Yes, I can speak Japanese, okay?

For all of us super cool people up here on the Northern Hemisphere, summer is finally here! Yay! *burst of confetti and children's shrieks* I don't know why I said summer is 'finally' here; it's not like the part of India I live in has bitterly cold, long drawn-out, snowy winters (ha, I wish). On the contrary, winter is the time we eagerly look forward to, because then we can finally flaunt our super-fashionable monkey-caps. Here, I think you'll agree when I tell you this that THIS is the next best thing in fashion after blue jeans:



Sir, what a selfie. The monkey cap does not at all make you look like you're about to kill a grandmother.

I think I got a bit off track. Yes, so summer is here! Here in West Bengal (and most parts of India), we don't really have Spring, as such. One moment you're snuggling in your sweater and enjoying the cold, and the next moment you want to strip naked and live in a little hut you made in front of the yellowed, wheezing air-conditioner that was installed before you were born in your parents' bedroom, and never, ever get out.

You know summer is here in India, when:

1. The night is as quiet as the local bazaar at rush hour on a Sunday morning. There are air-conditioners groaning EVERYWHERE! It starts late in the evening, and you can tell by the groan and splutter of it being switched on, and continues well into the next morning, thereby allowing you a restful night's sleep. NOT. I have a weird reaction to ACs, which I mentioned in one of my earlier posts; I cannot sleep when they are on. Plus, did I mention that one of my neighbours thinks its unnecessary to get their electronic appliances serviced at least once? Yes, so that bitch sounds like it's coughing so hard it's going to die.

2. The sweat patches. You come out of the bath, put on the deodorant, put on some nice clean clothes, and you sit down, and BAM you have these blossoming under your armpits and all sorts of places (if you know what I mean). I mean, you don't even have to be doing any work to get these eyesores. They will just haunt you...forever.

3. The tan. If you are Caucasian, or have white skin, it probably looks good on you. Attractive, even. But most of us in this blessed country are brown-skinned, and when we get a tan, we look like we slathered our face with Nutella ( WUDDUP, background reference!). But don't fear, our mothers got it all under control. My mom has the yoghurt, the papaya, the lizard tail, salamander skin and everything else ready to get rid of the 'extra' brownness.

4. SUNSCREEN lotion! Who am I kidding? This stuff doesn't work here! I believe Lotus brings out a range specifically for 'Indian summers', but I think it's just a marketing gimmick. You go out ochre, you come back brown.

5. The black umbrella! Which is nowhere as sexy as Rihanna's one. It is seen everywhere during this time in my city, from college-goers to phuchkawallahs, from bloggers to book-sellers. #blackumbrellaswagy'all

6. The smell of summer. Which is just a polite way of saying, 'we all STINK like SHIT' during these months. So it's generally a good idea to take a bath or two during the day. Or four. Or ten.

There are so many things I can add, but the heat is getting to me. Thank you for reading, and see you next time, you beauties.

Can't Think Straight

Imagine that you have a secret. It’s deep, it’s dark, you think it’s shameful, and you can’t talk about it to anyone, you can’t escape it, and it makes you feel trapped and helpless. Not being able to come out with it is slowly killing you inside. No, I’m not talking about your addiction to Koffee With Karan. This is what most of the people of the LGBT community are made to feel about their sexual orientation.

Now it’s all good and fine to proclaim that you are supportive of gay rights and you have ‘nothing against them’, but what when your own son or your daughter tells you that he or she is gay? Will you tell them to ‘snap out of it’ and think ‘normally’? Will you be happy that your daughter has found the perfect ‘woman’? Will you remember that it’s never, ever about making a choice? Will you bear in mind that she has been born that way?

At this point, I can go on a whiny rant about the unfairness of Section 377, but I think (and I’m sure you will agree) that we have covered quite enough of that. Apparently, despite being in our 67^th year of independence, we are so enamoured by the British, we must obey a dusty, irrelevant law they wrote, word for word, because that is how it is done, people. Just ask the Supreme Court.

I think Imran Khan got it right when he said that your sexual orientation is controlled by a switch at the back of your neck.

On: Yay, I’m gay!

Off: Hey dude, Sunny Leone looks smoking in Ragini MMS 2, huh? Hurr-hurr-hurr-hurr *beast-like laughter and backslapping sounds*

Ah, technology. We’ve come so far.

And there’s this very cool word doing the rounds nowadays. What’s it called? Oh right. Homophobia. Wikipedia says that it means, and I quote,

‘Homophobia encompasses a range of negative attitudes and feelings toward homosexuality or people who are identified or perceived as being lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender (LGBT). It can be expressed as antipathy, contempt, prejudice, aversion, or hatred, may be based on irrational fear, and is sometimes related to religious beliefs.’

Oh you’re homophobic? Don’t read Shakespeare. He was gay. No, put down that coffee! Didn’t you hear? Gay people have coffee too. You’re reading Harry Potter? But gay people enjoy that, you can’t read that! You’re using shampoo? Haw, but all gays use shampoo! That’s just not acceptable from you; you’re putting all homophobics to shame.

If you surf Facebook long enough, you’ll come across these long posts and comments that people have left about their opinions on homosexuality. Some of them are indeed heartening to see, but some have simply whipped out the Bible and quoted it from it, stating that homosexuality is as criminally evil and blasphemously against the order of nature as Yo Yo Honey Singh’s lyrics. Well, if it’s says so in the Old Testament, it must be true.

If we’re humans, why can’t we try and be a little more humane?  Being L or G or B or T is not a crime, being C (=corrupt), being I (=ignorant), being CM (=close minded) are. Let’s show a little love, because let’s face it, love is all that there is. 

Thank you for reading this. Ding-dong!

What Goes On in Women's Restrooms

Hello, ladies and gentlemen, today I shall try and unravel one of the greatest mysteries of womankind, something which has puzzled jobless and horny men for years: what really goes on in women's washrooms?

So I'm at the mall with the family, and I've just enjoyed a good film and I'm feeling happy and light, when I suddenly realise that the Coke which I had glugged down is now really pressing hard against my bladder. It must be let out NOW. As is custom, my mother accompanies me and since they've got to kill five minutes, my brother and dad decide they might as well empty their bladders, too.

I walk into the washroom, and I spot a row of ladies examining some microscopic flaw in the right corner of their upper lips in the large mirrors and readying their ammunition to blast that blemish to bits. One lady was rolling out her lipstick almost with a vengeance, and another was reapplying coat after coat of mascara. I wondered why her thickly crusted eyelashes had not fallen out yet. Or maybe, they had fallen out, and she was wearing fake ones! Another, I watched from the corner of my eye, was holding up her hair on top of her head, and tilting her head this way and that to find out which was style flattered her face the most. Then, deciding her double chin looked too jiggly with her present style, let her hair loose and sucked in her belly to make it look flat (ha, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.), a wasted effort, in my opinion, since her outfit already lovingly brought out every unflattering bulge (I'm going to a special place in hell which the reserve for hypocrites and judgmental bastards).

My mom had dumped her bag on me and gone into one of the cubicles (she always believes in going one after the other in public places. It's 'safer that way' she says. Who am I to judge?). I glanced at the mirror right in front of me for sheer want of something to do, and I immediately cringed. I could fully appreciate the true wisdom of 'Ignorance is Bliss'. The harsh lighting made me look like a bloated pineapple with a bad hair day. Immediately I had the urge to suck in my belly (ha, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.), get a Botox surgery and starve myself. But then, I did something which made it all unnecessary. I turned my back on the effing mirror, telling myself that something was 'wrong with it' and it was the 'lighting' which was making me look like Lindsay Lohan on hard drugs (hmm, that is kind of flattering). Thankfully, my mom reappeared at that moment, and I went to pee in peace. 

Later that evening, I find myself in a different bathroom, one which is luxuriouly furnished, lit with a soft golden glow, and blissfully empty. As I stared into the gilded mirror, my mind was going through a painful internal struggle. 

Mind: It's just such a stupid, stereotypical thing to do!

FatMe (that's my name in my mind's chatroom): But everyone does it!

Mind: You're stupid.

FatMe: Why, thank you.

After furtively checking the door, I fish out my phone, aaaannd SELFIES! *Click-click-click-click*

HA, as if YOU haven't ever done it before.

Pip-pip!

What To Do When You're a Social Misfit (like me)

Have you ever felt like you didn't belong in the society you live in? Like you're way too awesome for normal stuff? Have you got the maturity of a 5-year-old? Do you prefer Smosh to your boyfriend/girlfriend's relentless chatter? Do you like Nutella a bit too much? Do you write with your left hand? Do you pee too much?

If any of your answers is yes, then it means you are an effing weirdo. Yes, EVEN if you are only a leftie. You are supposed to use your right hand, OKAY? Otherwise, it is simply not acceptable! God, some people just refuse to understand. Oh and you're gay? Might as well make a hut in the woods and settle down.

Right. If you're going to be a nutcase, might as well be bold about it. Haven't you heard of 'crazy is the new cool'? What's that? You're single? STILL? Just get some frozen yoghurt and your copy of Bridgette Jones (the first part, not the third, which sucked..), curl up in your bed, and NEVER come out again.

Society loves its rules. Loves its order. Adores its 'normalcy'. And if you're even slightly different, people might just try and stamp it out of you. It doesn't matter if you've got a body full of tattoos or piercings, or a head full of blue hair, or if you like Keeping Up with the Kardashians too much, all we have to be is a good human being. A being without fear, without hate, without judgement, with strength and belief. That is not very difficult, is it?

More next time, you lovely muffins. 

Charm her like a Disney Prince (or try to, atleast)

Are you a guy, reasonably attractive, reasonably tall and reasonably funny, yet unreasonably SINGLE? There must be a few fundamental things you might be getting wrong. Read on to find out more about this secret turn-off factor which might be causing your pheromones to misfire:

1. Personal hygiene. I cannot stress how important this is. Men, PLEASE, take a bath. Wash your hair, and rule numero uno: Thou Shalt Scrub Thy Neck.

a) Check your nails. Make sure the girl doesn't mistake you for a professional gardener who spends all his time digging up soil...with his hands.
b) Check your teeth. You might be making a pretty good impression but as soon as you reveal your yellow, crusty incisors, you might cause her to run away from you screaming. A gleaming smile always helps.
c) Check your smell. If you smell good, you are automatically elevated to the 'Eligible for Mating' stratum in the female's mind.

2. Make her laugh! If you're funny, you are almost, almost Jim Carrey to the girl. It is just SO appealing.

3. Don't be a dumbass when it comes to clothing. The title is self-explanatory. If you've go to hide a bit of flab, do not wear that tight tee that spells out 'Sexiest Man Alive' as it stretches over your man boobs.

4. Flowers. Flowers work like a charm. Bring it out quietly from behind your back and murmur, 'I brought you flowers.' You will be able to observe her melting.

5. Ask her things about herself. Don't be that douchebag who can't stop talking about his highest score in GTA V or whateverr. So not interested.

6. Be a gentleman. And if you haven't ever heard of that word before, Google it, bastard.



See Flynn right here?  He is... sigh.

There are so many more things that one can add to this list, but then we haven't got all eternity, have we?

That is it for now! Thank you for reading this utter crap. Chop-chop!

Shoutout to Friend #2

Hola, beautiful people! I'm still very, very new at this blogging business, and every little thing which is slightly encouraging makes me a squeal like a ten-year-old girl who's been gifted her very own limited edition Barbie Bathroom Set. So, this post is for my fraaand, Prabaha, who has been the FIRST person ever, to comment on any of my posts.

Here's a little rhyme I wrote for you:

You ain't no Cumberbatch,
But you're still my favourite byatch,
Because though your sense of humour totally sucks,
And your comments might give some kids chicken pox,
I still think you're awesome, funny and amazing,
And you give me blogs a lot more meaning!

My God, WHY haven't I been given the Nobel Prize for Literature already?

So, yeah that's it. Thank you for reading this, and thank you Prabaha.



In case you're wondering, that's Prabaha and I in Biology class.

Meet my Friend #1

I am going to keep a promise, and dedicate this post to one of my best friends, and fellow blogger : Deepan Chatterjee! Don't judge him by the fact that he has a weird-looking baby as profile picture, he is not actually a baby... which would be very strange since I just said that he is one of my best friends. Anyhoo, let me tell you a little bit more about  this amazing person. Popcorn ready? Okay.

I met him in class 11, when I joined DPS, Ruby Park, where I would be spending the last two years of my school life. He and I didn't really talk much at first, and one of the earliest memories I have of us is when I'm taking down his number at the back of my Physics notebook in the lab, and I spelt his name as 'Dipon Chatterji'. He rolled his eyes, huffily took the pen from my hands and scratching out what I'd written, rewrote his correctly spelt name with a flourish. All the time I had to suppress the urge to burst out giggling. Which happens to me often. Like during my grandmother's funeral. But wokay, let's not get into that now.

Deepan is a wonderful person, and he is kind, helpful, funny, and is charmingly self-deprecatory. You just can't help but like him. We have just taken our school-leaving exam, and after a few months, maybe we won't see each other again. But Dipon, if you're reading this, I want to tell you this that PLEASE BE MY FRIEND FOREVER.

BECAUSE we are BFFFFFFFFFFFFs, BEEECH.

I the loves you so much!

That's Deepan and I at our School Farewell. Look at him in the suit and tie. Oh, he's growing up.

Smosh-ing my way through, BEECHES.

Like I said, in my earlier post, I'm a crack addict. Which proves you haven't read it. What I did say, was that my exams have ended today and I've been having a Smosh marathon. Not the Smosh bit, but the exams bit. I'm telling you NOW that I've been watching Smosh non-stop. And Ian Hecox, you shaggy, unkempt extremely hot thing, mmmm. Alright, coming back from horny teenager mode, here are a few videos that you should totally check out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrIwoGjvkUI

Anthony shows you the real deal!

In this one, Ian tells you how to hug another guy if you're a heterosexual (or not) man!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7CMqeVYkDo

What you need is a to be a kid when you watch these HILARIOUS videos, and if you fall in love with the Smosh men, I bear bad tidings: they both have beautiful women in their lives alREADy. What a bummer. Anthony's even going to get married soon ( am just going to go cry in the corner now.).

Have fun watching them, and spread the love...of SMOSH!

REBIRTH!

Helooooooooooo! I have MISSED you...unknown, jobless person who reads my crappy blogs! Greetings.

My Board exams were on till today, and it had shrunk me to an anxious, nervy version of myself. But as soon as that final bell struck, and the tecahers bellowed, 'STAHP WRITING!', all my energy came whooshing back, and I leapt to my feet grinning, and with a swish of my cloak, I took off into the clear blue sky. Okay I might've actually just elbowed a few people in the gut in a mad desperate rush to get my bag and get the freak out of the place, but whatever. It was a liberating experience all the same. 

This is what I feel like right now:

Like Spongebob seeing unicorns. Happiness overload.

RIIIIIGHT. Now, you must be wondering, what the HELL is a Board exam?! Well, in India, we have a FINAL, DO-OR-DIE, BITCH, kind of exam in the 12th standard which is kind of your passport to the colleges you want to get into, and kind of a bragging right for the two-year-old cousin-cum-minions who look at you wide-eyed as you say with a boastfully nonchalant shrug of your shoulders, 'I passed Maths in 12'. 

Minor detail: We had Maths today, and it was also an excellent opportunity for people to view fifty shades of red of students' faces. And their ears, too. W-ell, the sums weren't that difficult, but some of them might've had you going, 'Holy crapballs!'

More next time, Brodas and Sistahs. 

P.S. If you're male, 19-25 years of age, 6 feet tall and a lookalike of Benedict Cumberbatch, I did NOT just call you brother.

I have to friendzone Vodafone

I'm sure we've all, at some point, received spam emails. But what really takes the cake are the annoying messages that my phone service provider sends me, unfailingly, at least 5-7 times a day, and the phone calls that I have to take, which are twice that number.

If what half of what Vodafone sent me was true, I'd have been able to know my 'IQ' by just texting them the first letter of my name, would've known the name of my beloved by giving them my birthdate, would have an instant cure for any hair-related issue, especially if I had a bludgeoning bald spot, and of course, would have been able to have a long heart-to-heart with the likes of Sunny Leone, Shah Rukh Khan, and basically every actor/actress who feels for my lack of a love life and teenage problems, and weight issues and less-than-stellar Maths marks...

So one day I get a text, which goes, 'Do you want to add some extra inches to your height? Tired of being dwarfed by everyone? Then... blah blah blah...'

People don't dwarf me! I dwarf people, both in terms of height and width! And here in West Bengal where the average height is 5 foot 5, it's easy to tower over people with just a 5 foot 10!

There are also the anonymous texts which tell me to call Mona/Urmila/Lisa because she felt sad that I hadn't 'returned her call', all the time referring to me as 'Sir'! I mean, come ON. Never mind the gender mix-up, this is a hot-blooded oestrogen-charged heterosexual girl RIGHT here!

The Day I Said I Liked Biology (Har har)

Before I begin, let me acquaint you with the education system in most schools of India. There are usually 3 classes before class 1, all different stages of kindergarten. We proceed from drooling over colourful toys to learning to recognize its shape. I know, it makes us feel pretty important to say, 'Damn, girl, I bet my diaper-clad butt that it's a circle.' Gradually we learn the alphabet ('Sheesh, who knew 'Xylophone' was a word?!'), and then, we leap from being Preschoolers to uniformed, grinning School kids. Now, from class 1 to 5, we have subjects like English Language, English Literature, Vernacular Language, Vernacular Literature, Science, History, Geography and Mathematics (yep, that Devil haunts us from the beginning of Time.).

IN class 6, Science branches into the Holy Trinity: Physics, Chemistry and Biology. And this is the beginning of all my woe. Don't get me wrong; I loved the new things I learnt, but everyone in my family seemed to be particularly curious about my opinions regarding Biology. Admittedly, it felt pretty fascinating to learn about the things inside our body (and it still does), and it all started when my grandfather, very innocently asked whether I liked studying about the human body. I said that of course I did! And then he pronounced: 'Didimoni (he calls me that out of affection, it means a female teacher in Bengali. I know, he's adorable.) will be a Doctor.'

At that time I felt smug and important thinking how awesome it would be to be one. All grave and wearing a stethoscope and asking people to show me their tongues (because that's all I had ever seen them doing), but it was only later (much, much later) that I observed how all doctors had illegible handwriting, were always in a foul mood and had little patience for anything. 

Then, of course, I sat for my class 10 Board Examinations, and with the 96.8% I secured, people were even more convinced that I had the makings of good doc, and some of them even joked that they wanted free check ups. Only I don't think they were joking. I come from a long line of hardcore misers. Though these things, as they often do, skip the, er, female genome. 

Now I stepped into the big, bad world of High School. Oh no, I wasn't bullied or anything, I was astounded by the amount of studying one had to do to even stay afloat, forget about getting to the top. Even with only 5 subjects (Physics, Chemistry, Biology, English and Mathematics), I have struggled to balance. After class 10, everything seems dreamy and nice, but it's the next two years which actually test you. 

Now I am preparing for my class 12 Board Examination, which commences from the 1st of March. And right after they end, I shall embrace a spate of exams (which offer a handful of students, among lakhs, seats at a college) which will only determine the rest of my life. So really, nothing major.

And on top of that, I have my lovely, sweet family at home waiting with bated breath to see if I crack the Pre-Medical Test. Every time there's a family function, new relatives who I haven't seen in ages seem to pop up with the sole reason of asking about my 'plans'. 

Broken dreams of uncles. Unfulfilled desires of parents. An overwhelming primal desire to boast about 'my daughter's' achievements to everyone from the milkman to the old, deaf aunty at a cousin's wedding. These are just some of the weights which I've unconsciously picked up, and am carrying around. 

I swear, expectation is the heaviest burden. 

Oh well, que sera sera. 

Ciao for now.