We little girls in the neighbourhood would sometimes sneak off with our mom's and elder sisters' clothes and cart them off to a friend's place. There we would pile them up and try them on for an impromptu fashion show. One of us, usually the eldest would act as the MC and she would call us out one by one and we would sashay on the kitchen floor.
One time, this girl, maybe a couple of years older than us, moved to the neighbourhood and we invited her to join our fashion show. Instead of wearing someone's mom's clothes, she draped a curtain round herself. We gawked at her elegant make-shift gown and her exaggerated poses on the kitchen walk. And then to top it all off, when the MC asked her where she came from, she threw her hands up in the air and cried, "I come to... CUBAAA!!"
That for us was the pinnacle of glamour. Never mind that our teachers taught us that the correct response when someone asks where we come from is "I come from..". We all wanted to come to (dramatic pause, hands thrown upwards) Cubaaa. Afterwards, we would suck up to whoever was the MC so that she would call us out first and we could claim Cuba. Being very sucky at sucking up, I came to Cuba just once, but oh, the utter divaesqueness of the moment! It didnt matter if youre born in the USA, or you come from the land down under, or you could fly yourself to the moon. Cuba was it. Original Cuban girl too could never afterwards match up to her debut performance.
Often, I find myself wondering what makes a person attractive. Classical beauty aside, there are certain people who others are drawn to like sugar to ants. I once had a roomie who was quite frankly, certainly no raving beauty but every time we went out in a group, she always, ALWAYS, had at least two romeos who walked up to her on the street and who introduced themselves to her. Being prissy little teens then, we would wonder what the attraction was and surmised that she must've batted her scanty lashes at all the guys she passed (meowr).
Looking back, I think now that it was her sheer exuberant, laugh out loud persona that was the attraction. Roomie had always been able to have a good laugh with even the dourest person, and even when she hooked up with the guy I and a friend had been heavily crushing on for months, she could still make us laugh our stomachs flat. I think that too was the attraction posed by Cuban girl. The curtainy gown and the posing were pretty good but in itself were nothing worth remembering after 20 years (omg 20!!!) And though I can't recall her face, I cant forget the starry look in her eyes, the exuberance in her raised arms and the total openness of her smile as she cried "Cubaaa!!" She made Cuba seem like a place where all was sunshiney and beautiful. Wonder what Fidel would make of her.
So, .. er, physical beauty aside, I guess attractiveness depends on the happiness that a person exudes. Which is why I think Victoria's Secret models are soo attractive. Apart from the slinky bods and the sexy lingeries, its the friendliness and the "I have fun" attitude which they exude that sets them apart from the other sulky-looking models out there.
Still, I think batting one's scanty lashes would do the job pretty well too...
Showing posts with label Blah blah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blah blah. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Anger...
... he smiles tow'ring shiny metallic purple armour"- Jimi Hendrix (Bold as Love)
He's wrong. It's an all-consuming fiery crimson red.
What gets your goat? Normally a relatively placid being, these days I'm like a lit firecracker, exploding at every turn.
Its been a busy, busy time- house construction, demolition, moving, cantankerous nephews to babysit and personal problems of my own, which all adds up to make me a very volatile person right now. I'm generally "Slow to anger, quick to forgive", or at least I think I am. But when I do get mad, I need a good, healthy bellow before I can move on.
I wish I could be like those people who, when they get mad, keep silent and go away for a while and return when all's well. Me, when I can't find an outlet I brood and my anger just builds. And now its even worse because it seems my temper is frayed all the time. And the sucky part about my kind of anger is, its the kind that's a precursor for crimes of passion.
Take my conversation with my hyper-active 5 year old nephew yesterday.
He: "Nu Kuku, can I play with your lat-top, Anuteii's det-top doesn't have bike games.
Me: There's none in mine either, bawih. Besides, I told you you can use my laptop only when you turn 7.
He: pleasepleasepleasepleasePLEASEPLEASEPLEASE....
Me: No. Here's some crayons. Go play.
He: No (throws them away)
Me: NGE I PAIHHHH!!!!??? CHHAR VAT RAWH!!!! I
He: (startled, backs away) Nu Kuku, min ngei ami? (Do you hate me?) *walks away sadly.
Me: No... (heart breaks)
These days it seems my family gives me side-long glances, then hastily averts their eyes when I look at them. I try. I really try to be calm. I take out my Bible very night and pray. But right now Im currently on the chapter where Eve's descendants are cursed to battle forever with the snake, so I guess I'm in battle mode too.
He's wrong. It's an all-consuming fiery crimson red.What gets your goat? Normally a relatively placid being, these days I'm like a lit firecracker, exploding at every turn.
Its been a busy, busy time- house construction, demolition, moving, cantankerous nephews to babysit and personal problems of my own, which all adds up to make me a very volatile person right now. I'm generally "Slow to anger, quick to forgive", or at least I think I am. But when I do get mad, I need a good, healthy bellow before I can move on.
I wish I could be like those people who, when they get mad, keep silent and go away for a while and return when all's well. Me, when I can't find an outlet I brood and my anger just builds. And now its even worse because it seems my temper is frayed all the time. And the sucky part about my kind of anger is, its the kind that's a precursor for crimes of passion.
Take my conversation with my hyper-active 5 year old nephew yesterday.
He: "Nu Kuku, can I play with your lat-top, Anuteii's det-top doesn't have bike games.
Me: There's none in mine either, bawih. Besides, I told you you can use my laptop only when you turn 7.
He: pleasepleasepleasepleasePLEASEPLEASEPLEASE....
Me: No. Here's some crayons. Go play.
He: No (throws them away)
Me: NGE I PAIHHHH!!!!??? CHHAR VAT RAWH!!!! I
He: (startled, backs away) Nu Kuku, min ngei ami? (Do you hate me?) *walks away sadly.
Me: No... (heart breaks)
These days it seems my family gives me side-long glances, then hastily averts their eyes when I look at them. I try. I really try to be calm. I take out my Bible very night and pray. But right now Im currently on the chapter where Eve's descendants are cursed to battle forever with the snake, so I guess I'm in battle mode too.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Rehashes.
Reread Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid". And no, this does not indicate my second childhood.
The full story's here. This is becoming my favourite fairy tale. Beautiful lines there- "mermaids have no tears, and therefore they suffer more". The pathos in this sentence really got me. Mermaids aside, its awful when you cant find an outlet for pain through tears. Well, not that its happened to me, being a closet crybaby. My sister described giving birth as "pain beyond tears". I once went to a funeral where the deceased's husband kept patting the body of his dead wife, his body racked occasionally by dry sobs that refused to give vent to tears. I cant imagine greater pain-physical or emotional- than those. Ariel's story, where she loses the love of her life and gains a soul in the process made me reinforce that old cliche, "Its better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all". Love might hurt like a b!t$h, but its always worth it.
The Lit student in me remembers the feminist dictionary definition of fairy tales as a "harmful cross-cultural educative story told to unsuspecting children that shows women as passive, opportunistic or cruel" (Cheris, 149) where passivity is praised and "powerful female figures ... were either deprived of (verbal) power or their power was transformed into the wickedness of witchcraft" (Bottigheimer, 149). Yeowtch!
Rewatched Nirvana's 1993 MTV Unplugged performance. It was thaaat long ago. Swooned all over again. Kurt Cobain is one good looking dude, despite or maybe, because of that greasy unkempt dirty blond hair, disheveled clothes and moody attitude. Laughed at Dave Grohl's angsty grunge avatar :D
The band and MTV originally had differences of opinions about the song line-up because the band didnt want it to be a rock show where the band would play their hits albeit with acoustic guitars. They preferred working with a few of their lesser known songs and covers and also preferred cameo appearances by a little known band, The Meat Puppets, rather than some famous name. They went with their instinct and, IMHO, went on to present the best ever Unplugged performance in history. The grungemeister didn't sell out to MTV execs and in the process, left a musical legacy that thrilled with its creative promise, a promise all the more haunting because it remained unfulfilled.
Re-listened to U2's "One" after watching a Glee episode in which they covered the song. This song is one of my all-time faves, whether its the U2 single or the one that featured Mary J. Blige or the brief appearance in Lighthouse Family's "Free/One" or the Glee cover. Other covers I havent heard include those by Johny Cash, REM, Pearl Jam, among others. The inception of the song itself is awesome. The band nearly disbanded because of musical conflicts when The Edge came up with a chord progression that inspired the group to improvise the song and everything fell into place again. The Edge describes the moment as one that defines why you're in a band.
Though the song is about romantic relationships, it has been reinterpreted in a variety of ways, a major indicator of great writing (or lyricism, in this case). Often used as a theme song to promote human rights or social causes, the song advocates getting together not because of some spiritual belief that we are one. In fact, it says we are not the same, but we have to come together because we need to to survive. Bono suggested that "the line "we get to carry each other" introduces "grace" to the song and that the wording "get to" (instead of "got to") is essential, as it suggests that it is a privilege to help one another, not an obligation".
Im into rehashes these days. I need to find me newer things to swoon over but then again, these oldies are classics and in no way trashable.
The Lit student in me remembers the feminist dictionary definition of fairy tales as a "harmful cross-cultural educative story told to unsuspecting children that shows women as passive, opportunistic or cruel" (Cheris, 149) where passivity is praised and "powerful female figures ... were either deprived of (verbal) power or their power was transformed into the wickedness of witchcraft" (Bottigheimer, 149). Yeowtch!
Rewatched Nirvana's 1993 MTV Unplugged performance. It was thaaat long ago. Swooned all over again. Kurt Cobain is one good looking dude, despite or maybe, because of that greasy unkempt dirty blond hair, disheveled clothes and moody attitude. Laughed at Dave Grohl's angsty grunge avatar :D
The band and MTV originally had differences of opinions about the song line-up because the band didnt want it to be a rock show where the band would play their hits albeit with acoustic guitars. They preferred working with a few of their lesser known songs and covers and also preferred cameo appearances by a little known band, The Meat Puppets, rather than some famous name. They went with their instinct and, IMHO, went on to present the best ever Unplugged performance in history. The grungemeister didn't sell out to MTV execs and in the process, left a musical legacy that thrilled with its creative promise, a promise all the more haunting because it remained unfulfilled. 
Though the song is about romantic relationships, it has been reinterpreted in a variety of ways, a major indicator of great writing (or lyricism, in this case). Often used as a theme song to promote human rights or social causes, the song advocates getting together not because of some spiritual belief that we are one. In fact, it says we are not the same, but we have to come together because we need to to survive. Bono suggested that "the line "we get to carry each other" introduces "grace" to the song and that the wording "get to" (instead of "got to") is essential, as it suggests that it is a privilege to help one another, not an obligation".
Im into rehashes these days. I need to find me newer things to swoon over but then again, these oldies are classics and in no way trashable.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
When a man's needed
Feminists be damned, theres one area over which we females will never approximate to a male, and thats in brute strength. Sister #5 and I have pleaded, begged and badgered mom to get a male servant but she thinks she has a man's strength so she remains adamantly against the idea.
Then #4 and her hubby, bro-in-law #3 came over. #4 wants to "play in the sand" too and she told her hubby to take their six-month-old son. Hubby insisted on being a man (yayyy) and helped us instead. So there was no longer any need for #5 and I to walk up and down the steps carrying sackfuls of sand. All we had to do now was to load the sacks with sand while bro#3 and puny worker carried them. And God made the weather blissfully cloudy so it wasnt too bad.
We once had the perfect male servant. Well almost- he went out one Sunday and never returned and some of our stuff mysteriously disappeared with him too. He was 5 ft of muscle. He can hoist himself off the ground with just his arms, using a pole as support, aligning his body perfectly parallel to the ground. When he carried heavy loads he's skip merrily, waving his arms and saying "Heiha huiha". And he also fancied laddies so it was perfectly safe to leave him around with five little girls. Now he's gone :(
Our house is located on a hill and all routes to it contain hundreds of steps, vehicle inaccessible. Many's the time #5 and I have staggered our way up those steps when theres a delivery of sacks of rice, building materials, gas cylinders etc. Today, a truckload of sand unexpectedly arrived. We had only one worker to help and he was scrawny and puny. It looked to be a long day's work for #5, me and him.
Bro-in-law #2 came over, bought us icecreams, said he had work and couldnt stay, told us to change into long pants (we were in shorts) because we had Vai workers and they might ogle. We dimpled prettily but didnt change. Who ever heard of mucking about in sand in long pants?
Then #4 and her hubby, bro-in-law #3 came over. #4 wants to "play in the sand" too and she told her hubby to take their six-month-old son. Hubby insisted on being a man (yayyy) and helped us instead. So there was no longer any need for #5 and I to walk up and down the steps carrying sackfuls of sand. All we had to do now was to load the sacks with sand while bro#3 and puny worker carried them. And God made the weather blissfully cloudy so it wasnt too bad.
Yes, yes, I know, we look like models on an exotic fashion shoot but still, it was grueling work. Anyway, one highlight of the day was when two little schoolboys, probably 6 or 7 years old came over and insisted on helping. The held open the sacks for us and then asked for a handful of sand as payment :D
Then they ran away, cupping their treasures in their hands, whooping in delight. I want sons like those. And thats another instance where men prove helpful too. To help in procreation.
Anyway, its now time to clean up the mess the workers made, and to start preparing dinner. A woman's work is never done. Thats when its nice to have a man around to talk to after a hard day's work.
So feminists and supporters of all-female utopias be damned-again. Men do have their occasional uses. And I for one am going to badger my mom again about seeing to a male servant.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
smells
After a bout of housecleaning on a hot summer's day, there's nothing worse than stripping down for the shower only to realise that the only soap available is your dad's Lifebuoy soap. Dont get me wrong. Im sure Lifebuoy's a good soap, with skin enhancing properties, environmentally friendly, not tested on animals etc. I just hate the way it smells. Choiceless, I used the soap, uncomfortably aware that I smell like my dad.
I used to love smelling like a man. Probably the first body spray I used was El Paso, Im sure those of my generation remembers it. And Jovan White Musk for Men. I liked the hints of musk, wood, tobacco and alcohol in perfumes and sprays.
Each of us have our own distinct smell and the same perfume smells different on different people. The one Im currently using smells like crisp spring day on me. And on another girl I know, it smells like summer flirtation. I hate that girl. She makes every perfume she wears smell like a weapon of mass seduction. But thats how it is with some people.
I read somewhere that the purpose of having hair in pits and pubes is so that it would trap our natural smells and act as a seductive pheromone something or the other. And while we might not exude such strong personal aromas as our cavemen forefathers, we all do have our personal scent that nothing can quite disguise. Which is why the scent of an ex-lover is such a strong trigger for nostalgia (or revulsion, depends on one's experience).
And this is the main reason that God made men generally taller than women. Its so a woman can burrow her face in a man's chest and inhale the essence of him. And a man can bury his face in a woman's hair and know how distinct she is from every other woman.
All this just to detract from the fact that I smell like my dad.
I used to love smelling like a man. Probably the first body spray I used was El Paso, Im sure those of my generation remembers it. And Jovan White Musk for Men. I liked the hints of musk, wood, tobacco and alcohol in perfumes and sprays.
Each of us have our own distinct smell and the same perfume smells different on different people. The one Im currently using smells like crisp spring day on me. And on another girl I know, it smells like summer flirtation. I hate that girl. She makes every perfume she wears smell like a weapon of mass seduction. But thats how it is with some people.
I read somewhere that the purpose of having hair in pits and pubes is so that it would trap our natural smells and act as a seductive pheromone something or the other. And while we might not exude such strong personal aromas as our cavemen forefathers, we all do have our personal scent that nothing can quite disguise. Which is why the scent of an ex-lover is such a strong trigger for nostalgia (or revulsion, depends on one's experience).
And this is the main reason that God made men generally taller than women. Its so a woman can burrow her face in a man's chest and inhale the essence of him. And a man can bury his face in a woman's hair and know how distinct she is from every other woman.
All this just to detract from the fact that I smell like my dad.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Chances
There's this line from that movie Casablanca. I havent actually seen the movie but its supposed to be really romantic or something. Anyway, there's a line that goes- "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine". I don't know why that line popped into my head. Anyway, it made me think of serendipity, fate, destiny, kismet, khuanu ruat, what have you.
I once heard someone say that life is like a deck of cards. The cards you're dealt stands for Destiny. The way you play those cards signifies Free Will. But those cards youre dealt with pretty much determines the way the game is played, right?
Its often hard to pin-point the exact moment when a life-changing moment occurs. In hindsight, maybe, its easy to say "That was it", but at the time, we usually are oblivious to what is happening. As it is with, say the people we fall in love with. Some search for the one only to find that the one is someone they've known all their lives- a neighbour, a friend you never saw in that way, the guy in the corner shop who was always so nice, the big brother substitute who bought you ice creams, etc. Or it could be the classic someone on a foreign trip, or the stranger in the train.
Life places people in your life and while its entirely your choice to make of them what you will, its often the little things that make a difference. A trip taken, a minute's wait, a last cup of coffee, a road turning taken. And these minuscule things change our life around in ways we cannot imagine; brings people into our lives we might never have met otherwise.
Anyway, to get back to Casablanca, Rick and Ilse, despite Ilse's serendipitious wandering into Rick's gin joint, never did get together. So maybe they were never fated to be, or they chose not to be fated to be. Yeap, this is an illogical post yet again.
Here's looking at you, kid.
Its often hard to pin-point the exact moment when a life-changing moment occurs. In hindsight, maybe, its easy to say "That was it", but at the time, we usually are oblivious to what is happening. As it is with, say the people we fall in love with. Some search for the one only to find that the one is someone they've known all their lives- a neighbour, a friend you never saw in that way, the guy in the corner shop who was always so nice, the big brother substitute who bought you ice creams, etc. Or it could be the classic someone on a foreign trip, or the stranger in the train.
Life places people in your life and while its entirely your choice to make of them what you will, its often the little things that make a difference. A trip taken, a minute's wait, a last cup of coffee, a road turning taken. And these minuscule things change our life around in ways we cannot imagine; brings people into our lives we might never have met otherwise.
Anyway, to get back to Casablanca, Rick and Ilse, despite Ilse's serendipitious wandering into Rick's gin joint, never did get together. So maybe they were never fated to be, or they chose not to be fated to be. Yeap, this is an illogical post yet again.
Here's looking at you, kid.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Simple Pleasures
- Rediscovering an old song you once loved.
- Falling in love with a new song.
- Falling in love.
- Impulsive Kisses.
- Stolen Kisses.
- A sudden drizzle on a hot summer's day.
- Water fights on said summer's day.
- Someone running a comb down your back.
- Bus rides with friends.
- Bear hugs.
- Music on a long bus ride.
- Travelling at night.
- That last puff on a cigarette.
- Sleeping with your head on someone's lap.
- Good conversation.
- Feel good songs. Currently, Uncle Kracker's "Smile" and the Bee Gees' "Secret Love".
- Sales.
- The breeze in your hair.
- Holding hands and strolling lazily.
- Evening walks.
- Successfully completing a Sudoku puzzle, Crossword or two-decked Spider Solitaire
- Watching mom and dad dancing on the kitchen floor.
- Joining in.
- The first puff of the day, heh.
- Loooong phone conversations.
- Making up after a fight.
- Books.
- Daisies!!
- .......
.....
Too many!
Life is beautiful, innit?
- Falling in love with a new song.
- Impulsive Kisses.
- Stolen Kisses.
- A sudden drizzle on a hot summer's day.
- Water fights on said summer's day.
- Someone running a comb down your back.
- Bus rides with friends.
- Bear hugs.
- Music on a long bus ride.
- Travelling at night.
- That last puff on a cigarette.
- Sleeping with your head on someone's lap.
- Good conversation.
- Feel good songs. Currently, Uncle Kracker's "Smile" and the Bee Gees' "Secret Love".
- Sales.
- The breeze in your hair.
- Holding hands and strolling lazily.
- Evening walks.
- Successfully completing a Sudoku puzzle, Crossword or two-decked Spider Solitaire
- Watching mom and dad dancing on the kitchen floor.
- Joining in.
- The first puff of the day, heh.
- Loooong phone conversations.
- Making up after a fight.
- Books.
- Daisies!!
- .......
.....
Too many!
Life is beautiful, innit?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Crazy dances
I love, love, love this "History of Celebration" ad by Coca-Cola- the brand that Ive been drinking for almost every night now (Coca Cola should pay me for this). It so represents the euphoria that accompanies the World Cup.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-M3Q54rPjQw
The players cupping their hands on 0.12.
The yellow swaying men on 0.16.
The guy grabbing that flag and performing an impromptu concert for the photographers (My fave) in 0.20.
The blue rowboat in 0.28.
The posers in 0.31.
The birds in 0.39 and 0.41.
Oh hell, the whole damn ad!
Roger Milla's little dance escalated into this frenzy of goal celebration where grown men act like crazy little boys and the world just loves them all the more for it. "(They) show the whole world not just how to celebrate but how to live".
Would-be octopus murderers aside, the WC does generate a certain kind of jubilant unity in us, no matter what team we support. When a team scores, this sleepy little town is filled with the sounds of cheers, people banging on steel utensils (that was my mom, sorry neighbours), loud honking on truck horns and the occasional bursting of crackers in this cracker-less town. Good natured ribbing ensues when a friend's team loses, phone messages and calls escalate and football haters go into grumpy hibernation.
There's something about unselfconscious joy that is so very contagious. Whether its football players acting crazy when they score a goal, or a baby screaming in sheer delight or pretty young things laughing on the street, that kind of unfettered happiness always draws people in.
In The Catcher in the Rye, umm, whatsisname, yeah, Holden, the protagonist compares childhood to a field of rye where kids play freely. With adulthood they leave that field and enter into a world of phoniness where displays of real emotions are seen as signs of weakness. Too often we are told to keep our emotions in check. While this might be a good thing when it comes to negative emotions, I don't know why we don't cut loose more often when we're happy. Maybe with adulthood we learn that happiness is sometimes fleeting, that openly expressing joy often makes us vulnerable- I don't know- but we tend to laugh a little less and be more guarded.
What I do know is that nothing gets me out of a bad mood faster than to see my little nephew smiling his open, toothless smile, or my youngest sister suddenly performing her mad little dance, or my boyfriend jumping and clicking his heels in the air :D That never fails to get me.
As I watched Germany beat the hell out of England and Argentina, I literally LOL'd to myself. It has been quite a while since I allowed myself to laugh that gleefully and loudly. Its also been a while since I woke up singing, or performed an imaginary rock concert while getting dressed. And it has also been ages since I walked in the rain or climbed a tree, dignity be damned.
The world needs more laughs, more silly moments, more crazy dances. Or wait, is it just me?
P.s: Haha, Eve, I forgot everything you taught me about resizing videos to fit!! Ah well, leave it. Just another silly moment for me :D
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-M3Q54rPjQw
The players cupping their hands on 0.12.
The yellow swaying men on 0.16.
The guy grabbing that flag and performing an impromptu concert for the photographers (My fave) in 0.20.
The blue rowboat in 0.28.
The posers in 0.31.
The birds in 0.39 and 0.41.
Oh hell, the whole damn ad!
Roger Milla's little dance escalated into this frenzy of goal celebration where grown men act like crazy little boys and the world just loves them all the more for it. "(They) show the whole world not just how to celebrate but how to live".
Would-be octopus murderers aside, the WC does generate a certain kind of jubilant unity in us, no matter what team we support. When a team scores, this sleepy little town is filled with the sounds of cheers, people banging on steel utensils (that was my mom, sorry neighbours), loud honking on truck horns and the occasional bursting of crackers in this cracker-less town. Good natured ribbing ensues when a friend's team loses, phone messages and calls escalate and football haters go into grumpy hibernation.
There's something about unselfconscious joy that is so very contagious. Whether its football players acting crazy when they score a goal, or a baby screaming in sheer delight or pretty young things laughing on the street, that kind of unfettered happiness always draws people in.
In The Catcher in the Rye, umm, whatsisname, yeah, Holden, the protagonist compares childhood to a field of rye where kids play freely. With adulthood they leave that field and enter into a world of phoniness where displays of real emotions are seen as signs of weakness. Too often we are told to keep our emotions in check. While this might be a good thing when it comes to negative emotions, I don't know why we don't cut loose more often when we're happy. Maybe with adulthood we learn that happiness is sometimes fleeting, that openly expressing joy often makes us vulnerable- I don't know- but we tend to laugh a little less and be more guarded.
What I do know is that nothing gets me out of a bad mood faster than to see my little nephew smiling his open, toothless smile, or my youngest sister suddenly performing her mad little dance, or my boyfriend jumping and clicking his heels in the air :D That never fails to get me.
As I watched Germany beat the hell out of England and Argentina, I literally LOL'd to myself. It has been quite a while since I allowed myself to laugh that gleefully and loudly. Its also been a while since I woke up singing, or performed an imaginary rock concert while getting dressed. And it has also been ages since I walked in the rain or climbed a tree, dignity be damned.
The world needs more laughs, more silly moments, more crazy dances. Or wait, is it just me?
P.s: Haha, Eve, I forgot everything you taught me about resizing videos to fit!! Ah well, leave it. Just another silly moment for me :D
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Katharsis
What's your deepest darkest moment?
Am in confessional mode here, and well, confession is good for the soul, right?
Mine happened nine years ago. After twelve years of strict schooling and three years of stricter boarding school, I didn't know how to cope with the sudden freedom of college. What made it worse was that I set up house with some girls I met during the admissions rush. My parents thought I was in the college hostel. I planned to, but there were some problems and I couldn't get a seat right away. My dad is very pro hostel and I knew if he heard that I was not in a hostel, he'd tell me to come back home.
So I spun a lot of yarns about the hostel phone being inaccessible. And as the guilt grew, the calls home became less and less. I was also too guilty to ask for money and I steadily became broke. I knew I was on a disastrous course but I couldn't tell my parents the truth. At first, the freedom was exhilarating but the guilt and the lies eventually wore me down. I grew depressed and sat at home all day.
And that's when the big bang happened. My friends started losing money. Everyone of them- except me because I was broke anyway and I remember I had only about Rs.500 tucked inside my diary. So we called in our seniors and they started investigating. Well, I became the number 1 suspect since I'm the one who stayed at home and I was so broke, so they started interrogating me. I think there were about six of them who did the interrogating. It went on for hours. I haven't had dinner and they refused to let me eat.
After about four hours, they locked me inside our bare kitchenette while they all had dinner. Then they resumed the questioning. A couple of them had started drinking and they became verbally very abusive. They tried to blindfold me but cooler heads intervened. That nearly made me cry because up till a day ago, they were all my good friends, people I had laughed with. Around 3 in the morning, one of the more level-headed ones said he wanted to talk to the rest of the girls. I suppose he started to believe me since I kept on sticking to my story.
By daybreak, they discovered that it was actually one of the girls who was the thief. On inquiring further, they found out that she had a history of kleptomania. She had pretended that her money had also been stolen to divert suspicion away from her. During the course of the previous night, they had called up my parents and informed them that I had stolen money and that I should be sent home. My mom in turn called my cousin who came over in the morning. She also caught a plane and would be arriving that day.
I had stubbornly held on to my tattered dignity and refused to break down. But when my cousin came, he was so darned sympathetic I bawled in his arms. Then I started packing my stuff. My interrogators were a bit ashamed I guess, because they promised to smoothen things with my family and tell them that I don't have to be sent home now, since, surprise, surprise, I wasn't a friggin' thief.
What galls me the most is that afterwards, the friggin thief came and sobbed sorry and said, "In Tlabung we don't have good clothes. You can always buy good ones, so give me some of yours". And I was so numb, I did!!! I couldn't very well stay any longer, so the next day, I went home with my mom. Tlabung girl was also sent home soon after. But people who heard about the whole thing thought I was the thief because I went home so abruptly :((
Joined college at home, got good grades and redeemed myself. But for a long time afterwards I was ashamed and bitter. I knew it was technically my fault for landing myself in the whole mess and maybe my interrogators had grounds for suspicion but its hard to move on nevertheless. I've now chalked the whole thing down to good learning experience, though its still hard to speak of it. But now that I have, its strangely cathartic. I no longer resent the guys who got abusive, though I have to admit, learning that one of them never passed his BA and is now jobless doesn't hurt none. Am only human after all.
Kinda personal and not-so-nice, but hell, its me blog and me outlet, so there ya go.
Am in confessional mode here, and well, confession is good for the soul, right?
Mine happened nine years ago. After twelve years of strict schooling and three years of stricter boarding school, I didn't know how to cope with the sudden freedom of college. What made it worse was that I set up house with some girls I met during the admissions rush. My parents thought I was in the college hostel. I planned to, but there were some problems and I couldn't get a seat right away. My dad is very pro hostel and I knew if he heard that I was not in a hostel, he'd tell me to come back home.
So I spun a lot of yarns about the hostel phone being inaccessible. And as the guilt grew, the calls home became less and less. I was also too guilty to ask for money and I steadily became broke. I knew I was on a disastrous course but I couldn't tell my parents the truth. At first, the freedom was exhilarating but the guilt and the lies eventually wore me down. I grew depressed and sat at home all day.
And that's when the big bang happened. My friends started losing money. Everyone of them- except me because I was broke anyway and I remember I had only about Rs.500 tucked inside my diary. So we called in our seniors and they started investigating. Well, I became the number 1 suspect since I'm the one who stayed at home and I was so broke, so they started interrogating me. I think there were about six of them who did the interrogating. It went on for hours. I haven't had dinner and they refused to let me eat.
After about four hours, they locked me inside our bare kitchenette while they all had dinner. Then they resumed the questioning. A couple of them had started drinking and they became verbally very abusive. They tried to blindfold me but cooler heads intervened. That nearly made me cry because up till a day ago, they were all my good friends, people I had laughed with. Around 3 in the morning, one of the more level-headed ones said he wanted to talk to the rest of the girls. I suppose he started to believe me since I kept on sticking to my story.
By daybreak, they discovered that it was actually one of the girls who was the thief. On inquiring further, they found out that she had a history of kleptomania. She had pretended that her money had also been stolen to divert suspicion away from her. During the course of the previous night, they had called up my parents and informed them that I had stolen money and that I should be sent home. My mom in turn called my cousin who came over in the morning. She also caught a plane and would be arriving that day.
I had stubbornly held on to my tattered dignity and refused to break down. But when my cousin came, he was so darned sympathetic I bawled in his arms. Then I started packing my stuff. My interrogators were a bit ashamed I guess, because they promised to smoothen things with my family and tell them that I don't have to be sent home now, since, surprise, surprise, I wasn't a friggin' thief.
What galls me the most is that afterwards, the friggin thief came and sobbed sorry and said, "In Tlabung we don't have good clothes. You can always buy good ones, so give me some of yours". And I was so numb, I did!!! I couldn't very well stay any longer, so the next day, I went home with my mom. Tlabung girl was also sent home soon after. But people who heard about the whole thing thought I was the thief because I went home so abruptly :((
Joined college at home, got good grades and redeemed myself. But for a long time afterwards I was ashamed and bitter. I knew it was technically my fault for landing myself in the whole mess and maybe my interrogators had grounds for suspicion but its hard to move on nevertheless. I've now chalked the whole thing down to good learning experience, though its still hard to speak of it. But now that I have, its strangely cathartic. I no longer resent the guys who got abusive, though I have to admit, learning that one of them never passed his BA and is now jobless doesn't hurt none. Am only human after all.
Kinda personal and not-so-nice, but hell, its me blog and me outlet, so there ya go.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Gottverdammt!!!
The German Wall is breached
My Panzer-men
Fell like toy soldiers...
Under that pitiless African sky
My heart was ground into the dust
My dreams butchered by an arschloch ref.
Please, please..
Tread softly,
For you tread on my dreams.
:(
There. You guys have me writing scheiss poetry and plagiarizing too in the bargain. I hope Ghana loses tomorrow night, or at least get a draw against the Aussies. And that the indomitable Germans recover at the next match against the Ghanians.
And the matador's chances are dodgy too. AArgh!!
This is one sucky WC!
My Panzer-men
Fell like toy soldiers...
Under that pitiless African sky
My heart was ground into the dust
My dreams butchered by an arschloch ref.
Please, please..
Tread softly,
For you tread on my dreams.
:(
There. You guys have me writing scheiss poetry and plagiarizing too in the bargain. I hope Ghana loses tomorrow night, or at least get a draw against the Aussies. And that the indomitable Germans recover at the next match against the Ghanians.
And the matador's chances are dodgy too. AArgh!!
This is one sucky WC!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The best damn name!
After seeing Mimi and Jay-me's post about their names, I googled my name and got the Kuku tribes of Africa and Kukui nuts, plus some bands named Kuku. But it gave me no inkling into what my name really meant or signified. I've had a love-hate relationship with my name(s). My great-grandmother gave me my Mizo name Vanlalveni. I HATED IT! It's sooo old-fashioned! An uncle thought so, too, and he gave me a Biblical name (read, Sap Hming) which is a Hebrew name for "Bee"- 'nuff said. I never used it. It didn't feel like me.
Now that I'm older, I've learnt to appreciate my Mizo name. Its unusual and I don't have to suffer being relegated to a number like my sister who had Lalremruati 1 and 2, plus Lalremruata 1, 2, and 3 in her class. Besides, when you think about it, most people have guardian angels, and I have a guardian God. How awesome is that? (My name means "protected by the Heavenly God"). But I prefer being called Kuku- it's so me, though I don't know what it means. And that has been a bone of contention for me.
I once asked my parents how/why/when I was named Kuku. They didn't know the answer. As a teen, I was told by my sisters that the middle child is often the most neglected. I have two elder and two younger sisters and I am slap-bang in the middle. The fact that my parents don't know why/how/when I got my name seemed to confirm that I was an unwanted, unloved child and with all the teen angst I felt, I often felt like running away :( Sob. I've since stopped listening to my sisters, but I've always felt the lack of self-knowledge, till I remembered a story I read in, of all things, Archie comics about a caveman called Ku who saved the world. I got down to some serious research in a lot of secret archives. Ku's story is not found in google. Its too earth-shaking. Here goes:
Once upon an un-time, for the lack of the concept of time is the crux of this story, the world was in peril. There were no watches and clocks then or even the basic knowledge on how to tell time, so the world was plunged in chaos. No one knew when to start working, or when to stop; when to start eating or when to stop when to sleep or when to get up. Animals and people died. You may suppose that scavengers would have a field day, but they too were just as confused. All creatures cried out for deliverance from this chaotic confusion. It was a dark age indeed.
The dodos, who were the high priests then called for sacrifices to appease the gods. The biggest animals- the dinosaurs- were the first to be sacrificed. They were pushed inside a volcano, much to the anger of their chief T-Rex who felt that the dodos were big frauds. As he was about to be pushed inside that volcano, he said in a voice that shook with anger, "The future that be, shall heap ridicule on your head, and my tribe will be vindicated!!" But the dodos, sure of their supremacy said, "We'll spread the word that you all died out when that meteor visited us. Now jump, big guy".
Nothing worked. The gods remained stubbornly silent. All creatures fasted to appease them. In a huge cave sat the next group awaiting their own sacrifical to the gods- a bunch of ragtag, useless creatures called humans. As the big red ball in the sky started its journey towards the heavens, one of the humans, a large-headed individual called Ku could no longer control the voice of his empty stomach. It kept grumbling "mmmrrnnnngg". This irritated their tense leader Glog so much that he gave Ku a huge bop on the head with his club. Now, Ku's head is extraordinarily big, and the acoustics of the cave magnified every sound. So when Glog hit his head, Ku's head gave off a loud "Gongggg!!!"
All the creatures who had gathered around the sacrifical volcano asked, "What was that? What was that? Is that our message from the gods?" The dodos were by now eager to seize any opportunity to claim their kinship with the gods so they dragged Ku and Glog out and asked them what had happened. On learning the story, they proclaimed, "The gods have answered our prayers in the form of this worthless beings. The gods spoke through his stomach, they said 'mmmrrrnnnnggg', so let this period be called morning and let us break our long fast to celebrate this auspicious event".
So they ate and by the time the red ball reached the middle of the sky, the sated Ku's bowels gave off a satisfied "hnnnooonnn". So that period was called noon. And when the red ball fell off the sky, Ku's stomach had by now wanted feeding again, and murmured, "dnnnrr". So, Glog was made to hit Ku's head again, and everyone ate at a time that came to be called "dinner-time". From then on, Ku became the official time-piece of the prehistoric world, and Glog became the time-keeper, bopping Ku's head everytime his stomach announced the time.
Life became wonderful. All creatures now learnt how to tell time by observing the position of the red ball and connecting it with Ku's stomach's predictions. They shouted, "All hail Ku, saviour of the earth!" This enraged the dodos, who felt that Ku was becoming more popular than them. So they spread the rumour that Ku had become insane because of all the bopping he recieved. They originated the phrase, "He's gone Ku-ku" to signify madness. They then said that the gods had to be appeased again, and sacrifices once again offered to them.
But this time, the creatures that had once remained in thrall of the dodos rebelled. And a bloody war started between those for and against the dodos. Those against the dodos called themselves the Kukus. Their mascot was a bird that kept crying "Ku-ku" and this bird came to be called forever after as the cuckoo. The crows cried, "ko!ko!" and doves cooed, "Koooo". It was a long and bloody war. Whole species were decimated. But in the end, the Kukus won. The dodo high priests were exiled. They turned to the gods and offered themselves as sacrifices. They were on the lookout for great miracles, and completely missed out on seeing the answers in simplicity, failing to see 'eternity in a grain of sand'. This is the true story of how the dodos become extinct.Their names therefore become synonymous forever with stupidity unto extinction.
When mechanical time-pieces were invented, they were called 'clocks' in honour of good ol' Glog, and the earlier clocks feature a cuckoo that cries out "ku-ku, ku-ku". Yes, the cult of Ku still lives, but so does the dodo cult. They are the ones who invented the alarm clock, a device meant to vex and frustrate human beings beyond all endurance. Of course, the Ku cult fought back. The word "doh!", short for 'dodo' is now officially synonymous with mistakes of huge proportion: Doh (d) Interj. a) A Gen-X colloquialism conveying an overall feeling of frustration. b) Used to express a feeling one has after realizing they have been tricked, misled, scammed, swindled, etc.. c) Used to boast or chide the victim of such tomfoolery. (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=doh)
So while my parents no longer know why/ how/ when I was called Kuku, I now know that it is because the unseen but powerful forces of the cult of Ku had been working on them, influencing them to name me after a person who is responsible for the propagation of life on earth as we know it, and for the supremacy thereafter of human beings. The name therefore is a signifier of what defines human beings, the force that makes us humans- dumb luck and pure chance. In other words- serendipity.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The unmarried sister- a must-have.
After five (wonderful) daughters, my parents have been recently blessed with a fourth grandSON. (It runs in both sides of my family, this propensity towards having children all belonging one sex). So anyway, guess who was called on to assist in all this wonderful plethora of child-bearing and rearing? Unmarried sister extraordinaire Kuku, that's who.
I've been alternating nights at the hospital with my mom because my bro-in-law's family does not have any available, competent nurse to help my sister recuperate. I don't mind though, even if the latest addition to the family is an ugly little bawl-his-lungs-out-at-all-hours-of-the-night crybaby. Being called on to help out is part of being THE unmarried sister, after all.
I was in boarding school when daughter #1 had her son, but I comforted her through her crying jags and midnight cravings for wai-wai during her pregnancy. Daughter #4,who by-passed #2 and me, #3 at the marriage stakes should get down on her knees and thank me. I changed numerous diapers for her two sons, even washing soiled cloths for her. Then when she and her husband decided to cut set up house together, her husband had to go frequently out of station, so I was the one who had to help her get set up.
She was heavily pregnant with her second son at the time, and this was just before Christmas, so you can imagine the picture- me trying my best to shield my future nephew from the rush of the crowd as we go search for stuffs for their house. I did things I never imagined myself doing- haggling with Pick-up truck drivers for delivery and stuff, walking all over Aizawl searching for good but not-too-expensive furniture items, buying floor carpets, cushions, cutlery etc. and arranging their delivery- all the while protecting my unborn nephew and his bursting-at-the-seams mother.
It's a fact that with great responsibility comes great grumpiness. Before #1 and #2 got married, they were the epitome of grumpiness because the responsibility of the house fell on them. My mom declared some fifteen years ago that with five daughters, she was retiring from household chores and concentrating on doing what she loved best- doing manual work in the garden and our farm. So the onus of the household chore-dom fell naturally on the eldest sister. Hence the grumpiness.
And then they got married and became mothers. #1, whom we secretly nick-named "The Dragon" became a madonna- placid, smiling and endlessly patient. And #2 with her hair-line temper has now followed suit. Last night, as her little tyke kept up an incessant wail, she crooned softly to him with the tenderest smile. Of course, when her husband, who also spent the night there remarked on the unruliness of their 4-day old baby, she turned on him like a tigress. And when I slept a little too soundly and the little monster's diaper needed to be changed, she called "Kuku... KUKU... CHHUUUNGIII!!!(Her lovely pet-name for me)".
#4, who, as I mentioned by-passed me and #2, loves reminding me that my biological clock is ticking. She's always been a little different; eversince she was a kid, her aim had been to be a good wife and mother. Of the five of us, she's the only one who fulfilled her childhood dreams (I wanted to be the first female CM of Mizoram). She says, "By the time I'm in my thirties, my kids won't need that much looking after, and I'll be able to re-beautify myself and concentrate on doing what I want. Giving birth ages you, and by the time you give birth you'll be too old to rejuvenate yourself". She also loves warning me of how much it will hurt because I left it so late to have children. She should know, she took barely an hour to go from labour pains to giving birth. Lucky thing.
So anyway, as the relatively competent unmarried sister, I'm the one who's always called on to do the dirty jobs. I now hold the dubious honour of being the elder sister, since there's only me and #5 left. And I'm starting to become grumpy too. Maybe when I have a child I'll become sweet-tempered again. I know, I know, its terribly chauvinistic to say that motherhood makes placid beings out of harridans and if a guy had said this I'd probably shoot him.
I don't intend to be the unmarried sister forever. I want my own ugly little monster and a live heater in my bed too someday. And this reminds me of a conversation I had with my grandmother some months back. I was basking in the warmth of her praise over my being an all-round great daughter and sister, when she said, "You must never get married. You should stay home and look after your parents and be there for your sisters anytime they need you". I guess I protested a little too loudly because now the whole maternal side of the family jokes about my fear of NOT getting married.
Anyway, time to cut off my long with this great lesson for all- treat your unmarried sisters like gold, for one day they may get married.
I've been alternating nights at the hospital with my mom because my bro-in-law's family does not have any available, competent nurse to help my sister recuperate. I don't mind though, even if the latest addition to the family is an ugly little bawl-his-lungs-out-at-all-hours-of-the-night crybaby. Being called on to help out is part of being THE unmarried sister, after all.
I was in boarding school when daughter #1 had her son, but I comforted her through her crying jags and midnight cravings for wai-wai during her pregnancy. Daughter #4,who by-passed #2 and me, #3 at the marriage stakes should get down on her knees and thank me. I changed numerous diapers for her two sons, even washing soiled cloths for her. Then when she and her husband decided to cut set up house together, her husband had to go frequently out of station, so I was the one who had to help her get set up.
She was heavily pregnant with her second son at the time, and this was just before Christmas, so you can imagine the picture- me trying my best to shield my future nephew from the rush of the crowd as we go search for stuffs for their house. I did things I never imagined myself doing- haggling with Pick-up truck drivers for delivery and stuff, walking all over Aizawl searching for good but not-too-expensive furniture items, buying floor carpets, cushions, cutlery etc. and arranging their delivery- all the while protecting my unborn nephew and his bursting-at-the-seams mother.
It's a fact that with great responsibility comes great grumpiness. Before #1 and #2 got married, they were the epitome of grumpiness because the responsibility of the house fell on them. My mom declared some fifteen years ago that with five daughters, she was retiring from household chores and concentrating on doing what she loved best- doing manual work in the garden and our farm. So the onus of the household chore-dom fell naturally on the eldest sister. Hence the grumpiness.
And then they got married and became mothers. #1, whom we secretly nick-named "The Dragon" became a madonna- placid, smiling and endlessly patient. And #2 with her hair-line temper has now followed suit. Last night, as her little tyke kept up an incessant wail, she crooned softly to him with the tenderest smile. Of course, when her husband, who also spent the night there remarked on the unruliness of their 4-day old baby, she turned on him like a tigress. And when I slept a little too soundly and the little monster's diaper needed to be changed, she called "Kuku... KUKU... CHHUUUNGIII!!!(Her lovely pet-name for me)".
#4, who, as I mentioned by-passed me and #2, loves reminding me that my biological clock is ticking. She's always been a little different; eversince she was a kid, her aim had been to be a good wife and mother. Of the five of us, she's the only one who fulfilled her childhood dreams (I wanted to be the first female CM of Mizoram). She says, "By the time I'm in my thirties, my kids won't need that much looking after, and I'll be able to re-beautify myself and concentrate on doing what I want. Giving birth ages you, and by the time you give birth you'll be too old to rejuvenate yourself". She also loves warning me of how much it will hurt because I left it so late to have children. She should know, she took barely an hour to go from labour pains to giving birth. Lucky thing.
So anyway, as the relatively competent unmarried sister, I'm the one who's always called on to do the dirty jobs. I now hold the dubious honour of being the elder sister, since there's only me and #5 left. And I'm starting to become grumpy too. Maybe when I have a child I'll become sweet-tempered again. I know, I know, its terribly chauvinistic to say that motherhood makes placid beings out of harridans and if a guy had said this I'd probably shoot him.
I don't intend to be the unmarried sister forever. I want my own ugly little monster and a live heater in my bed too someday. And this reminds me of a conversation I had with my grandmother some months back. I was basking in the warmth of her praise over my being an all-round great daughter and sister, when she said, "You must never get married. You should stay home and look after your parents and be there for your sisters anytime they need you". I guess I protested a little too loudly because now the whole maternal side of the family jokes about my fear of NOT getting married.
Anyway, time to cut off my long with this great lesson for all- treat your unmarried sisters like gold, for one day they may get married.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Eating humble Pie
For someone like me who suffers from a chronic case of foot-in-mouth disease, eating humble pie is pretty easy. After all, its an acquired taste.
After hearing some people say that Mizos writing in English are less Mizo (whatever that means), I fired off a little post about language and culture purists. Basically the post was about me ranting what makes those people decide who is 'more' Mizo and who is not? And the term Mizo is a blanket term comprising of Lai, Mara, Paite etc peoples, and is it fair to call them Mizo II because we, the Lusei are the majority. And in the same way, why should the Duhlian language be considered as Mizo tawng just because it is the most widely used language within the Mizo community, blah blah blah.
This would have sounded quite valid had I not been writing in Duhlian language, which pretty much busted my little rant because I also talked about the correct usage of Duhlian language, and unfortunately, my own writing Mizo is stilted, and the syntax is not as perfect as I would wish it to be. As a medium of writing, I am much more comfortable in English, though I am spectacularly good at spoken Mizo, so don't ever get into an argument with me. And I can read Mizo flawlessly, with perfect intonation and pitch. But anyway, after posting the piece, I cooled down and discovered the many mistakes plus the ambiguity, and so I removed it.
Of course, it showed up clearly in people's readers and stuff and so, here I am, gorging myself on humble pie, admitting that I strayed into an arena where I am not qualified to. Kudos to the Mizo writers and the people who are trying to instill correct usage. But my stance on the medium of writing and it's supposed implications remain.
And yes, I often lack tact and sensitivity, and often have to cover my ass or eat humble pie after making a huge blooper. Like the time I went shopping with a friend and she asked my advice about a shoe. I thought it was for her mom and said, "Your mom's only 50-ish. That shoe is so 60 +." And she says, "I meant to buy it for myself" Oh hell, what do you do in those circumstances except flatter her a little and fess up? So I told her she had pretty feet that would look good in any shoe, but suggested other styles for her.
The there's the time another friend showed me a new phone and I unthinkingly said, "I thought of buying it too, but it was too bulky and yellow". Ooopsss.. my runaway tongue does it again. So I said, "But the yellow is nice, looks like Bumblebee" and proceeded to take a lot of pictures of myself with the phone cam. Sometimes I try to shut up, and when I do talk, I use polite words. Then they tell me I'm being unnatural, blehhh!
That said, I'm usually not a nasty person with a lot of bitchy comments. I just say the wrong things at the wrong time. Like complimenting a previously rake-thin friend on her new voluptuousness and she said, "I'm not voluptuous. I'm pregnant. I was excommunicated last Wednesday". Damn damn damn.
So, as long as I keep talking (or writing), let there be a steady supply of humble pie.
After hearing some people say that Mizos writing in English are less Mizo (whatever that means), I fired off a little post about language and culture purists. Basically the post was about me ranting what makes those people decide who is 'more' Mizo and who is not? And the term Mizo is a blanket term comprising of Lai, Mara, Paite etc peoples, and is it fair to call them Mizo II because we, the Lusei are the majority. And in the same way, why should the Duhlian language be considered as Mizo tawng just because it is the most widely used language within the Mizo community, blah blah blah.
This would have sounded quite valid had I not been writing in Duhlian language, which pretty much busted my little rant because I also talked about the correct usage of Duhlian language, and unfortunately, my own writing Mizo is stilted, and the syntax is not as perfect as I would wish it to be. As a medium of writing, I am much more comfortable in English, though I am spectacularly good at spoken Mizo, so don't ever get into an argument with me. And I can read Mizo flawlessly, with perfect intonation and pitch. But anyway, after posting the piece, I cooled down and discovered the many mistakes plus the ambiguity, and so I removed it.
Of course, it showed up clearly in people's readers and stuff and so, here I am, gorging myself on humble pie, admitting that I strayed into an arena where I am not qualified to. Kudos to the Mizo writers and the people who are trying to instill correct usage. But my stance on the medium of writing and it's supposed implications remain.
And yes, I often lack tact and sensitivity, and often have to cover my ass or eat humble pie after making a huge blooper. Like the time I went shopping with a friend and she asked my advice about a shoe. I thought it was for her mom and said, "Your mom's only 50-ish. That shoe is so 60 +." And she says, "I meant to buy it for myself" Oh hell, what do you do in those circumstances except flatter her a little and fess up? So I told her she had pretty feet that would look good in any shoe, but suggested other styles for her.
The there's the time another friend showed me a new phone and I unthinkingly said, "I thought of buying it too, but it was too bulky and yellow". Ooopsss.. my runaway tongue does it again. So I said, "But the yellow is nice, looks like Bumblebee" and proceeded to take a lot of pictures of myself with the phone cam. Sometimes I try to shut up, and when I do talk, I use polite words. Then they tell me I'm being unnatural, blehhh!
That said, I'm usually not a nasty person with a lot of bitchy comments. I just say the wrong things at the wrong time. Like complimenting a previously rake-thin friend on her new voluptuousness and she said, "I'm not voluptuous. I'm pregnant. I was excommunicated last Wednesday". Damn damn damn.
So, as long as I keep talking (or writing), let there be a steady supply of humble pie.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
What Flag will you be waving?
Our 21-year old, old TV sits in my sister's room and Zonet's Demand Channel is the only music channel that it's archaic machinery can pick up. And K'naan's "Wavin' Flag" is requested at least once every half- hour, so the song is stuck in my head. And what it has done, is to spur me on into a quiet frenzy over the upcoming World Cup.
Nopes, I'm not going to talk about team strategy and statistics. Nor am I going to talk about how good a particular player looks. I have long outgrown the tendency to root for the country with the most hunky players. So, bye bye Italy, Nesta, Zindagi (Inzaghi), Cannavaro and their ilk. Nor am I going to cheer for France just because Thiery Henri is in the squad.
I'm rooting for Germany even though Ballack won't be playing (sob). And its not because their surgeons perform free plastic surgery here :D This reminds me of a conversation I once overheard in a bus some years back:
Woman 1: I'm supporting Germany because they perform free surgeries.
Woman 2: But their people killed so many Christians.
Woman 1: Oh, oh, then I'm going to support England. They have missionaries there...
Heh. Looks like a case of the sins of the Fuhrer being borne by the children.
I also supported Turkey in 2002. And a neighbour remarked in shocked tones- "But they are Muslims! Why are you supporting them?" Errr.. because they have good players? Does this make me hell-bound?
Okay, so there's some religious bigotry involved in the aforementioned cases. But then, football does have its fanatics. Ideally, the World Cup is supposed to unite people of all races/ sexual orientation/ religion under one big umbrella of football, but that's hardly the case. For some, it becomes an arena where old political scores are revived, religious differences are brought into prominence (Brazil won because they are Christians!) Its also an arena where fallible human gods are sacrificed- The murder of that Colombian who scored an own goal in 1994; the media lynching of Beckham when he was sent off...
Don't get me wrong. I love football (though I'm scared to watch it now because MY team Arsenal lets me down everytime I watch them). I heard somewhere that an impoverished Argentina sent a squad who paid their own way for the 2002 World Cup- all for the love of football and country, and I love this. I also love there is actually a thesis titled ""Un homme avant tout': Zinedine Zidane and the sociology of a head butt" (http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/content~content=a908928615&db=all) regarding Zidane and the racial problems he faces.
It IS a testament to the magnitude of the game that so many issues worldwide are related to it, that so many wars are fought within its umbrella. And to think its just a game where some men chase a ball and try to kick it inside a net (blasphemy, sacrilege!!!).
Again, I've digressed... I tend to ramble on weekends because ...because anything goes on a weekend. I'm dreaming of the day when an Indian team (with ball-boots on) will play in the World Cup. And the backs of their jerseys will feature names like Pachuau, Hnamte, Longchar, Shabong, Yumnak, Khonglam, Singh Sachdev, Ramaswamy, Bhavisha... and an eager Hrahsel on the reserve bench :D (for you, Jay-me).
Anyway, I'm waving the flag for Germany, and Spain comes a close second. And as the game progresses I'll probably forge new loyalties, maybe root for a certain underdog. What flag will you be waving?
P.S: Saw this poem "Damn your flag" by Feddabonn. Felt slightly abashed. Then I realised that the issues are almost similar. Breathed easy :D
Nopes, I'm not going to talk about team strategy and statistics. Nor am I going to talk about how good a particular player looks. I have long outgrown the tendency to root for the country with the most hunky players. So, bye bye Italy, Nesta, Zindagi (Inzaghi), Cannavaro and their ilk. Nor am I going to cheer for France just because Thiery Henri is in the squad.
I'm rooting for Germany even though Ballack won't be playing (sob). And its not because their surgeons perform free plastic surgery here :D This reminds me of a conversation I once overheard in a bus some years back:
Woman 1: I'm supporting Germany because they perform free surgeries.
Woman 2: But their people killed so many Christians.
Woman 1: Oh, oh, then I'm going to support England. They have missionaries there...
Heh. Looks like a case of the sins of the Fuhrer being borne by the children.
I also supported Turkey in 2002. And a neighbour remarked in shocked tones- "But they are Muslims! Why are you supporting them?" Errr.. because they have good players? Does this make me hell-bound?
Okay, so there's some religious bigotry involved in the aforementioned cases. But then, football does have its fanatics. Ideally, the World Cup is supposed to unite people of all races/ sexual orientation/ religion under one big umbrella of football, but that's hardly the case. For some, it becomes an arena where old political scores are revived, religious differences are brought into prominence (Brazil won because they are Christians!) Its also an arena where fallible human gods are sacrificed- The murder of that Colombian who scored an own goal in 1994; the media lynching of Beckham when he was sent off...
Don't get me wrong. I love football (though I'm scared to watch it now because MY team Arsenal lets me down everytime I watch them). I heard somewhere that an impoverished Argentina sent a squad who paid their own way for the 2002 World Cup- all for the love of football and country, and I love this. I also love there is actually a thesis titled ""Un homme avant tout': Zinedine Zidane and the sociology of a head butt" (http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/content~content=a908928615&db=all) regarding Zidane and the racial problems he faces.
It IS a testament to the magnitude of the game that so many issues worldwide are related to it, that so many wars are fought within its umbrella. And to think its just a game where some men chase a ball and try to kick it inside a net (blasphemy, sacrilege!!!).
Again, I've digressed... I tend to ramble on weekends because ...because anything goes on a weekend. I'm dreaming of the day when an Indian team (with ball-boots on) will play in the World Cup. And the backs of their jerseys will feature names like Pachuau, Hnamte, Longchar, Shabong, Yumnak, Khonglam, Singh Sachdev, Ramaswamy, Bhavisha... and an eager Hrahsel on the reserve bench :D (for you, Jay-me).
Anyway, I'm waving the flag for Germany, and Spain comes a close second. And as the game progresses I'll probably forge new loyalties, maybe root for a certain underdog. What flag will you be waving?
P.S: Saw this poem "Damn your flag" by Feddabonn. Felt slightly abashed. Then I realised that the issues are almost similar. Breathed easy :D
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Procrastination
http://imgsrv.gocomics.com/dim/?fh=e6d55bb037844a18e89e89cb3ad46154
:D Sorry, I suck at this... completely managed to make a hash of the punchline. Dont know how to minimise the image. Heheh. Go to the source that I have so thoughtfully provided. I dont know how to edit HTML's. Dont read further before checking the link..Apologies :D NOI. (By the way, what does this mean? Im assuming it means incompetence)
I'm like Calvin (aren't we all?). Inspiration for me comes with last minute panic. I admire those who are able to make a game-plan, stick to it and finish their work way ahead of schedule.
Me, I put it off, claiming that I'm not 'inspired' and then when the deadline looms just a few days away I get to work like a manic android on crack. Always has been and always will be? I hope not. I hope I stop claiming that I work best under pressure, with the rush of adrenaline. I hope I never cram frenziedly the night before an exam again.
Fact is, I'm just plain lazy. Take my dissertation, for example. I wasted a year waiting for inspiration. Beginning of this year, I started to get a teeny bit scared. So I went and started this blog. I'm expected to submit it by the first week of June and up till a couple of months back, I had completed just one and a half chapters. Then my guide informed me that they had rescheduled the submission dates on the second week of May.
So there I was, with books and xeroxed notes strewn all over my room. Me burning the 4 'o' clock oil. Working frenziedly to beat the clock. Made the deadline by a nano-second.
And then I'm informed that my submission date has been re-rescheduled for the second week of JUNE.
So here I am, unthreaded eyebrows, messy room, broken over-long nails, unwaxed limbs. Dark circles that would give a raccoon an inferiority complex. Body clock thrown out of whack. And where I have always been a little pale because I'm a little anemic, I now look like a blood-deprived vampire.
Maybe one day I will grow up and learn to make a schedule and stick to it. For now, I have a room and an internal body clock to straighten out. And I badly need a mani-pedi, waxing-threading session. Tomorrow... I'll do it all tomorrow... For now...
I just love Calvin and Hobbes cartoons sooo much. Irrelevant, I know. But I couldn't think of another way to end this post.
(BTW, does the link work? I carefully clicked 'copy URL' and then pasted it. If it doesnt go search gocomics for calvin and hobbes 'last-minute panic'. Huis, I know, Im incompetent. But the best part about blogging is that all incompetencies are sympathetically overlooked, right?)
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Khawtlang Lunglen
Deleted a post because it was too airy-fairy and I was not feeling it. What I feel instead is "Khawtlang Lunglen". The best part I felt it some nights ago too and already wrote a note about it in my FB notes:
There's a phrase in my language that literally translates into "communal loneliness/melancholy", I think :D
It's when you feel nostalgic/ lonely/ melancholy for no particular reason and you miss... no one in particular. I don't really know how to render the exact phrase into English. 'Khawtlang lunglen' does not connote alone-ness but rather a sense of wistfulness for an elusive...something.
It's when you feel nostalgic/ lonely/ melancholy for no particular reason and you miss... no one in particular. I don't really know how to render the exact phrase into English. 'Khawtlang lunglen' does not connote alone-ness but rather a sense of wistfulness for an elusive...something.
It's the stuff that feeds poetry and music. Its what makes lonely bachelors compose songs, it makes lonely old maids like yours truly here stare out of their windows wistfully into a misty crescent moon...
It's what I feel everytime I listen to the radio and some old, obscure Mizo song comes up with it's tinny recording. It's what I feel when there's a power cut and the neighborhood boys dust off their guitars and sing old Mizo songs and old English country songs.
Khawtlang lunglen is not sad...
It's what I feel everytime I listen to the radio and some old, obscure Mizo song comes up with it's tinny recording. It's what I feel when there's a power cut and the neighborhood boys dust off their guitars and sing old Mizo songs and old English country songs.
Khawtlang lunglen is not sad...
Just really, really difficult to capture what it means...
Yeah so, I'm feeling it again tonight. In my part of the world, Its cold and misty and there's a power cut conveniently, and I'm staring at the distant, mist-obscured Reiek Hills...
Friend Alan commented that he too was interested in researching the etymology of a collective memory, and that kinda killed the buzz right there. Why drag academics into it? I told him to do the research and I'll do the feeling..
So yes, I'm channeling that feeling once again.
I don't miss anyone or anything in particular. I'm just reveling in the beauty of the feeling- no lights, no academics, no theories. Just me, some blues music, and my trusty laptop that refuses to churn out the appropriate bluesy vocabulary to suit my mood. Damn!
So instead here's Alison Kraus and Robert Plant's cover of Roly Salley's "Killing the blues"
Source:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H48TJA_vSk0. We don't wanna get sued do we?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
King Jeremy the Queen
No, am not talking about drag queens..
The queen I'm talking about had a rabid jungle cat for a mother and Mephistopheles the demon as her father.
Her previous owners gave her the insipid name "Brownie" but after a day with her we renamed her Jeremy after a Pearl Jam song about a good looking boy who went off the rails and shot all his classmates.
"King Jeremy the wicked
ruled his world"
She was beautiful with her sleek body, her tawny red-gold and black stripes and golden eyes. And she was meaaaannnn >:(
She had an unerring instinct for detecting cat-haters and whenever one came to our house, she would jump them, sinking her claws into their legs and hanging on stubbornly while they whirled in a panicked dance. She never responded when we called, but the moment we sit down to read the newspaper, she'd sprawl right on the paper, giving us a challenging look.
And when we reprimanded her, she'd stand on her hind legs and wave her claws at her, daring us to a cat-fight. She refused the food we gave her and subsisted instead on the sparrows around our home. She also hunted us. Sis Ayie gave her the Mizo name "Puss-phaki".
One day she came home pregnant and meaner than ever. We had a gentle, eager-to-please pregnant dog at the time too and Jeremy went and scratched the poor dog everyday. And the stupid dog always protected her from other cats and dogs.
She gave birth to two lovely kittens, while dog had three puppies. When one of the pups died, dog nudged her all day, licking her and whining softly. And Jeremy- Jeremy ATE her babies.
I threw her out of the house. I learnt later that cats sometimes kill their young if they were too weak to survive. But at the time I didnt know it, and I was too angry with devil cat that not only did I throw her out, I gave her a kick too.
Jeremy never forgave. Vengeance was her middle name- King Jeremy "Vengeance" Puss-phaki Pachuau. Long name. And Pachuau girls are said to be stubborn and domineering, and while submissive, docile me never had those traits, they were magnified manifold in Jeremy. She avenged sevenfold herself on us.
She cursed the family, and especially me. I failed my XII Boards that year and my sisters also did horribly in their studies too. Not only that she puked every morning right at our front door. She also shredded my mom's plants.
But her biggest retaliatory move was to entice every tomcat she came across, and lure them into our backyard, and they did the deed at midnight. And she would yowl reaaaallly loudly and primally and it greatly embarrassed us. Hell, her primal screams would have made the Marquis de Sade blush. Anyway, she gave birth to a lot of babies over the years and they inter-mated and proliferated and terrorized us. We were lucky none of her spawn were as vindictive as she was. Their genes were probably diluted by the spineless tomcats she mated with. Now if she had gotten together with the Hitler-lookalike cat that lived a few houses away from us, it would have been a different story.
I don't know how Jeremy met her end. She wanted to keep us guessing, I guess. Most probably she went and died at a cat-hater's house just to freak them out. She was like that.
So this is why I will probably never have a cat again. Not because I hate cats but because after Jeremy, every other cat seems really tame and insipid and boring. And I also find it hard to respect dogs. Maybe one day I'll get myself a dog that looks like a wolf....
Monday, May 17, 2010
Poems
Loneliness came calling
Seeped in and settled down
So familiarly uninvited
Like an annoying relative
And I dont know how to entertain him
And I can't lay the table for him
For my heart is on it...
No I can't be drunk in his arms
He reeks of resentment
Of wishes unfulfilled dreams aborted
Bottled love choking at the threshold.
How I told him to leave me alone
yet he slowly slid in
With a sad tune and a sigh
smooth and cynical
like a lover who loves you not.
So I let the chips fall
Cut a deal
until morning
Till Lord says "Now"
I sit
with the cards close to my chest
To play a charade of contentment
-Sentinaro Alley.
*Sigh* I wish I can write poems. I looove this poem by old hostel chum and bully extraordinaire Naro. She writes about things I have never felt but feel like feeling one day- for a brief while. I'm really horrible with poetry, I can only write lonnnnng answer papers about the merits of a poem (I don't understand the cards thing in the last stanza of this poem, though, but it still sounds wonderful).
I think to write really good poetry, its not enough to just know a lot of words. Poetry feeds on emotion and experience and I guess I dont have enough of both. The poems I usually write fall under the category of "lame":
O Wallclock that hangeth on the wall
Thy hands doth move so slow;
As yet this boring lecture
Has not yet reached its mid-point.
O wallclock thou tormenteth my eyes,
For thou makest their lashes
To meet in a slumb'rous smbrace....
Oh hell, Naro is so going to kill me. All that sensual energy and I had to put my two paises worth and totally kill the buzz.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
what do you do?
so, how do you deal when it seems like your world is falling apart? Where do you go when it all falls to pieces? Do you get drunk, cry, distract yourself? What do you do when you know its something you have to deal with alone?
Me, I like to let it all out, turn on the angriest, most broken songs, and cry in front of my computer. Or I pretend that I'm good, put on my loudest clothes and go out with friends. Or I try to lose myself in a good book, but then, its never that easy to lose yourself, is it? And sometimes, crying just gives you a blocked nose and nothing more.
Don't get me wrong. Right now, I'm (luckily) as far away from that place as possible. Sometimes I envy those people with faith. Mine's shaky, and I do pray, and I do read my Bible. And it does give me comfort. But maybe my faith isn't strong enough cause there are so many times that I can't keep my demons at bay.
Some would call it escapism, but can we really fault anyone for running, even briefly, to escape a situation they just can't deal with? But the more you run, the bigger your fear grows. We have to face whatever sometime. So when that time comes, what do you do?
Whoa! I sound so depressed. Really, I'm not. I just read an article about suicide and I'm trying to put myself in that person's head.
I guess I'm lucky that, no matter what, I've always thought life is worth living. I can't imagine what it would feel like to wish to end it all, to be bereft of all hope that you'd want to close your book without seeing where it ends.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The helpless act
At first, it wasn't an act with me. Dad's always been really overprotective of his five daughters, and we were pretty sheltered. And when we entered the real world, we were really clueless and helpless, 'specially me, whose head has always been more in the clouds than the others'.
I noticed the 'potency' of that helplessness the first time I went to a bank. This was three years ago. I felt really apprehensive since I knew zilch about what goes on in banks. I decided the best way was to ask, so I approached this clerk. At first, he was really impatient, but when he glanced at me, he got this tender look on his face. It was drizzling that day, and I never carry umbrellas with me, so I was wet, timid looking, and to top it all off, that day I was wearing my frilliest pink flowered dress.
Long story short, I suppose I looked like the quintessential damsel in distress, because he did everything for me, filling out forms, and the whole rigmarole, all with a tender smile. Ugh! I learnt later that had I done things in the customary way, I would have spent at least two hours waiting in line. At first it felt good. I tried it consciously the next time, and it worked- again! Easy, effortless. The only snag- I didn't learn anything.
Well past the age of looking prettily helpless, I've tried to fend for myself, but the backlash from my previous acts have taken their toll, and I've barely learnt how to cope. Now I'm just a ditzy female.
BFF Jamie and I have also done the helpless act countless times on traffic officials who were given demure, contrite smiles and offered kuhva, who invariably fall for the act.
There's something about girls on scooters that makes some men go "Awww" and "Oh baby" simultaneously. They are prepared to overlook traffic violations and mishaps. So much so that in recent months, there has been an outbreak of girls who barely know how to drive, let alone know traffic rules, causing minor accidents, jams and general aggravation. That's the potency of the 'weaker sex'.
And before the men smirk smugly about the duplicity of women, let me tell ya, they do it too. Many's the time I've had to clean my cousins' rooms when their places start to look and smell like pigstys. "I...I just don't know where to start... Will you help? You point and I'll do the cleaning", they'll say.
Of course, it doesn't happen like that. They'll make complete messes out of the mess, and I'll have to do the work myself. And they'll stand in a corner, putting on their most awed look, and say, "Wow, I don't know how you girls do it, and so quickly too". And I know its all an act, but I'll still feel smugly superior anyway.
I don't know if you other girls fall for their act too, or I'm just a big sucker, because I've often found myself as cleaner, suitcase packer, tea-maker, pimp, and breaking-up-er etc for my cuzs.
Anyway, what am trying to say is, the helpless act may work, its easy and fun sometimes. But the more you do it, the more the 'act' becomes real, and you end up really becoming helpless. It should be used only when you can't get what you want any other way, heheh.
Which is why I'm here, braving the elements, on my quest for knowledge- broke, tired, cold and hungry. The hunger gnaws at my insides,and the cold chills my bones, but I'll fight on. Sometimes I think wistfully of chocolates and pastries, but they're all just dreams... So I walk on, dreaming of the kindness of strangers, of angels of mercy, who might decide to send me boxes of chocolate....
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