2007 or something like it …

I might spread a new bed sheet on my bed … I might redo my room… I might get myself a new wardrobe... I might even delete all those mushy e mails to my ex from my system…
But these lil exercises won’t make the year looming large at us new …indeed the year we are all so eager to welcome might only end up being an irritating thing to get used to while writing cheques…

What I need is a miracle to help me welcome the New Year with unbridled, innocent anticipation…

So here is to miracles…

Happy New Year folks …

Or if u are me welcome to another year in limboland…

and for u the suckers for mush ...

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.

525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.

In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?

How about love?

Measure in love.

Seasons of love.

525,600 minutes!

525,000 journeys to plan.

525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried.

In bridges he burned, or the way that she died.

It’s time now to sing out, tho the story never ends let's celebrate remember a year in the life of friends.

Remember the love!

Remember the love! Remember the love!

Measure in love....

(from the OST of the lovely "Rent")

somethings in life are best left unsaid...

From the archives...

this is one of my favorite posts...not because it's a well written one (modesty be damned) or because it elicited an all time high of 22 comments ...but because its me ....

On September 3 1973 a blue fly capable of flapping 70 beats a minute landed on St.Vincent Street in Montmartre. At that moment, on a restaurant terrace nearby the wind magically made two glasses dance unseen on a table cloth. Meanwhile, in a 5th floor flat on Avenue Trudaine, Paris 9 returning from his fiend’s funeral Eugene Colere erased him from his address book. At the same moment, a sperm with one X chromosome belonging to Raphael Poulain made a dash for an egg in his wife Amandine. Nine months later Amelie Poulain was born …Amelie who likes looking back at people’s faces in the dark in the cinema …Amelie who likes noticing details that no one does …Amelie who cultivates a taste for small pleasures like dipping her hand in a sack of grain (cold and grainy) cracking crème brulee with a teaspoon (the blob sound is so satisfying)…Amelie who wonders how many people are having an orgasm at this very moment (72... on second thoughts make that 36).On honeyed afternoons when the world seems to be bathed in the most cheerful of yellows I try and invoke the Amelie in me…Amelie is my Movie of the Week.

Carcapades

Disclaimer ...to some this post may seem to be a bit too explicit by my hitherto staid standards…

“We made out in the car and that’s a wonderful way to start a festive week don’t u think??” he said … blink blink …( ok its not as if I am entirely unexposed to the idea of ppl makin out in public places and stuff …but this is a frnd for chrissake … u don’t think of friends as lean mean sex machines romping about the Delhi suburbs …they are ppl u share benign cups of coffee with and discuss love lives antiseptically unless its Ugly girL who regales us with the nitty grittys of her sexcapades )
and yet I kept probing further …
asking him about almost everything… the sights, sounds, smells … and like all men he was only too happy to oblige… it was not as if I was sexually aroused by the narration of his amorous exploits… I was plain curious… so I asked him irrelevant questions like if there were dogs barking nearby (yes there were, in fact three dogs creating a ruckus outside) … did he have his car light on? if he didn’t how did he manage to see the person he was making out with ( he didn’t have to see the person he said …that way it was more kinky ) cud he hear the hawkers (there weren’t any hawkers around , he had slyly parked his car in a secluded spot in the JNU campus)…even as I was prying I declared myself a voyeur…but no, there was something vicariously moral about my queries … I think I have finally managed to detach the titillating element from sex …and see it simply as an act …
or maybe I haven’t …
but I sure was not jerking off after the tete a tete...

My Happy Dog Eared Bookmark…

Left from AJC Bose Rd. Crossing, next to Bhawanipore College is the bookshop your dreams, points out the book mark in grids of arrows and lines…sigh…in this word of ready- to- eat Dal Bukhara and online bookings, bookmarks aren’t bookmarks anymore …nor are books books… NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE cries the cover of a recently adapted popular novel …as if the adaptation was the other way around…but this isn’t a post on the commercialization of books and bookmarks in specific, and reading habit in general, at least that’s not what I mean it to be, if it ends up being a comment on the phenomenon then it is entirely incidental (but my saying so defies the statement doesn’t it?)

This post was supposed to be a part of my musings on little things like browned saucepans (I love my tea post) and dog eared bookmarks…how I love talking about them … these little things which makes me feel at home by simply being… so familiar…

My Dog eared bookmark has for months yearned for the warmth and embrace of pages …a self imposed sabbatical from working life (read joblessness) has ensured that it gets a lot action …

Yay for my dog eared bookmark…

Sigh… am losing it …

My tea…her tea…

Kiran Desai’s Booker acknowledged Inheritance of Loss opens with a quaint chapter on the ritual of afternoon tea…the lighting of the stove…the gurgling of the tea kettle…and the obstinate but lazy need for boiled camellia leaves… Kiran Desai captures it all and more, and in the process makes me romanticize a daily ritual which probably doesn’t deserve the dignity of the written word…but yet when I picture myself bending over the humble browned sauce pan adjusting the flame, adding a dash of sugar and pouring the whiteness to the golden brownness (it always breaks my heart to see the golden hue of unpolluted black tea disappear in the muddiness of milk infestation), I smile…
I smile at the fundamental difference in taste between a mother and a son ….she likes her tea with milk and I like the homogenized version…
I smile at the magic that these humble leaves create when they blend with water ….oozing out a subtle and aromatic flavor that has pleased discerning taste buds for centuries…
And more than anything else I smile at the chipped cup which i refuse to throw away coz i have grown up drinking tea out of it ...

of honey and sweetness....

sweet ole bips ( a very dear frnd ) had once read one of my angst ridden posts and observed that it is "slow and sensuous pouring of emotions ...very much like fiona" ...though i dont have any such illusions about my rather plebeian writing skills ,thanks to her very generous comment i discovered fiona...and boy am i hooked...

You moved like honey in my dream last night
Yeah, some old fires were burning
You came near to me and you endeared to me
But you couldnt quite discern me
Does that scare you?
Ill let you run away
But your heart will not oblige you
Youll remember me like a melody
Yeah, Ill haunt the world inside you
And my big secret - gonna win you over
Slow like honey, heavy with mood
Ill let you see me,
Ill covet your regard
Ill invade your demeanor
And youll yield to me like a scent in the breeze
And youll wonder what it is about meI
ts my big secret - keeping you coming
Slow like honey, heavy with mood
Though dreams can be deceiving
Like faces are to hearts
They serve for sweet relieving
When fantasy and reality lie too far apart
So I stretch myself across, like a bridge
And I pull you to the edge
And stand there waiting
Trying to attainT
he end to satisfy the story
Shall I release you?
Must I release you?
As I rise to meet my glory
But my big secret
Gonna hover over your life
Gonna keep you reaching
When Im gone like yesterday
When Im high like heaven
When Im strong like music
cuz Im slow like honey,
andHeavy with mood

Touch …

I brush past…
I push …
I jostle…
I squirm…
But rarely do I touch…
But when you embrace me with your eyes
When you look up…
Why oh why do I fade out?

My Film Festival

this is an excerpt of my report on the Kolkata Film Festival ...it was rejected ...the person in charge of the website felt its was just a series of comments by the bystanders...my attempt was to string together the Film Festival story...

look at me am the quintessential whiney writer...

Long after the dust settles on Nandan grounds, the flavor of the sumptuous film feast will linger in the mouths of cinephiles. The Kolkata Film Festival is a veritable feast, which leaves its patrons hungry for more, and this year the feast was particularly well laid out. The discerning jury members like fussy Chefs, ensured that only the freshest and choicest of films were served.

Many People…Many Voices…

On every second week of November people from all walks of life in Kolkata come together for a cause célèbre; a week of celluloid revelry through which Kolkata celebrates her most enduring aspect: her mythical middle class intellectual who swears by Godard and dotes on Fellini.

Therefore one wouldn’t be too off the mark if one decides to track the “mythical intellectual” in the melee of Nandan Multiplex grounds. Armed with a note pad and a pen, yours truly decided to hunt him/her down and the results were surprising to say the least.

Sample these-

Aditya Mondol, a constable with the Kolkata Police, who has been posted as security personnel in the Nandan Complex (where most of the films were screened), says “ I would love to watch movies from different parts of the world, but I also realize that as a security person my duty is to ensure that cinema lovers of Kolkata do not face any trouble. So I am not complaining, I love reading the brochures…I thrive in this atmosphere”.

Anubhati Basu, a student of cinema rues the lack of enthusiasm among the youth. She feels that “Cinema, or for that matter any form of art, cannot survive without the patronage of the youth. The fact that none of my classmates are here is very significant, and I am disillusioned…”

Nihar Gupta, a businessman, says, “The film festival is a good place to see uncensored films.”

Shakuntala Barua, a popular film and television actress feels that the Film Festival is a pilgrimage for her. She finds the experience of discovering different films and cultures “humbling”.

Jigme Bhutia, content writer, is here because it’s a “cool place to be seen in. I fail to understand why should we treat the festival as a pilgrimage. After all it’s about people isn’t it? Why make it a pretentious orgy of intellectual musings?”

Parambrata Chatterjee, a popular actor and an up and coming filmmaker, feels that the Festival like everything in Kolkata is a celebration of its people. “ It’s like a Puja Pandal here and that’s wonderful. I love discovering new films here…” like a true student of cinema, this young filmmaker loves studying the subtler nuances of filmmaking. He finds the prospects of discovering new cultures through films “ exciting and inspiring”.

Arpita Bagchi and Siddharth Bagchi have been patrons of this festival from its very inception. They were regulars in the quadrennial International Film Festival of India (which is now an annual event in Goa) too. Their love for cinema is enduring to say the least. As Mrs.Bagchi fondly reminiscences “I still remember the joy of discovering Godard, Bergman and Adoor Gopalakrishnan…the festival is something we eagerly look forward to every year.”

Dipak Das, a tea seller in the Festival Grounds says “ I have served cups of tea to many luminaries with my own hands during the Kolkata Film Festival. I probably am not educated enough to fully comprehend their work but I make it a point to see them. Initially they didn’t make sense but today I think Bergman is a beautiful filmmaker.”

Chandan Sen a reputed theatre personality feels that the Film Festival is a good platform to “understand the thought process of the world personae.”
Probably, in between these somewhat conflicting views, I have found the true (and not the mythical) Kolkata Intellectual…or at least his/her shadow

Signals...

Hardly do Kolkata roads hold as much promise from me as they do when I take an auto home from office every evening…the billows of smoke that carbon monoxide spewing buses blow on/in (?) my face don’t seem to be that bothersome…the irritable cab driver who insists that I pay him in impossible changes seems almost likable…and all these because of the assurance of a sanctuary to retire to…
And today my journey home was quite significant…. as the traffic signal turned green from red, everything seemed to make more sense…wonder what was keeping me from taking necessary steps…
The signal of course….

Elizabeth, Darcy and more ....

Ahem ahem. …Encouraged by the somewhat unexpected response to my last post (4 comments as opposed to 0 comments on my last post …pathetic u say??? what to do am a man of mediocre ambitions) on a favorite classic adaptation I will take the liberty to critique another eternal favorite…


Jane Austen's delightful rendering of passion in polite society has inspired many an adaptation but the 1995 one, stands out not simply because of the canvas it employs to tell a story so heartwarming that it has touched the hearts of generations, but also because of the way it is told.

Austens six major published novels create a world within the world, the threat of the ensuing wars of that period and other socio political circumstances do cast their shadow over the dramatic flow of the novels but hardly so. One is reminded of them through an absentee family member or a dead one. But the world of Jane Austen is primarily that of a woman’s, Austen a wise and a judicious writer that she is, is believed to have said that since she had very little exposure to the outside worlds she could hardly write about them.

And this version of Austens arguably, greatest novel, plays on that very clash; that of the inner and the outer worlds, depicted brilliantly by use of spaces by the director. Elizabeth and her dilemmas find their way to the screen through the subtlest insinuations. We, the audience are enthralled by director Simon Langtons capacity to capture the inner conflicts of the characters through visual metaphors. Sample this- Elizabeth’s walks are important turning points of the film; the juxtaposition of her against the sprawling backdrops makes her a kind of a lone ranger, an iconoclast.

Jane Austen’s heroines were never overtly feminists, but in them a keen reader will notice the seeds of the feminist philosophy developing. Through their little way they defy the norms of the repressed English society of their times. Simon Langton’s Elizabeth exudes “a kind of self independent air “ which makes her quite detestable to the Bingley sisters, her gait and her mannerisms are not at all in keeping with the delicate movements that one associates with the women of that period. Her body language is distinctly more confident than all the other characters, both male and female.

Darcy is appropriately grave and smoldering but in him one sees the shadows of self-doubt and self-questioning (specially in his conversations with Elizabeth) that gives another dimension to the character. Interestingly the director chooses to sexualize Darcy’s character by making him emerge out of water (a la Bo Derek in 10 …ok maybe not that sexualized). One wonders if his intention to objectify Darcy was intentional….

Pride and Prejudice was always meant to be much more than the story of the realization of Darcy-Elizabeth love intrigue. Its as much a story of the other unions, namely that of Jane-Bingley, Mr.and Mrs.Bennet, Charlotte and Mr.Collins, Mr. And Mrs Gardener and of course Lydia-Wickham. The director rightly documents the development of these relationships as faithfully as possible.
The Bennet family is suitably dysfunctional, headed by an eccentric father and a hysterical, scheming, shallow, crude mother (Mrs.Bennet is not for nothing one of the most loved literary figures of all time). Mr.Collins seems to be a case of a masterstroke casting, for the actor lives the role. Thanks to the four-hour plus running time each and every character gets ample screen time to register growth.
All the actors more than rise to the occasion and deliver satisfactory performances, never trying to steal scenes from each other. The intention of each and every member of the cast and the crew of this production was obviously to produce a composite product instead of a patchily brilliant one.
Incidents that give an insight to the minds of the characters are of incredible importance in a novel, but most cinematic adaptations strangely choose to bypass them, focusing more on the dramatic flow of the film, this adaptation thankfully focuses on the incidents that shape the perception of a character i.e. the Charlotte -Elizabeth confrontation scene which ends with Elizabeth being disillusioned with the “pragmatic” Charlotte.
The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice is indeed a satisfying movie adaptation experience, especially to the sub genre of human race called “Pride and Prejudice-philes”. God knows we are hard to satisfy.
Here is to you Mr.Langton, your next fruit punch is on me.

Little Women...

Nostalgia does bring out the worst in us…horrible bouts of sweepy,sentimental ramblings that we are so susceptible to, tend to overwhelm and in retrospect embarrass us…but still I shall succumb… today I viewed the 1994 adaptation Louis May Alcott’s fabulous Little Women after a long long time, apart from being a remarkably faithful and yet insightful adaptation ( the director successfully captures Laurie’s sexual tension layered chemistry, with each of the March sisters), it also happens to be one of the family favorites…we quite fancied ourselves to be the March family…sigh…me my sister and her friends…with me playing an androgynous cross of Laurie and Amy (Amy coz I was the youngest )…the sentimentalist in my sister quite liked embracing the tragic character of Beth …and there was a little bit of Joe in all of us…
It also takes me back to those heydays of reading with such unbridled frenzy…of those gilt edged pages of classics like Little Women, Secret Garden and Huckleberry Finn…and those unreasonable myths about peacock feathers doubling when kept in between pages…
Am already regretting this post….
But what the heck …

Celebrations!!!

As my city’s weathered soul wriggles towards, what the pundits want to call a metamorphosis I can see celebrations all around me…a puddle full of a promoters unfelt guilt plays host to the revelries of dengue causing mosquitoes… open drains gurgle past perfectly respectable middle class neighborhoods in such unbridled glory that they would put Le Corbusier’s carefully designed fountains to shame… and more than anything the populace is celebrating its right to relieve itself anywhere, anytime; school walls, road dividers, electric poles you name a corner and its most likely that an on- the-move Kolkata man is relieving himself there at that very moment…why go to Bohemia for self expression when u have millions of men painting the wall with what seems to be the expressions of their innermost being…

Yay my city is celebrating!!!

Of Sunday afternoons and pointless introspections…

It's Sunday afternoon… The sun is shining and you're relaxing on the couch reading the paper or book you couldn't get into during the week right???

WRONG!!!

Typing out substandard pages on nondescript painters who no one one wants to know about anyway, is more like it…you are, like all slaves of the IT industry, making up for Holidays…welcome to the soulless world of capitalism, where everything is in “lieu” of something…. and suddenly u feel your shoulders tensing up and this dark fog of rage tingle up your spine… “This is not what I bargained for,” you say to yourself “they have *beep*up my *beeping* life” …they don’t care about quality… all they want is pages …and what about my dreams of making the world a better place to live in and all that jazz??? They don’t want to change the world…and I CANT change the world by writing about painters…not unless my answer for world peace is free art classes…
This is where you ask yourself “when exactly did I sell my soul for the price of what now seems like a ridiculously paltry pay packet???” tchah I should have made a better bargain…”

Babel
disambiguation
-a film
-a state of mind

A friend demands that I blog more often…being denied our regular heart to hearts we feel that the only way to understand what’s going on in each others mind is by reading blogs(bah... its a futile exercise only)"but"I protested “I have nothing to say”, “well” she retorted “u never ever say anything at all in ur blog” (I know that bitch was rolling her eyes when she said that)…
After a lot of introspection I realized that, yes I write/talk without pretty much saying anything at all (like am doing now)…but then it isn’t a bad thing at all is it ???Inthis babel of voices and opinions nothing makes sense anyway…

Babel se yaad aaya cant wait to watch the Alejandro González Iñárritu film ....

Riding the auto with Shukla, Bula and Minati
or Vex and the City


It was a perfectly normal Bengali evening …or should I say Kolkata evening …well since both of them are interchangeable it hardly matters (no matter how cosmopolitan it pretends to be, Kolkata is essentially a very Bengali city)…haa so as I was saying it was a very Bengali evening…overcast muggy and the air heavy with a promise of a momentarily relieving shower…the mugginess was very Kolkatalike (you know, the-shirt-sticking- to- your- back-which- in -turn –sticks- to- the- Rexine seat cover muggy…)
And as millions of Kolkatawasis went about mentally devising and scouting their sashti, saptami ashtami couture I too got into the puja groove…
Armed with my first pre-puja salary cheque I made my way to the Shyambazar branch of my conveniently late -evening -service- providing bank….Shyambazar, as any Kolkatan worth his Golbari chicken will tell you, is the fountainhead of the North Kolkata milieu…thousands…nay millions of middle class Bengalis throng its by lanes for all their daily needs- for their banking needs (like yours truly), for shopping and of course for buying those lovely brocade costumes for their little bal gopals…
As I boarded my auto rickshaw from Ultadanga (a very reassuringly centrally located north kolkata junction…reassuring because its only 5 mins away from my home and the moment I get there I know I am almost home…) I wasn’t even aware of the other occupants of the rickshaw (rickshaws are almost always shared in kolkata)…was unconsciously humming a Himesh Reshamiya song and realized what I was doing (much to my chagrin) only when the something more interesting caught my attention …
The other occupants of the vehicle were discussing their puja shopping and husbands…now all through my growing up years I have been reprimanded, chided and ear boxed for listening to adult women talk …but I still shamelessly do so whenever I get the opportunity…women have so much to tell and most of it is so much more interesting than boring old men discussing their ailments, or if they happen to be bong men, their bowel movements…
So I perked up my ears, put on my disinterested look and eavesdropped to their conversation…

There were three thirty something married women (it’s very easy to distinguish a bong married woman by her shakha and pala) with their kids who were obviously out for some shopping after having picked their kids up from school…

“A ladies night out” …I said to myself and smiled as I pictured them walking down the Shyambazar roads a la Sex and the City …none of them in any way resembled Kim Cattrall or Sarah Jessica Parker of course but they were attractive in their own way …the first one was a squat little lady in a salwar kameez …pretty much the Samatha of the group, loud vociferous and brazen she had an air of wildness about her, the other two were both dressed in sari on wore specs and the other had bad teeth …chingri maach (shrimp) like…
To make things convenient, let’s name them …tee hee…I love naming characters…Samantha is….Shukla…the lady with specs is Bula and the shrimp toothed lady is Minati…

From their exchanges and the obvious familiarity I gathered they have been friends for a long time, maybe they were childhood friends…maybe they went to the same school…maybe they wore the definitive red bordered saris to school and saved precious rupees from their pocket money to buy a grand bottle of Gold Spot and some Hajmola candies every week…maybe they exchanged post card pictures of Govinda (na Mithun is more likely no considering it must have been the eighties) and giggled over his barechestedness as their overworked teacher caught up with some precious sleep in sultry afternoon classes…maybe they had discussed their first adolescent kisses behind closed doors as one of their mothers made omelets and tea for them…

Sigh… I digress…so were we??? Yes they were discussing shopping and husbands…Shukla aka Samantha went on about her purchases and how enthusiastic her seemingly metrosexual husband is to pick up clothes for her…a visibly piqued Minati retorted that her husband was magnanimous enough to give her a free reign of the shopping and didn’t interfere at all, making it clear that she didn’t appreciate any kind of male interference in what obviously is a female bastion…and then Shukla dropped her bombshell she very gleefully announced that her husband picked up skirts and jeans for her and goaded her to wear them… no one had a suitable retort to that…poor Bula seemed quite vexed with the proclamation …she very hesitantly asked if wearing skirts will be considered inappropriate…at which both her friends laughed…and then she went on to ask she whether she will have to buy petticoats and slips to go with them…clearly Bulas quaint world of five sarees and a salwar kameez was shattered forever…I couldn’t help giving them a smile as I disembarked the auto…but they didn’t notice …Minati and Shukla were busy explaining the technicalities of skirt wearing to Bula……

Of gajars and steel Tiffin boxes…

A self-prescribed diet has had somewhat satisfactory results for me (ask someone who has been plagued with three tiers around his stomach what it means to achieve two tierdom…) but this satisfaction came at a cost (whoever said that there is a free ride to success was probably blow jobbing his/her {isnt it wonderful to be politically correct is such contexts ...tee hee}way to glory)…and the cost came in the shape of a phallic root vegetable (there is an impressive term for root vegetables which I cant for the life of me remember)…gajar or carrot…

Much to the amusement of my chole bature (yumm), Chow chow (we Bengalis call noodles chow chow …we are a weird race aren’t we …sigh…) and alu paratha-devouring colleagues my tiffin comprises gajar and cucumber (and the fact that the box happens to be a quaint lil steel one doesn’t help either)…so obviously have managed to become a lunchtime outcast in the office (they crack gajar jokes behind my back) …sigh…

Social stigma apart gajar has been a bane of my existence in many different ways…it doesn’t suit my system you see…causes …errm… lets say …acidity…

So after much consultation (with my friendly neighborhood sabziwalla, who insists that he will provide me with a tastier, cheaper alternative) have decided that …

Its goodbye gajar

And hello radish…:)

An indignant Utpal Dutt to J. Om Prakash when he is wrongly accused of being a smuggler (those were the innocent days of smugglers, smugglers who would smuggle <>gold biscuits and if he happened to be sinister… this happened only in Ramesh Sippy movies…then he smuggled … gasp…hashish) -“Aap Police Officer nahi, aap foolish officer hai…”(You aren’t a police officer, you are a foolish officer)-Gol Maal (1979)

An embarrassed Jaya Bhadhuri answers, when her elder sister questions her about the ring that her boy friend (who the sister thinks, is a married man) has given her (the ring has his initial -S)- “woh mera naam hain na Vasudha v-a-S-u-d-h-a usi ka S hai” (the S stands for the S in my name v-a-S-u-d-h-a) Chupke Chupke (1975)

Utpal Dutt wants to confront a petrified Dina Pathak but is faced with the Herculean challenge of being able to sit on the moving swing she is perched on. Gol Maal (1979)

Amol Palekar to Utpal Dutt (punning on the moustache imbroglio): "Aapke aur mere beech baal barabar bhi deewar na khadi ho paaye (No wall, not even one as thin as a strand of hair, should form a barrier between us)." Gol Maal (1979)

Hrishikesh Mukherjee the master of Wodehousian comedies is dead…
With him dies Bollywood’s ability to create a space where the middle class man/woman (oof am done being politically correct…waitaminute person seems good enough)…middle class person then J… could throw his/her/ their head back and laugh at himself/herself/themselves (pheww)
Bbye Hrishida (is it presumptuous of me to address him with this term of endearment??? And much too corny too don’t u think…. sigh….)

Malaise

Disclaimer; any kind of judgment being passed on me based on my innermost thoughts will be incredibly unfair…on second thoughts go ahead judge me whatdoicare…hmmmph…

Its one of those days when u discover your fecundness (I wanted to use the word "prolificness" but this annoying MS word insists that there is no such word and innumerable embarrassing incidents have taught me that MS word is almost always right when it comes to spelling and words)…little failures make u think and ponder over your abilities, but if u are me they take u to this incredible pall of malicious gloom where you questions the ability of those around you and make you dismiss them without even giving them a flicker of a chance (oh he is this upstart wannabe who shamelessly sucks up to the boss, she isn’t even from a proper college… she is after all, ridiculously ugly and has to let her work speak for her)…. am hoping penning this down will help me come in terms with that very malaise of mine….