Today started out as a very good day because I began it with an hour of piano practice, continued with another hour of spirited violin practice and finished strong by planting a tree in the afternoon. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I took a look at the mirror and said, unto my immortal soul, "Here stands an accomplished human being, a shining light in a crooked generation". Not surprisingly, it was all downhill from there.
I meant to study and finish my assignments after lunch. I really did. But the road to hell, as we are all aware, is paved with good intentions and those loose pavement slabs the BBMP is so fond of. After lunch, entirely against my will, I read a lot of manga and finally, in desperation over my own uselessness, I went to sleep. I forgot, in my unhappiness, that there is no rest for the wicked.
My father woke me by playing, at the loudest volume, the pre-recorded tunes in my Casio keyboard. Just so you can get an idea of what a devilish, demon-prompted action this was, these tunes are classics rendered in a style commonly employed by enthusiastic worshipers at Pentecostal meetings. Why he chose to inflict this ungodly clamour, full of sound and fury signifying nothing, upon the household at that particular time, I shall never know. All I know is that the trumpet of the Last Judgment could not have done a better job of destroying my peace and shattering the last remnants of my nerve forever. "Is there balm in Gilead?" I groaned, (to my soul again, as you can see, we converse frequently), and my soul replied "Nevermore," so I gave up trying to soothe my blackened conscience with sleep and got up.
Maybe this was not such a bad thing after all because you lot got a blog post out of it. Out of the cesspool of my suffering, let something beautiful grow and give shade to the world and rest to the birds of the air. I shall forget my pain in the thought that the remainder of humanity gains by it. I'm pretty sacrificing like that.
Some strange things I have seen and overhead in the city of Bangalore recently:
1) On the way to the bus stop from where I catch a bus every evening, there is a flyover. Underneath this flyover there is a raised platform that seems to be the center of art and culture in Bangalore. The ugly gray pillars are all decorated with some fair to middling paintings and, recently, a large bamboo structure was introduced in this area which is either an interesting abstract installation depicting the futility of human effort, or some such thing, or a cage for some exotic bird that has not yet appeared upon the scene. One of the interesting things I have found here, during my lonely wanderings, is a large word 'ST P', made entirely of cigarette butts.
The message of this is clear, of course. What I find interesting is that the 'O' is missing. I presume that the dedicated artist who wished to give the public this piece of brotherly advice, in such a novel and striking fashion, did indeed know how to spell the word 'STOP', and was in fact aware that an 'O' is quite an essential part of its composition. Who took the 'O'? Why?
2) When I was travelling on the bus the other day, I shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation of the young girl sitting behind me as she chattered away girlishly on the phone. I will take the further liberty of transcribing this conversation here, accompanied by my comments.
Girl: I haven't talked to him in the night for four days, ya. Two days I slept and one day he slept.
<Note: this only makes three days. What about the fourth day? Is she concealing something? If her friend knows how to count, he will never be fooled by this incompetent evasion.>
On Friday, he took me on his bike near Richard's park.
<Ah, Richards park. Den of vice and sin and final destination of all starry-eyed young lovers>
It was so cold, okay, so I was holding him, a little bit. Suddenly, I was feeling so ashamed, ya!
<Behold, the wonderful, the trembling modesty of the Indian girl. The sky, suffering under the sun's burning embrace, never blushed a more beautiful red than the cheeks of our demure young ladies.>
And so he said, "Don't be shy. It's cold, so you're putting your hand on my shoulder. That's all."
<And yet, consider how great a forest is set alight by a little spark!>
And then I started shivering so badly-
<How convenient>
-I put my arms around him. And then he started laughing and said, "Now you're not shy anymore, uh?" And I just took my hands off.
<Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy and hard to please. And if we dare to laugh aloud, a vengeful creature thou.>
<Interval during which the friend replied to this extremely interesting information>
Aye, you can't tell like that, ya! <pause> Okay, fine, I'm shameless.
Unfortunately, I had to get off at this point. One of the greatest sorrows of my life is that I don't speak Kannada or Tamil competently, and thus miss out on a lot of eavesdropping opportunities on the bus. Still, this was a pearl of great price. I wouldn't have missed hearing it for the world.
I meant to study and finish my assignments after lunch. I really did. But the road to hell, as we are all aware, is paved with good intentions and those loose pavement slabs the BBMP is so fond of. After lunch, entirely against my will, I read a lot of manga and finally, in desperation over my own uselessness, I went to sleep. I forgot, in my unhappiness, that there is no rest for the wicked.
My father woke me by playing, at the loudest volume, the pre-recorded tunes in my Casio keyboard. Just so you can get an idea of what a devilish, demon-prompted action this was, these tunes are classics rendered in a style commonly employed by enthusiastic worshipers at Pentecostal meetings. Why he chose to inflict this ungodly clamour, full of sound and fury signifying nothing, upon the household at that particular time, I shall never know. All I know is that the trumpet of the Last Judgment could not have done a better job of destroying my peace and shattering the last remnants of my nerve forever. "Is there balm in Gilead?" I groaned, (to my soul again, as you can see, we converse frequently), and my soul replied "Nevermore," so I gave up trying to soothe my blackened conscience with sleep and got up.
Maybe this was not such a bad thing after all because you lot got a blog post out of it. Out of the cesspool of my suffering, let something beautiful grow and give shade to the world and rest to the birds of the air. I shall forget my pain in the thought that the remainder of humanity gains by it. I'm pretty sacrificing like that.
Some strange things I have seen and overhead in the city of Bangalore recently:
1) On the way to the bus stop from where I catch a bus every evening, there is a flyover. Underneath this flyover there is a raised platform that seems to be the center of art and culture in Bangalore. The ugly gray pillars are all decorated with some fair to middling paintings and, recently, a large bamboo structure was introduced in this area which is either an interesting abstract installation depicting the futility of human effort, or some such thing, or a cage for some exotic bird that has not yet appeared upon the scene. One of the interesting things I have found here, during my lonely wanderings, is a large word 'ST P', made entirely of cigarette butts.
The message of this is clear, of course. What I find interesting is that the 'O' is missing. I presume that the dedicated artist who wished to give the public this piece of brotherly advice, in such a novel and striking fashion, did indeed know how to spell the word 'STOP', and was in fact aware that an 'O' is quite an essential part of its composition. Who took the 'O'? Why?
2) When I was travelling on the bus the other day, I shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation of the young girl sitting behind me as she chattered away girlishly on the phone. I will take the further liberty of transcribing this conversation here, accompanied by my comments.
Girl: I haven't talked to him in the night for four days, ya. Two days I slept and one day he slept.
<Note: this only makes three days. What about the fourth day? Is she concealing something? If her friend knows how to count, he will never be fooled by this incompetent evasion.>
On Friday, he took me on his bike near Richard's park.
<Ah, Richards park. Den of vice and sin and final destination of all starry-eyed young lovers>
It was so cold, okay, so I was holding him, a little bit. Suddenly, I was feeling so ashamed, ya!
<Behold, the wonderful, the trembling modesty of the Indian girl. The sky, suffering under the sun's burning embrace, never blushed a more beautiful red than the cheeks of our demure young ladies.>
And so he said, "Don't be shy. It's cold, so you're putting your hand on my shoulder. That's all."
<And yet, consider how great a forest is set alight by a little spark!>
And then I started shivering so badly-
<How convenient>
-I put my arms around him. And then he started laughing and said, "Now you're not shy anymore, uh?" And I just took my hands off.
<Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy and hard to please. And if we dare to laugh aloud, a vengeful creature thou.>
<Interval during which the friend replied to this extremely interesting information>
Aye, you can't tell like that, ya! <pause> Okay, fine, I'm shameless.
Unfortunately, I had to get off at this point. One of the greatest sorrows of my life is that I don't speak Kannada or Tamil competently, and thus miss out on a lot of eavesdropping opportunities on the bus. Still, this was a pearl of great price. I wouldn't have missed hearing it for the world.
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