| Rank | Name | Score |
|---|---|---|
| I. | Mamta | 3+2 |
| II. | Madge | 3+3 |
| III. | Amara | 3+4 |
| IV. | Mwgli | 3+5 |
| V. | Tammy | 3+5 |
| VI. | Pamela | 3+6 |
| VII. | Meg | 4+0 |
| VIII. | Ana | 4+0 |
| IX. | Anamika | 4+7 |
Having visited LR for 8-bit game cartridges, presently looking for an adapter to get my cell jack do a 3.5mm audio out. The roadside stall owner left for something urgent, leaving his kid in-charge, who got fascinated with my lesser-known cellphone, and eagerly snatched it away at my first hint of being comfortable parting with it - straight to the camera mode, a few clicks (the result of which you see) sans the curiosity for the outcome, then onto games and other features, which I suspected would ultimately lead to them enabling paid services... hence me snatching the phone back.
For once you see me not with the eyes of their eyes and speak to me not with the words they pieced for you. As terrible as you are, as unimaginative as you are, as goody goody as you never were, but it all works. There are things that stir, lips that form a smile, and a crescendo is reached midway - it could've worked no better, let me assure you.Hello to the saboteur of my panoramic lifestyle.
[we shake hands. I am reminded of “at laeva lacrimas muttoni absterget amica”]
I work in a haggard corporation that finds hard to produce an involving film in its mission to educate employees about the way they do business. Somebody should get paid to keep an attention span through such an abortion – a polished and sterile narrator, sterile suits in sterile environs sermonizing, and such affectation that can only hint at drug abuse (sans the fluidity and originality of thought). Between the bouts of sleep and the bouts of diahorrea, I barely manage to grasp the revelation that we are a customer-centric organization with a zealous streak to succeed and drive the market - that was new, I didn’t realize that earlier, I feel enraptured.
Seized by these flashing images of snow fields inside my head – not vast endless snow fields, but in patches, like after a light round of snowing, where the charred ground and mottled grass feature in equal proportions with the carpet of snow. That is the look most villages in upper Garhwal region would bear these days, when the locals desert their villages for more comfortable ones at lower altitudes (they live in a duality), and first snows of the season have fallen. Even their Gods descend down with them. Much of the snow – or old snow – I’ve come across has been of this variety. Yes, I do not get to play in it or eat it or make out with some girl wearing furs, but it gives you boundless reign of adventure. Thankfully, it’s no sea.
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Imagine a spacecraft of the future, with a crew of a thousand ladies, off for Alpha Centauri, with 2,000 breasts bobbing beautifully and quivering delightfully in response to every weightless movement . . . and I am the commander of the craft, and it is Saturday morning and time for inspection, naturally.I wish, for once, my Saturday morning would start with such hilarious inspections.
So it happens I had another unstable weekend, and it was exciting in the latter half, halfway-exciting in the former half, and somewhere in between the two jumps I lost a track of my life and lay googling, and ogling, and doodling. When you climb to the top of the mountain
Look out over the sea
Think about the places perhaps, where a young man could be
Then you jump back down to the rooftops
Look out over the town
Think about all of the strange things circulating round
I do my little ramp imitation as I walk back to my seat from the bay door; pronounced steps, a slight swagger; nobody takes notice, and my kick stays with me. Back on the seat, hunched, drowsy, confused, restless, wasted; you could kill me had you seen me rambling forward on the chronological axis in this state. Boss-gamma-mama tries taking interest in my assigned task for a while, and after a while of actually trying to explain him the task at hand, I simply hurl some tech jargon to see him scampering away. I love seeing people scamper away like that.
I barely invest my time in anything while in this corporate zoo. Even scribbling down seems tedious – it’s like the spirit of the working class enters my body upon an entry in the office, making me do all this ugly stuff that I don’t want to. My technical bent is a long lost brother now, a castaway from my own heart, like a king impeached partially by circumstances, much by guile, waiting with its forces outside the town for the day when it could claim its reign again. I doodle these silly things on my table desk (right now it’s a bad conception of Shiv Sena’s snarling tiger), conditional on access to a working whiteboard marker, rub them away, maybe write words in strange/skewed typefaces, or something in foreign language (Arbeit Macht Frei seems appropriate atm); I have lately ended up messing my trousers or those lighter coloured shirts with a stray marker trail.
In some time we are legally entitled to leave. "Well, we could. But we won't." The people around are on track to be voted the best vegetables in town; no insistence or convincing helps; an imitation war of sorts. I can feel a Silence of the Lambs in here...
- What did you see, Clarice? What did you see?
- Lambs.
- They were screaming.
- They were slaughtering the spring lambs?
- And they were screaming.
- And you ran away?
- No. First I tried to free them.
- I opened the gate to their pen, but they wouldn't run.
They just stood there, confused. They wouldn't run.
- But you could - and you did, didn't you?
If we were a pill, we’d have tangibly seen ourselves losing our character with the daily circular motion of the sun that sets our lives stirring, dissolving us faster and faster in the ether of humanity, till we all contribute a common consistency to the impotent chemical solution called life that nobody would ultimately drink for no great thirst to satisfy. It’d just spill over someday, perhaps… as insignificant a moment as our entire lifetimes have been (or will be).
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