The urge

When there is too much work, when there is too much in my head, when sad, happy, excited, or tired. When the mind longs for fresh air, and strongly desires to be away from people.

The timing

Always close to midnight, the ghostly 12 midnight hour.

The place

Straight ahead from the hostel, to the other section where there are only trees, orange hues, the chill air, long shadows, silence, calm. Hardly any people other than the occasional jogger or the intermittent car or McDonald’s delivery guy.

The music

Whatever the iPod plays. Loosely lodged in its black pouch, held carelessly yet lovingly by the owner. Frequently taken out to repeatedly play the song that comes up by chance but perfectly suits the mood.

Me.

A wandering soul at midnight. Wantonly leaving her glasses behind so she doesn’t have to do any socializing and just look away without being able to recognize who that person far away is. Looking back and deciding to skip a bit, trot, and very often, break into song. Watching the people at the first section walk briskly, surprisingly in tune to her song. Grinning and guffawing at anything and everything. Standing with arms hugging herself when there is a cold breeze. Wondering if the song is in adi thaalam or rupakam. Walking through the groups of unknown Indian people, certain for some reason that she would their topic of discussion once out of earshot. Walking on even though the right knee suddenly starts aching slightly. Walking on and on till the staff quarters that are flooding the road with light, which she doesn’t like. Sometimes, cutting right into the staff quarters and walking to the 24-hour shop and getting an ice-cream cone for her to devour and enjoy. Walking back unmindful of the stares that come her way when she (unsuccessfully, many a time) tries to manage the wallet, cell phone and the iPod. Climbing the five floors up to her hostel and laughing at the end when she reaches room, panting, with beaming a victorious smile, mind now uncluttered, fresh and happy.

We had a guest speaker last week for one of our marketing classes last week, and something he said was so bloody witty I keep thinking of it!

"...it's like peeing in a wet suit.. nobody knows you're doing it, but you feel nice and warm!"

Hahaha!!

To the wonder that gives life, maintains the bit of sanity left in the planet, multitasks in a way some can’t imagine… the most precious species that mankind often fails to appreciate…

To the woman, one of God’s most wonderful creation! A day is not enough to sing your praise!

I love the word 'centum'. It's a typical Indian word, and it brings back good memories. Of mark sheets with nice 3-digit numbers and 'V.Good' or 'Keep it up!' scrawled in red ink.

Oh, this is the 200th post!

Right now, I am breaking my head with my team mates about what could have gone wrong in today's experiment (was the participant a momentarily-disabled fool who put 13 instead of 31? Or is it a bug that is beyond the comprehension of mass comm students?).

"He better give us an A+ for all this work!" is definitely what is going on in all our minds. That would be lovely, my Hons would go up, life would seem pleasant, and something will keep me happy and pleased for sometime, more so if a job is in place!

This post completely lacks coherence and I'm a little upset it's the 200th. But I think this is the best way to rightly chronicle my current, disarrayed state of mind!

When I got out of the cinema, I felt good about the movie. By the time I got back, I was madly in love with it!
What do I talk about - Rahman, or Gowarikar, or Hrithik or Ash or the numerous other things in the movie?!
I'm mad to the extent I immediately wanted to watch it once again - immediately! I tried to write something about the movie, but I didn't know what to write - it's not the case of words failing me, but more that I didn't want to write anything for fear I might say something and spoil the ethereal feeling around the movie... ah, brilliance!
Must, must watch.
It's a beauty, in every way.

Just a word of caution: Don't watch it with people who cheer and clap for the craziest things in the movie without realizing it's a period movie and the director's done a wonderful job of it. Or if you are someone like that, then don't watch it in the cinema. Because every time you cheer or jeer, there is someone like me angrily cursing you under her breath.

How often is it that you come across a book that deeply, and very strongly, touches you? When you feel like falling to your knees in wet grass and crying out to God, tears streaming down your face, thanking Him for the power of words, of language? When you feel outrageous pity for the people who do not give themselves this gift of experiencing something so powerful, yet delivered simply through words? God bless language. God bless words. God bless the people who have the power to write, and God bless those who can do a brilliant job of it.

Triggered by a visit to the food court nearby for 'Prata' for dinner, I am here to write the first of what I hope is a good series of memories from university. Fondly (!) called 'PP' by the Indians in my univ, Prata Point changed from a place whose very name I sneered at in the beginning to one where I go quite often (that even my mom asks if I had prata!).

Be it the plain (kosong!) prata or the yummy chilli-cheese-onion prata or the funny banana version, pratas have become a refreshing change to both canteen food and my cooking :) [Ah, my cooking deserves a whole special post of its own!] Ordering the prata with sambaarrr and not sambal (chicken curry!), watching the stall guy earnestly speak Tamil to my non-Tamil speaking friends, the smile he has for his regulars, the cigarette stench of the place, the nonchalant men with their bottles of cheap beer, people of all kinds with plates of steaming food, the plump drinks stall ladies asking us if we'd like anything to drink, have all become so normal it's tough to think of them as something acquired more during the last year than earlier.

But whatever said and done, pratas will remind me most of the irritable lady in one of the canteens who chops chicken and pratas alike in the same chopping board before giving them to the customers, and my angry retort when I realized she does that: "Don't touch my pratas with that knife!"

Little wonder she always barks at me.

Pratas. Not parathas, not paranthas.
Pratas.

Thanks to blogger hautestuff for the image.