A Bend in the Lane

Read Harish's hilarious post here.

Remember the old myth about the origin of the nursery rhyme of " Ring-a-ring-a roses, pocket full of posies , …" ? The story goes that it's a dark rhyme about the Black Plague back in the 1600s or the first Plague in the 1300s. (There is another less popular story that it's about the children in the mining towns up North in the Isles). It's a load of hooey. The rhyme was only recorded in Mother Goose in the 1800s, about 500 years after it was began?? Surely, not. A convincing theory is that, the nursery rhyme has actually something to do with the puritanical wave that swept across New England. Dancing and revelry, incld. square dances, were frowned upon. Even banned in some places, actually. Young people found a way around these bans by calling the square dances, play-parties. Play-parties had lots of ring games with holding hands and dancing in circles. But, there are others that state that there are actually two versions of the nursery rhyme. One ha...

The other day, I was talking to a friend when he confessed that he disliked Yes Minister. I positively went wild with indignation. How can anyone not like clever plots, intelligent cynicism, acerbic wit? I vowed to convert him into a Yes Minister-ite. And you, readers of my blog, as well. For the uninitiated, Jim Hacker is a politician. In fact the Minister of Administrative Affairs (a fictitious department). Bernard Woolley is his Private Secretary and Sir Humphrey Appleby is Permanent Secretary of State for Jim Hacker's ministry. Jim Hacker is a publicity seeking, albeit well intentioned, insecure politician. He is hapless compared to the devious Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey and Bernard are civil servants/bureaucrats, by the way. Here are some of my favourite parts - Minister Jim Hacker : "What am I going to do with all this correspondence?" Bernard Woolle y: "You do realize you don't actually have reply to, Minister." Minister JH : "Don...

Pick a fight, go to war, Leave the hero in the bar. Fight a lion, climb the peak, Let no one guess you are weak. Very true, innit? Auden speaks to me from his grave.

Happy Birthday.

I am truly exasperated. I don’t understand women who offer their hearts to emotional cowards and let them make mince meat out of them. Why, they practically serve it up on a platter with strawberries and cream on the side. Good Gawd! What is wrong with you women folk. Protect yourself! If he can’t discipline his roving eye, discard him after you've blinded him. If he can’t decide between you and another poor woman, why are you even waiting around for him to choose? Is he Indie Jones picking the Holy Grail?? Go attend to the 15 men who are serenading outside your window. If he comes knocking at your door with roses and a charming smile, slam the door on his face, preferrably after you've punched him. You forgive once, and he will make you make a habit of it. Go, lead your life with passion but without maudlin sentimentality. Now run along, and don’t come looking for tea & sympathy from your Agony Aunt. I have little sympathy for I understand too well that you gave him the ri...

Things I Dislike: dyed hair, lipstick on teeth, coffee breath, pregnant women, garden salad, sharp elbows, olives, tousled hair, tobacco, creases in pants, smell of alcohol, bananas, loud music, cell phones, Things I Love: old-books shops, old clocks wrinkles (on other people), diners, cream soda, gramophones, cloth bags, open-air theatres, large earrings, wet dogs, gales, stormy seas, lighthouses lawn sprinklers B&W movies pickled jalapeños, musty libraries BBC World Service, gardens

How do you un-trivialize a trivial life? Pursue an education? Pack up your bags and search for your Lake Isle of Innisfree? Drink tea and discuss literature? Compulsively scrub floors? Go to the talkies to plug the leaks? Obsess over solving NYT's cryptic crosswords? Knit, crochet and marry a stranger? Travel to be disappointed, sleep to forget, read to escape, write to grieve. Is that all there is to it? Edna St Vincent Millay was right – "Life isn't one damn thing after another. It is one damn thing over and over". And in spite of this, why do I refuse to stop hoping and plotting?

Right after beheadings, custom required raising the severed head to the crowd. This was not, as popular belief would have us think, to show the head to the bloodthirsty crowd. It was actually to show to the head the crowd and the body it was severed from. You see, consciousness remains for at least 5 -6 seconds before the head dies due to lack of oxygen.

Ever wondered how your family got those funky surnames? Well, for that matter, how did the Akasapus get their name? Well below is a piece of recorded family history. My family history. At least, my mother's family history. Firstly, akasam in Sanskrit and Telugu means sky. So, Akasapu means 'belonging to sky' or 'of sky'. Family history has it (written on talapatras that existed till my grandfather was about 10 and then were later lost during ancestral wealth distribution) that the clan of Akasapus were master weavers. They were famous in their land for creating the most exquisite cloth of their times . Lore has it that they once weaved a saree out of exquisite, delicate silk with such finesse that they could fold it neatly and tuck it into a matchbox and present it to the king. The king (I forget the name, but basically, a king before the era of Sri Krishnadevaraya of Vizanagara kingdom) was so impressed by their feat, and touched by their humbleness that he state...

This was sitting in my inbox this morning. From Avy. As written in an earlier post, we share a bit of telepathy. No kidding. It came at the right time. "Went to claim my microphone from the office (my ex-office desk) where it was hibernating all these months, only to realise that somebody used it and left a note saying "Thanks, but I'm sorry I broke it". So, yes, a new one will be shipped from the neighboring galaxy and you'll have to spend some light years waiting just to hear my 'hello' :). The Gods have found a way to ban all surprises, flowers at doorsteps, messages in voice mail and most importantly 'a single red rose' from my life."

In the summer of 2002, I was in Cambridgeshire for a day. I spent some time walking around Cambridge before hopping on a bus to a little village near Cambridge, a village by the name of Lode. I had heard from someone on the coach from London that there is a pretty little abbey and a mill, called Anglesey Abbey, in Lode. Sure enough, the former priory was pretty, the grounds were impeccable. But it wasn't the abbey, I remember most about Lode. It was the Old Man of Lode. Satisfied with the Abbey, I was heading back to the bus stop to take the bus back to Cambridge. As there was plenty of time to kill for the next bus, I walked along the country road to the next bus stop, enjoying the sun and the wind. Upon reaching this bus stop I still had 15 minutes to kill. So, I walked along the road to find a lane, more like a dirt path, that took me through the fields. It was a windy day, and the fields sighed and whispered, beckoning me to enter. I did. The butterflies seemed flustered ...

Let me fly, hop, skip, leap, dash Let me outrun the brook, Let me chase the rainbow and the butterflies. Let me enter the woods at dusk, and walk in the rain Let me sit by the fire, by the sea   Set the kite free from the tree top, let it flutter and kiss the skies as I cannot. Let it be free, as I am not.  

If I had a restaurant, I would name it Fly In the Soup. If I had a fastfood chain (though, on second thoughts, I would never do humanity such a disservice), I would call it Hole In the Wall. If I had a footwear retail store, I would call it Pebble In the Shoe. A pal once said, “Ech, remind me never to ask you for advise when I need to name my company.”

With Death by my window, I slumber in his shadow, He yawns and coughs, spies and waits for the wheel to grind to a halt, the water to slow to a trickle, the shadows to cease their dances and the dinghy to be adrift. The clocks have struck, the bells have rung, the hour has come, I hear him at the door. The hour has come for a rue laden heart to to ponder the eternal verities.

Couple of weeks ago, I woke up realizing that I was being strangled. Initially I thought it was my folks (they don't like me to be in bed after 4 am). For an eternal second, I flailed and writhed like a hapless rag doll, gasping for air. Then, thanks to the spark of brilliance within, I realized that my hands were actually free. So, instead of clawing the air, I began to claw whatever was squeezing the life out of me. Within milliseconds I was saved. The killer lay limp in my hands – defeated. It was Snake. Snake is my bedfellow - a longish green soft toy with a wicked, pronged, red flannel tongue, black patches for eyes with one eye missing (I had gouged it out in sleep). This one-eyed-dopey-tongued-green-tailed-one-metered hideousity tried to end the divine spark within me. Now let me come to the point of my post. Never buy this for your child. Them toys can be ungrateful and can betray you. Just like your kids. If you have to buy 'em, make sure the toys cannot strang...

Read Jayesh's post on Monday 1 Oct 2007 at http://www.the-unarticulate.blogspot.com before you read on. Well, I think Jayesh is making a hullabaloo and cribbing about nothing. As I told him yesterday, he has to count his blessings that he has been mistaken for a Sunny Mangolassiwala or Frankie Boy or even Lucky Lou, instead of say, a Shelly Mangolassiwala or Frannie Girl or Lucky Lucy. Just this Sunday aftie, I had the misfortune of facing such a traumatizing situation . Believe you me, it does dreadful things to one's ego. I invited a few pals and an insufferable cad (you will know who soon enough) for Sunday lunch. Being the considerate host that I am, I was wasting lots of energy trying to get Sir Sgt 'un-lost' over the phone. He was walking towards my apartments and was clearly confused by the many bends of The-road-I-live-on Rd and was hence, sulking ( because h e likes to be in-charge). To be fair to him, if you take a left on The-road-I-live-on R...

Testing...123 Just a test post to see if this gets published. Fingers crossed. I am posting it via the email-to-blogger service. My bigbrother-esque office firewall blocks blogspot. So, I cannot even read, let alone post on from work...ahem..not that I would, mind you ahem..I mean, I have perfectly high work ethics...ahem