The Karakoram range has weird blue fairies with pixie dust emanating out of their armpits, but they wont let you see their eyelashes because darn you, dude, you should not look at fairy eyelashes, okay? Those fairies have an interesting game: they jump over each other in the dark deadly pits of the range. Because nothing is more fun than daring death.
The people living close by to the fairy habitats hunt the fairies for their expensive fairy dust: they are the major ingredient of Coca-Cola, because of which the fairy population is gradually decreasing. Look at the scientific facts: In 1950, there were 132,200 fairies, compared to 200, 000 that live in the region today. While the human population has almost doubled in the last 70 years the fairy population has increased only by 60 percent.
Conservation efforts have been made, of course. Last year, a group of scientists from Europe and the United states went on a joint mission spsonsored by the European Committee for the Preservation of Proto-Imaginary Creatures. The team discovered that the Fairies were pretty damn pissed off at the humans for being such a-holes.
"Fk your people, and Fk your family, and specially fk the female members of your family, you fking little bastard, " the Chief Fairy Correspondent reportedly said to the interviewers from the team.
The fact that the majority of humanity denies the very existence of Weird Blue Fairies is the first hindrance to their preservation. As long as people don't realize that those fairy do in fact exist, and as creatures adorable as any other creature must be conserved, they are unlikely to pay much attention to the issue. People need to express their concerns to the elected representatives, schools and colleges need to start frank and honest conversations on the issue, and try to identify why people have trouble believing in those creatures, and our governments need to be serious concerning the issue.
Meghan McFairie, a junior at Southern Missouri State University in St. Louis, went on a trip to Turkey. "They are like, the prettiest things everrr, " she says, "You know, when you see something, and feel omigodomigod this so so frikkin awesome, it's never happening in my life ever again, I should probably take tons of pictures of this and post on facebook? That is exactly what happened to me when I observed those adorable creatures, whose habitats and livelihoods have been encroached by the human greed and inhumanity."
She recently created a student group in her college that fights for the rights of Weird Blue Fairies. A few of her students have joined, but most students remain ambivalent about the issue. Woltham Gollum, a senior majoring in Anthropology at SMSU says, " Oh yeah, haha they live in Hogwarts right? Hur hur. What? You mean they're for real? No Shit! I thought fairies and dwarfs and global warming were are fairy tales. Huh, maybe I'll do something about that when I have some free time."
Susan Allsbright, who represents the coalition of conservative ThinkTanks at Washington, says the issue of Weird Blue Fairies is exaggerated. "It's simple: there's some kids high on LSD or something who're seeing things and they're creating an issue out of absolutely nothing. I'm surprised that people are even taking the issue seriously," she said. The Chief Fairy Correspondent said in response, "Fk her."
A high-five in need is a high-five indeed!
Stop creeping me out. Gimme' a high five.
And a hug. Because hugs are so good!
I had a sane and meaningful conversation with Bu after quite some time. We talked about how weird hugs are, and she laughed-- or pretended to-- and I felt good about myself.
So the gist of the conversation as was-- Intimate Hugs: The most awkward time to have an erection. Right, right?
I sometimes worry about the weirdest and the least relevant of things. Awkward laugh. Hur-hur-hur. Heh.
My ability to carve about relevant, captivating, and interesting sentences has diminished significantly since I stopped writing six months ago. I can't speak in public, and I can't communicate with other human beings as fluently as I formerly could.
The Hitch is dead, the Hitch is dead, man. I should do something about that.
And a hug. Because hugs are so good!
I had a sane and meaningful conversation with Bu after quite some time. We talked about how weird hugs are, and she laughed-- or pretended to-- and I felt good about myself.
So the gist of the conversation as was-- Intimate Hugs: The most awkward time to have an erection. Right, right?
I sometimes worry about the weirdest and the least relevant of things. Awkward laugh. Hur-hur-hur. Heh.
My ability to carve about relevant, captivating, and interesting sentences has diminished significantly since I stopped writing six months ago. I can't speak in public, and I can't communicate with other human beings as fluently as I formerly could.
The Hitch is dead, the Hitch is dead, man. I should do something about that.
Hitch is dead
The Hitch says he does not live to write, but writing IS is life. Hitch is not going to write anymore, because he's dead. Long live the Hitch.
The outsiders will have attacked, by then. Hitch is dead, Hitch is dead, Hitch is dead.
The outsiders will have attacked, by then. Hitch is dead, Hitch is dead, Hitch is dead.
नेपली
नेपालीमा नलेखेको धेरै भयो|
आज देवकोटा को 'मुनामदन ' पढें, धेरैपछि| मज्जा आयो |
अब के गर्ने थाहा छैन| हुनत कसलाई नै थाहा हुन्छ र... तैपनि, केइनकेइ हुन्छ कि जस्तो लागेको थियो| घरमा बसेभन्दा बोधो भा' छ सबकुरा| अब एसो गर्नुपर्यो भनेर सोच्छु, अनि झ्याउ लागेर आउंछ| अनि सुत्छु|
अरबिकको पढाइ राम्रो छ| प्रोफेसर राम्रो परेको छ, अरु कुराको चिन्ता छैन.
आज देवकोटा को 'मुनामदन ' पढें, धेरैपछि| मज्जा आयो |
अब के गर्ने थाहा छैन| हुनत कसलाई नै थाहा हुन्छ र... तैपनि, केइनकेइ हुन्छ कि जस्तो लागेको थियो| घरमा बसेभन्दा बोधो भा' छ सबकुरा| अब एसो गर्नुपर्यो भनेर सोच्छु, अनि झ्याउ लागेर आउंछ| अनि सुत्छु|
अरबिकको पढाइ राम्रो छ| प्रोफेसर राम्रो परेको छ, अरु कुराको चिन्ता छैन.
You say 'I ran', I say 'EE ran'
This happened a long time ago. I had a very long argument with Bu about Hattiban. She was insistent that it's NOT on a hill, and does not have elephants. I said otherwise. I don't remember how it ended. I'm not sure if it even ended. You say potato, I say poe-taa-too, I said. She told me I was--I'm quoting here-- a 'dumb weirdo'. I don't know how I keep getting into those arguments.
Iran's a very pretty country, I have been told. They speak Farsi there, which I don't know. I don't have the money to go there, and the courage at this very hour. I want to go there in the near future. See stuff. Eat. Hang around, see how the rap scene is. Maybe do some shopping. Do they have skydiving in Iran? I'll probably do that too if it's not terribly expensive.
This is getting very weird. I'll be back...
Iran's a very pretty country, I have been told. They speak Farsi there, which I don't know. I don't have the money to go there, and the courage at this very hour. I want to go there in the near future. See stuff. Eat. Hang around, see how the rap scene is. Maybe do some shopping. Do they have skydiving in Iran? I'll probably do that too if it's not terribly expensive.
This is getting very weird. I'll be back...
Nancy dreams
I've been listening to Nancy Ajram a lot lately. Partly to improve my Arabic, I'll concede, but also also because I like her songs. Oh, and the music videos.
You can tell about people's lifestyles by their dreams. It sounds obvious, but people rarely tell you how they live-- on the other hand, everyone wants to talk about dreams.
Which brings me back to Nancy Ajram's videos. The girl sees an attractive guy, she gets flustered, she puts vegetables uncut, and empties the bottle of olive oil, into the stew she is cooking. Her grandmother has a rifle with her at all times-- the kind of gun grandmothers usually carry, and she's shooting the gun all the time. The attractive guy has a revolver-- to fire into the air, of course, which he does on every occasion he sees fitting.
Symbolism, and dreams. That reminds me of the Egyptian film I watched the other day, Microphone. Made me want to learn film-making. So I'm taking a film-making class this semester. Nancy's now saying that she's all alone-- funny, we practiced that structure last week.
Hearts will melt, or get stolen, and brains will get blown, or freeze.
You can tell about people's lifestyles by their dreams. It sounds obvious, but people rarely tell you how they live-- on the other hand, everyone wants to talk about dreams.
Which brings me back to Nancy Ajram's videos. The girl sees an attractive guy, she gets flustered, she puts vegetables uncut, and empties the bottle of olive oil, into the stew she is cooking. Her grandmother has a rifle with her at all times-- the kind of gun grandmothers usually carry, and she's shooting the gun all the time. The attractive guy has a revolver-- to fire into the air, of course, which he does on every occasion he sees fitting.
Symbolism, and dreams. That reminds me of the Egyptian film I watched the other day, Microphone. Made me want to learn film-making. So I'm taking a film-making class this semester. Nancy's now saying that she's all alone-- funny, we practiced that structure last week.
Hearts will melt, or get stolen, and brains will get blown, or freeze.
A very sad love story
I came up with this in class. Don't judge, it was a slow day today.
I looked at you,
And you looked at me.
And thus ended
our Love story.
Girlfriends and boyfriends
It's a funny little world.
You find things you're looking for after you've stopped caring about them.
And sometimes, you find things you never looked for, only to realize that you were unknowingly searching for them all along. And that is the moment you realize that there's some power greater than you.
If I go on making vague and overgeneralized sentence that don't particularly mean anything such as the previous sentences, at this rate, I'm close to becoming a philosopher. Let me continue, please.
Love.
Makes the world go around.
Also, the markets.
Valentine's day.
And sexy dress industry.
And other things you know that matter.
Like flowers.
And small necklaces boyfriends think their girlfriends will like, who will pretend liking it at first, but soon enough, they will get tired of all the pretending until they finally decide to come clean to their boyfriends and say, 'Sorry honey, remember that time when you gave me that necklace and I hugged you and we were so in love, yeah, well, I don't like that necklace, but I still love you sweetie', and the guy is so confused and angry for having been manipulated, he dumps her, and does not go back to her even after she tells him she is pregnant with her baby and it's gonna be a girl.
It's a cruel world that we live in. But live, we must.
You find things you're looking for after you've stopped caring about them.
And sometimes, you find things you never looked for, only to realize that you were unknowingly searching for them all along. And that is the moment you realize that there's some power greater than you.
If I go on making vague and overgeneralized sentence that don't particularly mean anything such as the previous sentences, at this rate, I'm close to becoming a philosopher. Let me continue, please.
Love.
Makes the world go around.
Also, the markets.
Valentine's day.
And sexy dress industry.
And other things you know that matter.
Like flowers.
And small necklaces boyfriends think their girlfriends will like, who will pretend liking it at first, but soon enough, they will get tired of all the pretending until they finally decide to come clean to their boyfriends and say, 'Sorry honey, remember that time when you gave me that necklace and I hugged you and we were so in love, yeah, well, I don't like that necklace, but I still love you sweetie', and the guy is so confused and angry for having been manipulated, he dumps her, and does not go back to her even after she tells him she is pregnant with her baby and it's gonna be a girl.
It's a cruel world that we live in. But live, we must.
Cheated
The nineties cheated us, and the noughties cheated us, and so will the tennies.
We will be cheated again, and the farkekas won't stop it. They never have.
The later farkekas will be a part of the problem.
We'll go backwards.
The farkekas must not return.
Farkekas never mattered.
The non-farkekas matter.
Do something, non-farkekas, we need you.
Listen to this song, in full. It made me realize how much we've been cheated.
Valentine's song.
We will be cheated again, and the farkekas won't stop it. They never have.
The later farkekas will be a part of the problem.
We'll go backwards.
The farkekas must not return.
Farkekas never mattered.
The non-farkekas matter.
Do something, non-farkekas, we need you.
Listen to this song, in full. It made me realize how much we've been cheated.
Valentine's song.
Hi there, wanna traffic me?
You find all kinds of interesting reasons to be sad. At the moment, I am sad because the traffic stats for this blog, bad as they are, have zero traffic from this place you don't want to know about. Which, if you have any freaking idea what I'm talking about, could be a sign of hypochondria. Or some similar-sounding word. I know damn well what I mean, and you should too, and I am not helping ya' there.
This is what happens to you when you write things at 5 in the morning.
This is what happens to you when you write things at 5 in the morning.
Momoland
Boston is momoland.
The hipsters on the street smoking weed and shouting, shouting shouting. I am afraid to use the word momoland because people use it for the motherland. Nepal is no momoland. It's a land, yes, and they have momos. So?
We care about people, but it doesn't matter, because nothing matters anymore, when you're not home anymore. That's right. But we still make our momoland work. They may have forever left the motherland, but they will never leave the momoland.
It's time to start from the end, and go back to the beginnings, because without our roots, we die. Disorientation is the loss of east. find east, and you shall find yourself, they say.
It's not true. It's all a lie intended to keep you away from things you truly desire. Home means little, and motherland, fatherland, and foreignland were meaningless terms that actually hold no emotional weight to a lot of people. I know, I know-- it's sad. But momoland matters, and momoland is what we care, what they care, what everyone cares about.
We search for our people. We're joyed when we see someone who looks like us, or someone who understands out tongue. It's a fallacy-- understanding tongues means you were both subjected to the same cultural upbringing. Think of it as bootcamp-buddies. Should they really matter as much as they do?
It's weird, you go away hoping to get away from home, and you realize you were never home. You lose the sure footing of your place, and you begin realizing you never had a place to begin with. Sure, you can go back, and pretend it's your place, but you can do the same damn thing anywhere else. Nothing matters.
Everything becomes a clean slate.
The butterflies flutter and fly, and fly and fly, to foreign lands, spreading their wings, and scents, and pollens. But how much wings can a butterfly spread, really? What's a butterfly, even? Is it a metaphor.
And then it's back to momoland. It's painful. Not of nostalgia--you have to have memories to have nostalgia-- but unnostaligia, the feeling that you should be nostalgic right now, instead of being an objective external observer.
You begin seeing the patterns. You start connecting the dots, understanding more about yourself and other people. You don't matter, but your realization about other people tends to make you sad. That's life, and move move on with that. Next, please.
Maybe you are wrong. Hopelessly, totally absolutely wrong, and everything exist in your head. It's a possibility. You wish you are wrong. Hopelessly, absolutely wrong. You wish.
The hipsters come about, potsmoking, sex-addled, and full of ideas to change the world. They remind you of things. And then you realize you could be right. Maybe I should grow my hair, get a hemp dress, dye my hair, and go sit there with them.
The hipsters are not hippies, yo. They try, they tend, but they don't. Because Hippies have Died. And so too will Kathmandu, very soon. The momoland that never was.
It begins in Kathmandu. It could end there. It's not going to be pretty, but something is going to happen. The wheels have started turning, the gear mechanism has started doing it's job-- listen closely, you can hear the unoiled hinges creaking slowly, from the weight of damn expectations and socialisation, creaking, creaking. They will move forever, and yet they creak. So it goes.
Maybe then good things will happen. Kathmandu is no momoland. Momoland is where you are.
The hipsters on the street smoking weed and shouting, shouting shouting. I am afraid to use the word momoland because people use it for the motherland. Nepal is no momoland. It's a land, yes, and they have momos. So?
We care about people, but it doesn't matter, because nothing matters anymore, when you're not home anymore. That's right. But we still make our momoland work. They may have forever left the motherland, but they will never leave the momoland.
It's time to start from the end, and go back to the beginnings, because without our roots, we die. Disorientation is the loss of east. find east, and you shall find yourself, they say.
It's not true. It's all a lie intended to keep you away from things you truly desire. Home means little, and motherland, fatherland, and foreignland were meaningless terms that actually hold no emotional weight to a lot of people. I know, I know-- it's sad. But momoland matters, and momoland is what we care, what they care, what everyone cares about.
We search for our people. We're joyed when we see someone who looks like us, or someone who understands out tongue. It's a fallacy-- understanding tongues means you were both subjected to the same cultural upbringing. Think of it as bootcamp-buddies. Should they really matter as much as they do?
It's weird, you go away hoping to get away from home, and you realize you were never home. You lose the sure footing of your place, and you begin realizing you never had a place to begin with. Sure, you can go back, and pretend it's your place, but you can do the same damn thing anywhere else. Nothing matters.
Everything becomes a clean slate.
The butterflies flutter and fly, and fly and fly, to foreign lands, spreading their wings, and scents, and pollens. But how much wings can a butterfly spread, really? What's a butterfly, even? Is it a metaphor.
And then it's back to momoland. It's painful. Not of nostalgia--you have to have memories to have nostalgia-- but unnostaligia, the feeling that you should be nostalgic right now, instead of being an objective external observer.
You begin seeing the patterns. You start connecting the dots, understanding more about yourself and other people. You don't matter, but your realization about other people tends to make you sad. That's life, and move move on with that. Next, please.
Maybe you are wrong. Hopelessly, totally absolutely wrong, and everything exist in your head. It's a possibility. You wish you are wrong. Hopelessly, absolutely wrong. You wish.
The hipsters come about, potsmoking, sex-addled, and full of ideas to change the world. They remind you of things. And then you realize you could be right. Maybe I should grow my hair, get a hemp dress, dye my hair, and go sit there with them.
The hipsters are not hippies, yo. They try, they tend, but they don't. Because Hippies have Died. And so too will Kathmandu, very soon. The momoland that never was.
It begins in Kathmandu. It could end there. It's not going to be pretty, but something is going to happen. The wheels have started turning, the gear mechanism has started doing it's job-- listen closely, you can hear the unoiled hinges creaking slowly, from the weight of damn expectations and socialisation, creaking, creaking. They will move forever, and yet they creak. So it goes.
Maybe then good things will happen. Kathmandu is no momoland. Momoland is where you are.
The American Life
America is just as I imagined it would be. Parking lots of malls are just as I imagined as they are: full of cars, shitty hot, soulless, and somehow lacking. The highways are big and wide, with cars everywhere, the people big and white, and friendly, because this is Boston.
I was told I would not eat rice for months. I have been living on rice, chicken curry, and chocolate chip cookies for the last week. It's not that I am not open to experimentation-- just that I am still not a cow-eater, and for an untrained eye, every non-chicken meat is just as likely to be beef as any other. I am told bacon is pork, and that it's religiously permissible for a hindu to eat porks, but I have not checked, so I couldn't care more.
The Americans can sometimes seem like alien creatures, P once told me. Perhaps I'll see things that way soon someday. At the moment, I feel like an alien creature myself, unable to understand a lot of their conversations, slow in getting puns, and very awkward when it gets to ribbing and ribaldry. English is my second language, but I have always been very comfortable using it. Speaking it in a different cultural context feels like speaking an entirely new dialect, and that kind-of makes sense. The point here is, I think, that it's no one's fault, and time will take care of things, if I pay enough attention to people talking.
Sometimes, people get awkward, and things get awkward, and there's nothing much to talk about. But you have to realise that there's not such thing as that. Bu taught me that. She was like ohh, dude, we are soo out of things to talk about, what do we do now, so goodbye, go now okay, cuz it's time to go, and don't lemme bother you anymore and then she'd come up with something, and then I'd respond, and then we would go on for some more time. I don't know if I can make small-talk: I suspect I can't, but when people want to talk, they will, regardless of whether there's something to talk about or not. Unless they are really awkward. In which case, god, the non-existent entity help them. Things can get awkward sometimes, but they will go back to unawkwardness soon, so I shall fear not.
America calling
TaD was worried she had gone too far-- she was apparently Facebook-stalking some random girl on facebook and thinking, wow, she has THE life. I've stalked someone who's not my friend on facebook for the last three days, and I have extremely mixed feelings, ranging from damn damn damn, why am i not feeling homesick, man, I totally should right now, to ohkkayy, so that is what should have happened, so why am I such a creepy weirdo, oh dear non-existent god, and WHY do "I" have to be the weirdo, to other thoughts.
I'm going, to college. This blog was originally supposed to document my experience of preparing for college and going, but I got distracted, and stopped caring, because frankly, I had more important things to do. So I thought. Perhaps I still do, but this can go on too. No reason why not. So it begins. I hope.
I leave tomorrow, I reach college in four days. In the days in between, I hang, have fun and whatever-- on air and in the eastern part of the United States.
This is not what it seems like.
I'm going, to college. This blog was originally supposed to document my experience of preparing for college and going, but I got distracted, and stopped caring, because frankly, I had more important things to do. So I thought. Perhaps I still do, but this can go on too. No reason why not. So it begins. I hope.
I leave tomorrow, I reach college in four days. In the days in between, I hang, have fun and whatever-- on air and in the eastern part of the United States.
This is not what it seems like.
Wandering
Khoi k bhaa k bhaa k, I am told. I am not told that, actually-- I'm making shit up-- so go along please.
Pate is bhaari, and so is the heart. It's not the going, no-- it's specifically NOT the going. I know, because I've gone, and I know how departure feels like. It doesn't feel like this. This is something else.
Nine months, we remind ourselves. And everyone giggles. Because, babies. And sex.
Don't go out with Russians, man, and no I don't wanna talk about it, says someone from the place I am going to. Not the kind of advice I need right now, but an advice nonetheless. Never poke a sleeping dragon's nose. That's another advice. You know how these things go.
Trees are green and mellow, your life is very yellow. Jaundice and Anemia, worst condition ever. Six months max, without proper sophisticated medication. Don't go to the states, because you won't be able to afford it. And besides, no one goes to America for medication. They go there for a life, right. Kinabhane that's what everyone does.
SO we giggle and wiggle. It's my first time. Aru manche ko second or third time. Maybe more. Come and go is cool, they say, as long as you don't forget to come. It's difficult to understand that, because once you stop coming, you're not coming and going in the first place. But don't tell it to them. It's rude.
Hatti Bun. I don't know. There are two places in Kathmandu with this name-- one's a mountain, the other's not. Don't ask me if either has Hattis in it. The conversation will last forever. And it'll be painful for various reasons. Elephant Buns. Because you will be ignored. Duhh.
Pate is bhaari, and so is the heart. It's not the going, no-- it's specifically NOT the going. I know, because I've gone, and I know how departure feels like. It doesn't feel like this. This is something else.
Nine months, we remind ourselves. And everyone giggles. Because, babies. And sex.
Don't go out with Russians, man, and no I don't wanna talk about it, says someone from the place I am going to. Not the kind of advice I need right now, but an advice nonetheless. Never poke a sleeping dragon's nose. That's another advice. You know how these things go.
Trees are green and mellow, your life is very yellow. Jaundice and Anemia, worst condition ever. Six months max, without proper sophisticated medication. Don't go to the states, because you won't be able to afford it. And besides, no one goes to America for medication. They go there for a life, right. Kinabhane that's what everyone does.
SO we giggle and wiggle. It's my first time. Aru manche ko second or third time. Maybe more. Come and go is cool, they say, as long as you don't forget to come. It's difficult to understand that, because once you stop coming, you're not coming and going in the first place. But don't tell it to them. It's rude.
Hatti Bun. I don't know. There are two places in Kathmandu with this name-- one's a mountain, the other's not. Don't ask me if either has Hattis in it. The conversation will last forever. And it'll be painful for various reasons. Elephant Buns. Because you will be ignored. Duhh.
Bee
B's getting nostalgic and weepy, I think, and I understand her. A year ago, I would not have-- thank god for this year. It's just a figure of speech--there's no god--you delusional freak.
She posts all these fantastic poems and write-ups, and I realize my writing has not really evolved in recent years, even when I have written several thousand words daily for a stretch several times. But ceasing to write is definitely not going to improve things, so I'm back to dumping as many words as I can in one go. In a related note, Bu started writing, bu then stopped because people discovered her secret identity. I have no comments; whatever floats her boat.
She posts all these fantastic poems and write-ups, and I realize my writing has not really evolved in recent years, even when I have written several thousand words daily for a stretch several times. But ceasing to write is definitely not going to improve things, so I'm back to dumping as many words as I can in one go. In a related note, Bu started writing, bu then stopped because people discovered her secret identity. I have no comments; whatever floats her boat.
A personal announcement, and thanking the people of the Interwebs
Peoples of the Interwebs, Hear hear hear
Some time ago, I asked for something from you, the people of the interwebs. And I made a promise.
To be more precise, I said this:
I did get what I wanted. There are a lot more things (two actually) that I now want, but we'll keep them over for later. You did your part, and you prayed for me, and you wished for luck of the dice. Thanks. You're really cool.
So now, it's time to keep my part of the deal. The first part, it makes no sense anymore because that blog is over, that part of my life has been postponed. So maybe, at a future date, when that blog is revived, I might do the things I promose there.
I can, however, keep the second part of the deal. Ask me questions, and they shall be answered. It doesn't really matter how weird-offensive-pointless-personal-stupid they are-- all questions are questions, and they shall be treated as such. So, go on, click the comment button and start questioning me right away. Yeah, do it!
Now!
Some time ago, I asked for something from you, the people of the interwebs. And I made a promise.
To be more precise, I said this:
There's this one thing I really really really want. Like, very badly. I've done everything that I possibly could, and soon things will move beyond my control. So now I need luck. Lots of it. My friend proposed we go to Dakshinkali and do a bhakal. I have a better idea: I will now bribe you, the good people of the interwebs to pray for me(if you believe in God) or wish that the dice of luck favors me if you're an atheist. What will you get out of the deal? Lots.
First, I will completely own up to this blog, and personally reply through very long emails to comments posted here. Second, I will actually start checking the posts for errors so that your reading experience is better. And as a token of gratitude for getting me THAT thing, I will seriously improve whatever I have been doing in this blog. Like, seriously.
Also, if I do get it, I will be open to questions of every kind, and will provide the answers in greatest detail and accuracy. If you ask, for example, when was the first time I drank fanta, I will describe the scene in extreme detail, with special importance to the sensory perceptions. And other shit like that, you get the general idea.
So peoples, pray for me. And pray hard. Whenever you're around a temple, pray that I get the thing I so truly greatly desire. I will know if you have prayed for me or not -- by December end I will be informed about the status of the desired thing.
Have a good day/night/morning ( those time zones are rather buggering) and pray, pray for me!
I did get what I wanted. There are a lot more things (two actually) that I now want, but we'll keep them over for later. You did your part, and you prayed for me, and you wished for luck of the dice. Thanks. You're really cool.
So now, it's time to keep my part of the deal. The first part, it makes no sense anymore because that blog is over, that part of my life has been postponed. So maybe, at a future date, when that blog is revived, I might do the things I promose there.
I can, however, keep the second part of the deal. Ask me questions, and they shall be answered. It doesn't really matter how weird-offensive-pointless-personal-stupid they are-- all questions are questions, and they shall be treated as such. So, go on, click the comment button and start questioning me right away. Yeah, do it!
Now!
Sthani 2
Sthani and her boyfriend broke up. He was a nice guy, and she's a sweet girl, so I don't understand why they didn't marry each other. But I'm not going to bring that up to her, because I don't want to be called an insensitive jerk again.
In started on the V-Day. I wanted to hang with them on the day, and they were like 'okidokies' with IT, but then I decided not to. Instead, I spent the day alone, stuffing myself with the fantastic burger you get in NewRoad. They celebrated the day as a couple.
See, they're both very nice people, but they're both weirdos to the heart. They've got their own ideas about non-conformity and the underground, and when they disagree, they clash. She's got three tattoos, of which I like the snake on her neck. I believe she intends the pun. He's too non-conformist to be the conventional non-conformist, so he won't get a tattoo. I see him sometimes--we have mutual friends--and we talk, but it's all blanketed in awkwardness. He's past now. Hers and mine.
Sthani says she's done with boyfriends. She adds "Or, girlfriends," giving me rather threatening looks, even before I snigger suggestively. But that's what she said when she was over with her previous boyfriend. Then she was back in two months, and that was three years ago. She goes to all these places which scare my weak stomach, and she meets different kinds of people, and she falls for someone or the other. And I end up getting sucked into her weird relationships.
Her previous guy was my roommate. I was not really good friends with her then. I liked teasing her because she pretended to get irritated. My roommate used to be with me at times, and he defended her. She liked the hunkydory knight who saves the damsel in distress. I found out they were seeing each other after two months into their relationship. We have been close since then.
Before you even begin getting ideas from books like Emma, let me make this clear: cool as she is, she is not the girlfriend material, and as much as I like her, she'd probably be one of last people I'd want to go out with. She's too... uhh. Anyway, I like her, a lot.
I called my roommate for what he was: a traitor. Two months, with my friend, and I didn't have a clue. In his defense, I was wound up in my research then, but that was still no reason to make me a pariah. He made it up in the following months though-- I got to eat everything they gave each other, and use the inedible gifts. I am never going to smell as good in my life again.
That fling was over in four months. That was the time it took them to talk everything about themselves and me-- the only common thread they had. Once they were done revealing my deepest-darkest secrets to each other, their relationship was over. And then in two months, Sthani began seeing the current ex-bf.
In started on the V-Day. I wanted to hang with them on the day, and they were like 'okidokies' with IT, but then I decided not to. Instead, I spent the day alone, stuffing myself with the fantastic burger you get in NewRoad. They celebrated the day as a couple.
See, they're both very nice people, but they're both weirdos to the heart. They've got their own ideas about non-conformity and the underground, and when they disagree, they clash. She's got three tattoos, of which I like the snake on her neck. I believe she intends the pun. He's too non-conformist to be the conventional non-conformist, so he won't get a tattoo. I see him sometimes--we have mutual friends--and we talk, but it's all blanketed in awkwardness. He's past now. Hers and mine.
Sthani says she's done with boyfriends. She adds "Or, girlfriends," giving me rather threatening looks, even before I snigger suggestively. But that's what she said when she was over with her previous boyfriend. Then she was back in two months, and that was three years ago. She goes to all these places which scare my weak stomach, and she meets different kinds of people, and she falls for someone or the other. And I end up getting sucked into her weird relationships.
Her previous guy was my roommate. I was not really good friends with her then. I liked teasing her because she pretended to get irritated. My roommate used to be with me at times, and he defended her. She liked the hunkydory knight who saves the damsel in distress. I found out they were seeing each other after two months into their relationship. We have been close since then.
Before you even begin getting ideas from books like Emma, let me make this clear: cool as she is, she is not the girlfriend material, and as much as I like her, she'd probably be one of last people I'd want to go out with. She's too... uhh. Anyway, I like her, a lot.
I called my roommate for what he was: a traitor. Two months, with my friend, and I didn't have a clue. In his defense, I was wound up in my research then, but that was still no reason to make me a pariah. He made it up in the following months though-- I got to eat everything they gave each other, and use the inedible gifts. I am never going to smell as good in my life again.
That fling was over in four months. That was the time it took them to talk everything about themselves and me-- the only common thread they had. Once they were done revealing my deepest-darkest secrets to each other, their relationship was over. And then in two months, Sthani began seeing the current ex-bf.
Maitidevi -- Photoblog
This is Maitidevi. It's not my home area, and I'm not going to miss it. This is not even a good photo of the place. But this is still Maitidevi. Because I have nothing better to do.
It's a shitty little place, with all the tarkaari waalas, with their green and orange and brown vegetables lined on the sidewalk, and women in orange and pink and red kurthas and saris and men in white and blue and gray and yellow, and girls in pink and blue and white and yellow and black, britney spears emblazoned across their chest, the unknown fighters in a battle they don't know they're fighting, not caring, because they don't need to-- for there are more important things to care, like what do they cook in the evening, or what do they make their servants cook in the evening, and how Rasmila has been acting so bitchy lately after being promoted, or about getting a new place to stay, because gurrl, you're 24, and you're in the most happening city of your country, and you're still living in a darned hostel and have no fking boyfriend to talk to when you are tired of acting your part, or or what the hell was Shami saying the other day about moving wherever with whoever, because he was pretty damn making that shit up, and it's pretty obvious he was pulling stuff outta' his ass, or about the damn tarariwaalas who have captured the sidewalks and that little weird kid across the street's who's gonna have a tough time if she doesn't start acting more normal-ish, or what the hell is wrong with the lecherous bastards in Kathmandu who have nothing else to do but stare at those damn boobs, even those damn office waalas and come on, this is 2011, almost 2012 now, end of the world as we know, and we're still living in this ancient age where a girl can't live freely, or wherever those lice came from, there's someone real dirty out there, and short hair sounds like a real good idea right now, with Emma Watson and all.
Period.
Everything moves slowly. Or stops. Because nothing is happening, and what is happening is an illusion of things happening. You want things to start happening, and you pretend things are happening, and slowly people around you start pretending it's happening too, and everyone's convinced things are happening, but mass hysteria does not a reality create. Nothing's happening in real life. It's all in your head. And in other people's head, because you planted in it their heads. Most of them took it in very willingly because they have nothing else to do. They do actually, but they want to imagine that being a part of the delusion is doing something. And it is so easy to do so, the delusions form a vicious cycle, each delusion fueling another set of delusion until everyone who wants to believe something is happening, is convinced it is.
Of course, Krishna said it a long time ago that everything's delusion, including this Universe. The only real thing is the truth, and the truth is the singularity. Of course, unless you're a Hare Krishna, you know he was making shit up too. Things don't work like that. Sometimes, things are real, not merely delusions, but it takes real courage and hard work to create real stuff, and not live in the castles of delusion. But we take the easy way. There's a third way too-- you manipulate yourself out of the delusion by deluding yourself out of the fake reality. Don't share the common delusion-- once everyone has their own personal delusions, the mass hysteria breaks down, it becomes obvious that things are not happening, and finally once people learn to live with their self-delusions, they start working towards making things happen. And not merely deluding themselves.
The Taxis and tempos get very splash-y during rainy season in Maitidevi, and splash things around a lot. You have to wade through quite some water to get out of the tempo in the tempo stand there. The tarkariwaalas are sometime knee-deep in water, the road more of a rivulet.
It's a shitty little place, with all the tarkaari waalas, with their green and orange and brown vegetables lined on the sidewalk, and women in orange and pink and red kurthas and saris and men in white and blue and gray and yellow, and girls in pink and blue and white and yellow and black, britney spears emblazoned across their chest, the unknown fighters in a battle they don't know they're fighting, not caring, because they don't need to-- for there are more important things to care, like what do they cook in the evening, or what do they make their servants cook in the evening, and how Rasmila has been acting so bitchy lately after being promoted, or about getting a new place to stay, because gurrl, you're 24, and you're in the most happening city of your country, and you're still living in a darned hostel and have no fking boyfriend to talk to when you are tired of acting your part, or or what the hell was Shami saying the other day about moving wherever with whoever, because he was pretty damn making that shit up, and it's pretty obvious he was pulling stuff outta' his ass, or about the damn tarariwaalas who have captured the sidewalks and that little weird kid across the street's who's gonna have a tough time if she doesn't start acting more normal-ish, or what the hell is wrong with the lecherous bastards in Kathmandu who have nothing else to do but stare at those damn boobs, even those damn office waalas and come on, this is 2011, almost 2012 now, end of the world as we know, and we're still living in this ancient age where a girl can't live freely, or wherever those lice came from, there's someone real dirty out there, and short hair sounds like a real good idea right now, with Emma Watson and all.
Period.
Everything moves slowly. Or stops. Because nothing is happening, and what is happening is an illusion of things happening. You want things to start happening, and you pretend things are happening, and slowly people around you start pretending it's happening too, and everyone's convinced things are happening, but mass hysteria does not a reality create. Nothing's happening in real life. It's all in your head. And in other people's head, because you planted in it their heads. Most of them took it in very willingly because they have nothing else to do. They do actually, but they want to imagine that being a part of the delusion is doing something. And it is so easy to do so, the delusions form a vicious cycle, each delusion fueling another set of delusion until everyone who wants to believe something is happening, is convinced it is.
Of course, Krishna said it a long time ago that everything's delusion, including this Universe. The only real thing is the truth, and the truth is the singularity. Of course, unless you're a Hare Krishna, you know he was making shit up too. Things don't work like that. Sometimes, things are real, not merely delusions, but it takes real courage and hard work to create real stuff, and not live in the castles of delusion. But we take the easy way. There's a third way too-- you manipulate yourself out of the delusion by deluding yourself out of the fake reality. Don't share the common delusion-- once everyone has their own personal delusions, the mass hysteria breaks down, it becomes obvious that things are not happening, and finally once people learn to live with their self-delusions, they start working towards making things happen. And not merely deluding themselves.
The Taxis and tempos get very splash-y during rainy season in Maitidevi, and splash things around a lot. You have to wade through quite some water to get out of the tempo in the tempo stand there. The tarkariwaalas are sometime knee-deep in water, the road more of a rivulet.
Bablu
BabluDablu is back in the game. All this time he was away, we were supposed to prepare for his return, to stop his comeback, to stop the overthrowing of the system. Now that he's back, we are going to be tested.
Asti, we were told to not use the most obvious weapons. He'd guess them even before we attacked, and apart from wasting our precious ammunition, we would also be putting him in good spirits right from the beginning. Which, I guess, is not the right thing to do, since we're his enemies.
Asti, we were told to not use the most obvious weapons. He'd guess them even before we attacked, and apart from wasting our precious ammunition, we would also be putting him in good spirits right from the beginning. Which, I guess, is not the right thing to do, since we're his enemies.
Blogger's new platform
I am using Blogger's fantastic new engine to compose this post, and something tells me I'm going to write more because of this. It looks like a very sassy version of google docs or MSWord, with oranges and grays and all the shades mixed in for this fantastic new look.
Well done, Blogger People!
Well done, Blogger People!
Angry Nepali Birds(colored)
This work was created(drawn) by @rochan_ I used it to digitise and color the image. Enjoy. You can find the original, uncolored art work here: http://twitpic.com/5h9efh
I dream of you
I dream of Genie,
And I dream of you.
I dream of a world,
Not apart;
I dream of a world,
fast;
And I dream of you.
And I dream of you.
I dream of a world,
Not apart;
I dream of a world,
fast;
And I dream of you.
America Jaaney
 |
| The Times' Square Photo Credit: Rachit Neupane's Facebook |
It's the greatest thing that's happened to our country.
America Jaaney.
It's not about the search for a better life. It's not about earning more, or democracy, or freedom, or opportunities.
It answers the most basic questions we ask ourselves: Why exist?
Why do you study for your anatomy exams when you know you don't want to practice here?
America Jaaney,
It's given us a reason to live our lives. It doesn't really matter if we ever bother to act upon it-- all our aspirations, acts and ideals can be summed up in two words-- could you ask for anything more? Forget the philosophers-- we don't need Camus or Nietzsche to expound on the nature of existence and give us treatises. The entire crux of our existence is fantastically summed up by the two words. No complications, thank you!
And it's a good thing. That medical student is going to study, not because he really wants to but because he wants to become an American doctor, even though he knows in his subconscious that the chances of him passing the USMLE are infinitesimally low. The mid-level manager is going to brush up his English, and take GRE practice tests, always aware that he'll never leave his sick and aging parents, but assuring himself that he miight someday. Hopefully.
It doesn't matter what America is, or where it is, or if the ideals are anywhere near the truth. No, what matters is that America Jaaney gives us hope, when we have so little to be hopeful about. If we are the Islamic Terrorists, it's our 72 Virgins, and we're the sex-starved nymphos
America in itself doesn't really matter, in our lives. Undoubtedly, our heroes could be American-- mine are, anyway-- I worship Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin and Rainn Wilson and so on, and our culture is getting Americanized, but so what? It's not about them, or their country--we just need to be shown the hope that there could be the slightest possibility that we could be amongst them, and we're happy. And we work hard. Even though it may not bring us the fruit we desire. But that's not the point anyway. We improve, and we keep on improving ourselves, hoping that some day, it's our turn...
America Jaaney
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