On why I hate second hand books.

I am scared of second hand books.

People tell me all the time about Moormarket in Chennai and Orchids(?) in Bangalore where you get fabulous low priced books. But they are all mostly second hand books. And that's why I steer clear of these supposedly delightful places.

Ofcourse, I do own many books handed down by my cousins and friends at some point or the other. My painfully limited bookshelf at home does possess that Grandfather Copy Of The Decameron Which Is So Carefully Covered With A Sheet Torn From The Hindu Newspaper Of The 1970s. And I don't mind. These books are filled with memories of people I know, or people I am vaguely aware of. They aren't strangers, just good old friends or the easy- to- talk- to acquaintances.

It is the books I pick up randomly from nowhere, which originally belonged to someone else, that scare me.

For they once belonged to someone else who I don't know. Their pages are filled with the stories of these unknown strangers' lives and when I place them among familiar faces in my bookshelf, they stand out awkwardly. And most of these books contain embarrassing dedications like "To my darling sister, Soumya, on her twenty second birthday, With love, Raji" and I always feel like I am prying into the lives of Soumya and Raji whoever they are and wherever they lived. The book gifted to Soumya does not belong to my bookshelf, no matter how fervently I try to hide it behind my very own Anna Karenina and Kafka on the Shore.

So every time I pick up a second hand book which was owned by someone I do not know, I am filled with some sort of revulsion. And uneasiness. The feeling you would get if you steal someone's lunch at a restaurant. Or attend a random wedding celebration down the street. I should suppose it is an awful feeling and I never shall buy second hand books even if I have to shell a Holy-Mother-of-God 300 bucks for Ulysses. The folks at Flipkart gotta love me!

What I learnt from Rock, and Roll.

Stairway to heaven taught me that even the best can be ruined by a repeated nagging glitch.

A tout le monde taught me French.

Symphony of destruction taught me world politics.

The painkiller taught me that music isn’t necessarily the best cure for a headache.

Heaven and hell taught me that no matter what, Black Sabbath is God.

No one like you taught me that a song which is on-your-face romantic needn’t necessarily be so.

Never walk alone taught me that a song which isn't apparently romantic could be perceived so.

Give it away now taught me the importance of charity.

Nothing else matters taught me how to open up about the way I feel.

Bleed it out gave me the song which I want people to play in my funeral.

Fear of the dark kept me awake for nights on end.

She-wolf (almost) gave me a new purpose in life.

Laid to rest asked me to find out who gives a darn afterall.

And Seize the day taught me to how to very effectively bullshit.

What's on my mind

(a) Coffee. Cliches apart, I never really have coffee during the week and when I come home, all I crave for is coffee. Not good. Not good at all!

(b) The very beautifully written Of Human Bondage which I have read a hundred and fifty pages or so. I have to return this book soon. One more book to my Flipkart wishlist.

(c) My slowly growing Flipkart wishlist. Amidst many others are Lolita, The History of Sexuality, Ulysses and the French Lieutenant's Woman. Maybe one day I shall spend less money on icecream and buy them. Till then, I dream... :)

(d) Movies. There was a phase I went through when I just couldn't sit through three hours of a movie which annoyed my mom very much. But now I seem to be enjoying them more, and yesterday's 7 Khoon Maaf was simply delightful.

(e) This complex labyrinth of emotions and mood swings I'm experiencing right now. Maybe I'm just going through a rough patch -sigh-. And if not for some very special people, I'd have metamorphosised into a gigantic ball of stress by now.

(f) Academic work. Piles of work.

(g) Questions which randomly keep bouncing off my head like - Who am I? What am I good at? Why am I this way? Refer (e) for more

(h) Can life exist without Facebook?

(i) Gurunath. A friend of mine and I go there almost EVERY SINGLE DAY and I still don't know why. I just love going there, a je ne sais quoi I can't quite fathom.

(j) I love saying 'Gurunath'. The 'th' at the tip of my tongue sounds very conclusive and the resounding 'na' lingers even after I say 'Gurunath'. Gurunnaatth. Photocopies at Gurunaatth.

(k) That watch I still haven't bought.

(l) Planners. I have FAR too many planners and post it notes and the like, being this compulsive obsessive planning freak. I think I need to go to Stationery Rehab

(m) And oh yes, the Cricket Match yesterday :D I think I might be in love with Dhoni! :)

(n) Why I never ever publish a post without editing it again a few seconds later.

And a lot lot lot more on my mind which are probably entangled at some sub-conscious level which will probably emerge later in the night when I'm fast asleep.

The Responsibility Mug

On my disorganised table in my hostel room sits a fat Responsibility Mug.

This Responsibility Mug was a birthday gift from my parents on my 12th (?) birthday. It is from Archies, I think and it has the word 'Responsibility' scrawled on it, with the Four Signs Of A Responsible Person written all over.

By virtue of being A Very Big Mug, it contains everything you could possibly imagine, pencils, earrings, eraser bits, passport sized photographs, an ugly heart shaped keychain, pens which ran out of ink and a black permanent marker, among the easily discernible items.

It is a Very Dirty Mug too, for it is emptied and cleaned out precisely twice a year, a process which takes exactly a minute and a half and the clutter in it is replaced meticulously, for well It May Prove Useful One Day.

One day, I shall set the Mug at a very prominent location and read its inscriptions with utmost diligence. Till then, it shall continue to slowly gather dust in the corner of my table.

German poems.

I'm doing an awesome course this semester called "Readings in German Literature and Culture" and one delightful poet (among many many others) we are discussing right now is Kurt Tucholsky. Here's a poem by him which I found interesting. Hope you like it! =)


The Other Man



You happen to meet him at a dinner.
You start conversing with him.
He knows the name of each Davis Cup winner.
He looks attractive. And slim.
He dances superbly. His face is clean.
And then your husband appears on the scene.

You measure one man against the other.
Your husband comes off second-best:
What a disgusting figure-oh brother!
So paunchy! So sloppily dressed!
And you say to yourself: Why, certainly
that one would be a man for me.

Now, lady, I may sound irritating
but what I tell you is true:
You'd give that other the same low rating
just after a year or two.
By then you know his technique of caressing;
you've seen him in every stage of undressing.
He then has his fill of your affection;
you've heard all the jokes in his collection;
you have observed him in joy and in fear,
from top to bottom, from front to rear....
believe me, the more one sees of us,
the less one finds us glamorous.
We may be charming at a party
and other times just like Joey or Marty.
Don't fall for those Sunday faces we carry-

and if the fellow you chose to marry
is someone with whom you can get by,
then-take my advice-hold on to the guy!

Heating up

Summer is back in Chennai, where it rightfully belongs.

I had to trudge out in the sweltering midday sun today. I'm still feeling cranky. Maybe this is a wonderful opportunity for me to actually drink three litres of water a day and feel all detoxified and not like a bloated rhinoceros.

Maybe this time I would get huge branded sunglasses and teeny sun dresses and paint my face with sunscreen and eat garden fresh salad and drink cucumber rich water.

Or maybe I will just sit at home, scowl at everyone and eat copious amounts of blueberry icecream.

On a roll

I got a free one month membership to a library in IIT just yesterday and I intend to make full use of it. Afterall, the best things in life are free,right? ;)

So I started off with Devdutt Pattanaik's The Pregnant King. I love his column - Management Mythos in the Economic Times and I think the way he connects mythology and business is simply fabulous. This however does not make him a great story teller and The Pregnant King is just barely above average. A slightly disappointing read, or maybe I expected too much.

Next up is JM Coetzee's Boyhood and the Restaurant at the end of the Universe. Can't wait to read them. And there is a copy of Beauvoir's The Second Sex which I'm eyeing. Let's see how it goes!

PS - Would anybody know where I can get good Hindi literature? Trying to revive that language within me which I was once compelled to learn and later enjoyed :)