The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Here I lie

It's a shared opinion that anyone who does anythign apart from study twenty-three minutes before an exam is fundamentally insane.
So sue me.
This morning something even stupider happened, something so fucked that I still can't stop laughing. I sit in the exam hall after dealing with the fucked admin here and rummage in my broken zipless bag for my notes.
Lo and behold, what do I find? It ain't there. But what is there is my rather battered copy of Robert Ludlum's Road to Gandolfo. And chutiya that I am I take it out and read half a chapter five minutes before the exam.
Neat, eh? And now I've gone back home to enjoy a smoke and wadas at Venky's, chatted with the guys there, Raju and the gang, enjoyed a quiet breakfast, before going home to pick up my notes.
And even though they're sitting in my bag, several presentations were already open on the computer I sat down at, I have no intention of studying anymore, as can be clearly seen from the blogging. Maa chudaye the exam.
To conclude: Marks are for losers. Not studying is for the motherfuckers.
And PR is for those who want to kiss ass; I'm a journalist; I mindfuck, I don't reassure.


Maa chudaye....

It would have been something to say had the night been dark, the atmosphere stormy, or the moon full in the sky. Unfortunately trouble brews only when the sun is high in the sky. And so on and so forth. Suffice to say it was a beautiful morning that sees an ill wind blow no good.

Screenings are all very fine, I thought, trudging on perfectly dry tile under a perfectly hot sun. The laptop bag swinging around did nothing to ease the feeling of lazy boredom that pervaded the place. Even with the threat of exams looming around the corner, it was hard to concentrate enough to study... pity. My academic performance was nothing short of average so far, and by the looks of things, it might not pick up. Maa chudaye.

Bigger problems arose in the afternoon. A problem the size of 1350 rupees. Backlog fees. The admin is sure fucked up when they give us a day’s notice for the same. It wouldn’t have mattered for nuts back home, but this is Lavale, and slight.... maniacal tendencies on my parents’ part prevented me from accumulating said wealth. So I borrowed, something that grates on my soul, or whatever’s left of it. In any case the 1350 is by no doubt fattening Mujumdar’s pockets, easing Symbiosis on the road to global recognition.

Or to perdition. Maa chudaye.

By evening I reached out to my room and settled in for the next few hours. Downloading was in full spate, and space on my fucked-up laptop was behaving treacherously, threatening to send me an alert any second. So what did I do?

Write a blog. Maa chuda.


An uncertain beggar

"I just died in your arms tonight...."

"Love is a many-splintered thing... don't be afraid now, just walk right in...."

That last one is from Ribbons, by Sisters of Mercy, a tune I'm beginning to appreciate more and more everyday. I don't know why.

I came to a conclusion yesterday. Knowing is pretty much a shitty deal. The more you know, the more things mindfuck you.

To summarize the conclusion: Minding your business is not going to help.

To summarize the summary of the conclusion: Monday mornings mindfuck.

Yesterday was a sunday, but not in my book. I don't know if any of you escaped Sunday school's clutches yesterday, but I sure didn't. I didn't stick around for the practicals, though, which was in itself a good thing. Apparently there was shit sold cheap there and mindfucking in obscene quantities.

I've got this philosophy; the more you think about something, the more it mindfucks you. It's a philosophy that arises from a typical epicurean; we epicureans are a sad lot, constantly begging to be entertained. We're the most uncertain of all beggars; turning to everything, everywhere; will this work? Will we divert our constantly wandering attention for a few precious moments?

Well, much as I'd like to say fuck that... I can't. And there are the dreary periods in medias res where you don't have shit to amuse you. This semester's a paradox in the true sense of the word.

Why? Because it's been utterly hectic, and at the same time it shows no sign of ending. Days after days of fucking limbo. What's so stupid is that each week's weaker than the last, with screenings and surprise assignments, and of all the fucking stupid things to happen, Dharmendra Sharma finds just a sunday to keep his class. Not that I'm saying it's his fault. Guy looked as mindfucked as me, probably having to travel all the way to Pune from Gujarat. Or wherever. Nah, fuck Pappa. It's that reserviour of endless mindfucking that orchestrates the whole mess, spider on his web, steady, safe, secure, bored.

There was this young fellow

Who thought at the administration he could bellow

And hope to hell they'd be a mite mellow

But he bit off more than he could swallow.

So he wandered in one sunday morning

His mind in limbo a-wandering

Another day with stupidity adorning

His brain's suffering wordlessly dawning.

Tempers flared and cocks inverted

And that was only for the boys, yes, perverted.

And so sleep over their brains delegated

Its minions captured their minds, corrogated.

And the sunday passed us by.

With nary a word nor a sigh.

And I possess a cock, therefore I shan't cry.

But in silence, die.

The only thing worse than a bad sunday is a bad week. So, do ya feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

No, Clint Eastwood, I don't. For three lakhs I coulda bought all the movies I wanted to and screened them at home, instead of shit at college. Ameen Sayani is all very good, but that was so long ago, that even my parents have a hard time remembering. I fucking hate Rumpole of the Bailey- guy drinks and smokes while we have to abstain. Doordarshan should keep its nose in its business... public service broadcasts, my ass.

The worst part being, we have stuff like Monty Python, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and so on sitting in the AV library. How come we're shown stuff like this again and again and again? Half the people aren't interested, the other half are asleep.

Oh, for fuck's sake.... how long will this fuck'd up sem go on? At least have the bloody decency to get over already.


C'est la vie

Morning. Get out of bed. Stretch. Brush. Yawn.
Dress. Douche with laptop. Listen to banshee; escort same out of the apartment. Douche on phone with girl. Get Mindfucked. Fuck around with time. 10 o'clock blues. Leave home, find friends, get to Venky's. Eat breakfast. Note to self: try not to feel so mindfucked so as to taste what the fuck I'm eating.
Get to college. Go to class. Park ass on seat in assigned class.
Recess. Smoke. Drink. Sit in cyber cafe. Blog. Read email. Waste time. Back to class. Try and ignore boredom. Try and ignore sleep. Break.
Go to sleep. Try to ignore sleep and boredom so as not to miss assignment news. Pack up. Leave college. Hang around. Go home. Douche with laptop. Dinner. Listen to banshee's problems. If unluckier than usual listen to girlfriend's problems. Listen to her golden voice swearing obnoxiously.
End of day.

And tomorrow, the whole cycle fucking repeats itself.
Three lakhs later, will it be the same?
For better or for worse, I think I'll be asking myself a three lakh question for the rest of my life.
And if my mind's drawing a fucking blank right now, ye madarchod kya karega after the randaapa is finally over?


The Lady Vanishes (1938)

I seem to be taking cues from PPCC these days, much obliged. Probably because of a lack of something to blog about, so I start writing film reviews. I need to get a life.
Although I'm in no hurry to do so.
So, The Lady Vanishes. So did my resistance against the vestiges of sleep creeping in from the sides. Without much ado, I fell asleep, so I'm not exactly qualified to review, but please acknowledge that I'm a hypocrite, so all's well that begins well.
The plot starts with an Inn in the fictitious country of Bandrika. It's strange how those names all add up; Bandrika, Bengalla (Phantom), and so on. It's as though somebody grabbed somebody else off the street and told them to come up with crazy-sounding names. Bandrika in itself is populated by a mix of europeans talking more gibberish than sense which can be attributed to the fact that Hitchcock reportedly got his people to invent a whole new language and speak it. The same shit was employed in Avatar (2009), although to greater effect to my knowledge.
So, the scene is set; a strange land, a benevolent-seeming old lady by the name of Miss Froy (May Whitty), Iris (Margaret Lockwood) the erstwhile holiday-er on her way to her sasural, and Gilbert (Michael Redgrave, a musicologist looking to write a book on the folk songs. Due to some inevitability in the train's getting late, everyone's got to take rooms in the hotel and wait for the following morning. Some humour is depicted alongside, with the local scene and Gilbert disturbing everyone with his work, which involves three of the hotel staff dancing with their heavy boots on the floor above Iris and Miss Froy.
With some minor arguements the passengers find themselves in the station the following morning, where Iris gets hit by a flowerpot and is concussed for the morning, when Miss Froy volunteers to take care of her.
At this point it would be prudent to mention the book from which the plot was taken. The original was written by Ethel Lina White, who called it "The Wheel Spins," wherein it is not a flowerpot that concusses her by sunstroke. Miss Froy takes care of Iris and accompanies her to the restaurant car (how come India still doesn't have those, even after so long?) and conviniently writes her name on the restaurant window. And then she accompanies Iris back to the compartment where Iris sleeps once more, and awakens to find Miss Froy nowhere.
Now, modern movie fanatics will remember a film, "Flightplan" (2005) starring Jodie Foster and Sean Bean, where Jodie Foster plays an engineer whose daughter disappears during a flight. They will also remember that while Jodie Foster's character, Kyle Pratt, seems to teeter on the edge of sanity and she suddenly spots the heart her daughter had drawn on the window. And her bravado returns.
The same happens here. Iris, this time joined by an ever-sceptical Gilbert who tries to pacify her. She eventually believes that Miss Froy was never there, and then she spots the drawing on the window, "F R O Y," and her moxie returns. The two of them search the whole train, although Gilbert takes her along to an onboard doctor, Hertz, who is apparently carrying a patient bandaged from head to toe. Although the story is good, it's also excellently predictable. There's something about the antagonist; always something about the villain, and Dr. Hertz looks every inch the villain.
After a few misadventures in the baggage compartment, Gilbert and Iris try to expose the patient, but are stopped by Hertz, who drugs them and leaves them asleep in the adjoining compartment. However his accomplice, a nun, gives him coloured water instead of the drug and helps Iris and Gilbert, who by now have established an excellent rapport. Gilbert exits through the window, opens up Miss Froy, knocks out another of il Doctore's  accomplices and leaves her in wraps, literally. The doctor suspects nothing until they reach the station, where he opens the bandages and understands the situation. The railway staff is revealed to be gullible enough to believe Hertz when he tells them there are spies aboard and he is from the British Intelligence. He gets rid of the adjoining carriages, leaving Gilbert and Iris sitting in the now last carriage of the train, which is promptly detached and left at the mercy of german troops.
Following a shootout, Froy reveals that she is a spy carrying vital information in the form of a musical tune which she teaches to Gilbert, and then she escapes, followed by Gilbert who goes to flag down the engine and bring it back to be attached. In the midst of all this there are two casualities, the nun and another passenger, but they're hardly vital to the story, so nothing happens.
The germans give up and the train reaches London, where Iris and Gilbert find themselves in love, at which point Gilbert wonderfully, typically, forgets the tune. But the day is saved when they find the tune played by Miss Froy, who manages to reach London inspite of her age, and the day is saved. C'est fin.

"The Wheel Spins" is differently told, however; Miss Froy has no idea she's carrying around a vital piece of information. The train never stops, and there is no final shootout. Gilbert is an engineer by the name of Max Hare, and it is sunstroke and not a badly aimed flowerpot that dizzies Iris, and the two unlucky cricket enthusiasts are nowhere.
The Lady Vanishes has an 8.1 rating on IMDB, and received the Best Film Award of 1938.
However, in this day and age, it was just another screening in just another sleepy afternoon. Plot? Predictable, after watching Flightplan. Pace? Good, but slower than expected. Visuals and unnecessary points galore.
The best characters were Charters and Caldicott shown on the side panel, the two cricket enthusiasts, who were always wondering if they'd get to the match after all, unfazed by shootouts or spies or the war. And no, they're not gay, although they're a visual treat.
Amen and goodnight.