Is it a sin to think that some people are better off dead?

To Break or Not to Break.

So, there's an egg in my window. That isn't a metaphor or euphemism or anything like that; there really IS an egg in my window. Ledge. It doesn't have a proper nest or heavenly abode-type place yet, thanks to an earlier half hearted attempt on my part at clearing the little twigs and sticks that the little yellowish white egg's mummy and daddy had painstakingly collected . I am a romantic like that, because even while trying to poke away the random motley of twigs into nothing-ness, I couldn't help thinking of the big, beautiful nest it will grow up to be and the many happy memories egg and its family will have there.

Anyway, so, now I don't know what to do. I am in what one, in common parlance, calls a dilemma. Well, I could call Babu Bonda and ask him to clear the wannabe nest and drop the egg. Like, he drops his scabs in our wannabe dal. Eugh, gross. Alternately, I could let it be and be a silent spectator to the days of egg's lives. Then again, my very cheerful roomie who is always smiling will smile some more, and ask me uncomfortable questions about the little alter-family I am bringing up. After all, she does have a point. It IS the hottest summer in Bangalore, and eggs stink. Not eggs, exactly. Nests, I suppose. I could counter that by saying that there isn't even a nest here, but she can always counter that by saying that there will be. Looks like egg was a premature egg. You know, egg sort arrived before mummy and daddy had time to prepare for their summer home.

It is, sort of, like a summer home. These animals get going during the summer, I suppose. I remember, in my previous room (when I was an ickle first year, and all things were not bright and beautiful), one of the only romantic things that I would look at and heave extended sighs for- was the goings-on in our Loo window. It was one of those huge windows, with the glass tilted to the wall at a precarious angle. The intervening space, however, was a jungle. Of wild, animal passions. Literally.

That was where I saw my first squirrel-mating. (I have a history with squirrels, so to speak. Once I came back from class to find a naughty squirrel that had crapped all over the goddamned place. Inside my cupboard. In my lens solution. Can you beat that?) And, hopefully, the last. But, seriously, little squirrels chasing in each other in a frantic frenzy till finally one of them (presumably, the she-squirrel) gets subdued and submits sexily affects you in a manner nothing else can. And, you must remember this was the Loo. That holy sanctum of peace. Where you may be yourself. And all I ever got to witness for a whole trimester was crazy animal-porn. Can you blame me if I am a little perverse?

I like being able to blame other inconsequential things for stuff I do. It's lots of fun, and if you haven't tried it yet, extremely convenient. It makes a lot of sense, too. For example, I submitted my projects on last-last-last day. If anyone has the audacity to ask me (especially when- as a dear friend said, I am looking like a canned fish that hasn't slept in 30 hours) why I didn't submit my projects on time, I will give you dirty looks. And then, I will blame the heat. You will also notice some of my better posts are written during summers. I have a theory about How Heat is Conducive to Creativity. And, just so you aren't confused, I mean summer type humid type uncomfortable heat. Not the other kind. What with me talking about animals and mating and all that.

Besides the fact that it's not project(s) time and I still didn't sleep a wink the whole night, and am posting this at 6:30 in the morning; if you meet me today and I snap at you, please know that I'm worried and it's cos of egg.


PS: Major renovation at Blogroll. Be checking out, you.

The Unbearable Boredom of Being.

You wonder what the world has come to when you discover that there is actually a Journal that calls itself the Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science.

You wonder some more when you realise people actually write papers that get published in the Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science.

You finally stop wondering when you cog it in your project.

That Majestic Moment....

....when it truly hits you that you are damned for life -

when project extensions depress you.

Regrets.

Man, I used to be such a kid. When did I ever grow up?

Or have I?

Sie Eigentlich Suchte.

So in honour of a dear friend (who is an ardent nature lover and the only law schoolite who knows why God loves little girls) who has assured me that her personal survey has revealed that many anonymous-es are of the opinion that this blog gets bitchy and bitchier everyday; and that, once upon a wonderful time, it used to be nice. She also advised me to be nice. (on the blog)

In full sincerity, I am going to make more than a full hearted attempt.

Nice things, in law school, are in plenty. If only you would go look for them. After all, these are the stuff memories are made of. They say at then end of five years in Papillon, all you take back with you is the sound of the scurrying of rats at night. At the end of five years in Law School, I shall take back so many different wonderful memories of chilling in Nags, chilling in Nags and of course, chilling in Nags. That’s what we do, yes, and that’s what we shall take back.

Nags, of course, is more a part of our lives than Nandi the Mutt can ever hope to be. In the times of yore, Nags used to be the exclusive domain of an elite few. If you were a Nags loyalite, you had your regular spots, you owed them at least fifty bucks and they knew you by name.

But, now, alas – the charm is no more. For we now have the besmirch on the very spirit of Nags, an atrocious apparition that calls itself Chhota Nags. Of course, there are those among us that insist on calling it Abhishek (because, if you don’t know already, the one at the real Nags is called Aishwarya). Yes, I took me a while to get that joke too. Anyway, we shall now refer to this phenomenon as Chetta’s (an immensely funny word when said by Choms). Oh yes, how could I forget, there are those amongst us – the ones that read fairy tales to bed that call that place Under The Tree. Yes, they actually do. Just as you did just now, I gasped and choked for air when I heard this. The last I heard, they are also composing a parody to the song of the same name that which they may sing every time they grown a little bit more fatter.

A recently concluded study has shown that the number of courting couples has seen a dramatic nosedive since the opening of Chhota Nags as women are getting fatter and fatter. Other reports include a complete paradigm shift in the way Barbed Wire Birthdays used to be conducted, with all the aplomb and fanfare, with the Chocolate Mousse Cake that you have eaten a gazillion times but will eat one more time carefully placed on the watchman’s rickety chair, the knife to cut the cake that nobody remembers to bring, the greedy freak who turns up for every b’day not knowing whose it is and the frantic telephone calls when enough people have not turned up for the grand ceremony. The party now assembles in front of Chhota Nags/Abhishek/Chheta’s and all that. Sigh, such times.

See now, I want to write nice things; I am just not able to. It’s not a question of desire, but mere disability. When Madhav Menon gave us that moving speech in class, I was horribly inspired for exactly 5 minutes. Then, I got drenched in the rain and went to sleep in the room. That’s the problem here, see, with nice-ness. Nice things put you to sleep.

Actually, some of them don’t. Like German classes. German classes are good, if you know I mean. You must all attend German classes. Even if you don’t want to learn German. Who wants to learn German, anyway? But you must go for German classes. Really. Since we’re on that, I think Canadian classes couldn’t be all that nice, but then again, it really is a matter of perspective, I think.

Anyway, now you know why the title is in German. :)