Bunnycide

Everyone at work-place personalise their work area with several photographs, trinkets, arty looking stuff and such like. It is meant to show off how well-travelled and how pretty their babies and/or significant other person are.

I don’t want to put up pictures of my mom and dad. Because a big part of why I come to work, is to get away from the family for a while. And I certainly don’t want to put a picture of The Boy. I mean, with every passing day I am convinced that the chances of our relationship surviving is very slim. Putting up a photograph is like making a commitment.

Instead, I put up pictures of Bunny Suicides. I *heart* – The Book of Bunny Suicides. My favourite suicide tool is the boomerang. I bought this book to give as a gift for the kid brother on his birthday. Mom thought that, I was putting ideas into his head. Given that kids who write the Board Exams are anyway feeling suicidal, she has hidden the book. Bother.

Everything is personal

I must really shut my mouth at my work-place. I don’t get these people, and the feeling seems mutual. As the youngest person in the team, they tend to be mostly indulgent cum dismissive about my opinions anyway. I am tempted to dole out one of those clichés – age is just a number. Bleh.  Anyway who cares?

Yet, they choose to pay attention to things that are not terribly important, like it happened at the lunch-time conversation yesterday. A colleague of mine had recommended Amitav Ghosh’s “The Shadow Lines”. Since, the colleague boy seemed to be sensible and dishy (heh), I gave the book a reading. Besides, I had enjoyed the documentary style of – In an antique Land anyway. I thought that this book was a disappointing read. This was a quasi-exotic oh-so-quaint-calcutta-lanes kind of book, steeped with longing and immigrant angst! *yeah AGAIN*! Dishy Boy seemed offended. And before I knew it, the discussion went into the whole area of how Bengali writers were the most superior Indian English writers. And I was like, WOAH! Also, as a South Indian, I was supposed to feel ashamed that we don’t have great writers in English.

I am not even going to bother to ascertain the validity of that claim. I don’t think it is a personal triumph if someone who shares my gene pool is successful. Why must everyone take every insult and triumph as a personal one? Are there own lives incredibly hollow?

Most boring.

And quite frankly, for a large part of my childhood and teenager years, the only author who I thought actually wrote books in English was – RK Narayan.Heh!

Rains and Road Rage

Damn.  It pours all through the weekend, and we get clear skies on Monday? This cyclone is a capitalist plot.

Driving to work was crazy. Two-wheeler folks with their over-flowing rain-coats scare me. I witnessed three accidents on my way to work. Thankfully, none of them involved me.

Because I have a car and a rich father, people at work think it is funny. I am their favourite lunch-time topic. It seems I am responsible for all the poverty of the world. I find them all to be incredibly unfunny and stupid. But then, so am I.