Wasp vs. Spider!

I've always been scared of wasps. We've had this little hate-hate thing going for a long long time, the wasps and I. Both of us have scored some pretty significant victories, though they drew first blood with an organised ambush in a dark, abandoned outhouse. Of course, with the advent of the electric mosquito bat, I managed to get in a few as well. So, we have history. Perhaps they sense the negative vibes, or perhaps I just get stuck in stupid situations with wasps, but they are the species responsible for the maximum number of physical attacks upon my person. Cows come second.
Having run out of imaginative ways to make my life miserable, I suppose the wasps decided to try the old classics out again and see how they worked out. I'm talking about Killer Wasp Attack at the Outhouse II. All I wanted was to sit comfortably in my loo, read a book and be left alone in peace. Suddenly, a familiar hideous buzzing noise assaults my ears. Memories of fiery burning pain and laughing schoolchildren assault my solace, as I look up and dive, just in time to miss a careening carrier of venomous malice. The little bastard must have flown in through the crack in the window. He settled on the mirror and proceeded to preen his antennae. The entire time, I watched him with bated breath, fingers slowly reaching for the matchbox and deodorant spray. Suddenly I realised that he had stopped preening, and a strange creeping, tingling feeling began to crawl up the base of my spine. I tried to identify the source of this feeling, and realised that it stemmed from the fact that the bastard was actually looking at me. I had the distinct impression that the beady little compound eyes were staring into mine, daring me to make a move. I dismissed the thought, and nonchalantly reached for the deodorant. Scarcely after my fingers closed over it, the horrible buzzing began anew and I was treated to the sight of a yellow buzzing blur hurtling in my general direction. At this point, I abandoned all propriety and wildly sprayed deodorant into the air, forgetting in my joyous abandon that this sort of thing only works if you have a match. Enfragranced and incensed, the yellow bastard circled around for a second run and froze in its tracks. Or at least that was how it looked at the time. Within a second, the wasp began to struggle furiously in what appeared to be the middle of the air against nothing. Nothing, on closer inspection, turned out to be the web of a daddy longlegs.
I must interrupt the narrative at this point to point out that spiders are one of my favourite creatures. Most people are repulsed by their freakishly fast, yet jerky movements but I have spent many an evening entranced by them, staring up at my cobwebbed ceiling, watching them build their webs, slowly but industriously, and ever so beautifully.
At any rate, the wasp was stuck, and stuck fast. It had landed itself in the web of one of the largest spiders that I had allowed to take up residence in my humble abode, and was going nowhere fast. The buzzing increased in volume and intensity, but resulted ultimately in the yellow bastard entwining itself deeper When I was sure that the yellow bastard was not, in fact, going to break through and continue to wreak havoc, I stepped up for a closer look. A spiderweb is constructed in such a manner that if any insect is trapped within it, no matter where our friend the spider is, (s)he feels the vibrations and comes running to investigate. My friend had already arrived by the time I stepped up, and was busy with the important work of securing her catch. This was a truly fascinating process, and by tilting my head at the right angle to the light, I was able to observe how she would squirt webbing out of the sac at the base of her abdomen, apply a rear leg to the webbing, and then stick it to the wasp, then proceeding by an intricate working of her legs, to wrap it further in its own doom. When the wasp continued to struggle, and by dint of its final efforts, strain at the very structure of the web itself, the spider calmly continued to attach webbing to the creature, and then crawl off up the web, mooring it to the walls of the bathroom. The wasp continued to struggle and the spider continued to build, always careful to avoid the vicious stinger that flickered in and out of view at the base of its abdomen. In the meantime, I managed to take some photographs. I felt faintly voyeuristic, somehow as if I were intruding on a ritual I had no part of. I continued anyway. The wasp finally ceased to struggle, as if in resignation to its fate. At this point, the spider attached itself to its defeated opponent and proceeded to consume it.


Now, in case you are wondering, many spiders do not actually eat their prey preferring instead to inject their venom into the innards of the unfortunate, wait for said innards to turn into a mass of mushy goo and then suck at said goo like a slurpee. I watched, fascinated, for some more time, then allowed the spider to feed in peace. The next morning, the wasp was little more than a dessicated husk. I decided to allow the spider to keep its trophy a little longer.

Something wicked this way comes.

The city is like a giant complex of smoke and facades, behind which a billion unspeakable things may happen in the course of a day. You may be living in an apartment block holding hundreds, but if your neighbours perform secret sacrifices to eldritch gods, you will never know. You will walk down a crowded street in the middle of the day, but if a hand should reach out and pluck the person walking next to you, you will never know. If all the members of your office are covertly engaging in organised mass sexual congress, you will never know. If you decide one night to go out into the dark and embrace your inner freak, whatever he may be, they need never know. In this sort of beautiful anarchic anonymity, strange things have the chance to lurk and grow. Strange, and perhaps even beautiful sometimes, but often merely macabre.
I love Delhi for its delicious urban legends. The flavour of the moment, for instance, is the Hammer Man. And before that, the even stranger story of the Monkey Man. This story is not about them. It is about the things you will never know about. Of course, if you're a sufficiently warped individual, there's nothing to prevent you from opening the manhole cover and taking a peek at what crawls beneath. And this is basically an effort in that direction. Witness:



I don't know what this is. In this crazy place, it could be anything, ranging from the mundane (some sort of MCD/DDA warning) to the misleading ( a bunch of students having fun) to the macabre (the symbol used to mark the spot where volunteers for blood sacrifices to Eldritch gods may assemble at precisely three fifty three in the morning, leaving no trace behind by three fifty six). It appears all over my part of South Delhi. On direction boards, on walls, on busstands. This particular specimen appeared on the wall of a flyover I was crossing. As you can see, its neither outrightly mundane or macabre. It's not your average skull and crossbones denoting danger. Rather, it is the sunken, emaciated image of someone's face, complete with eyes, a nose and a perfunctory sort of mouth. It's also not an overt image of threat or violence. The eyes hold no violence, instead, preferring to fix the observer with a baleful glance that seems to tread the line between bovineness and malevolence. There are bags under the eyes, perhaps to indicate some measure of malevolence, but more probably to convey suffering and depradation. The lines also seem to indicate that, while the person who created the stencil for this image (for I believe it is a stencil painted one, judging by the sharp, symmetrical outlines that accompany all the images, as well as the extra thick borders) inserted some of the features of a face, he clearly was aiming to portray a skull to the casual passerby. However, it is more than that. It is a portrait of a visage that is halfway between deteriorating from a human face into a vacant skull. Decay in its final stages before death. I would like to think of it as a message, but I am a little looney. I've asked my fellow Delhiites if they know what it is, but no one seems to have a clue. Very few others have even admitted to noticing it. Is it a desperate cry for help? A dire warning in the endtimes? A bloody marker for doings of unimaginable horror and depravity? You will never know.

Oh what a world it seems we live in

Ok, major update due...

First off, winter is here. Winter is back in Delhi. How do I know. Firstly, we've actually had great weather for the past three days. Secondly, and more importantly, an old, familiar smell has come back to me.The smell of the flowers that smell like cardamom.

The flowers that smell like cardamom have been with me for about three years now. When I had my first job, I used to drive back, or be driven back at 2 in the morining about once every alternate day. The flowers that smelt like cardamom were there. Of course, at the time, I used to think that the smell came from all the elaichi tea that all the night watchmen all over Delhi made in order to keep them warm in the freezing winter nights. Now I'm told the smell comes from a flower. It doesn't matter to me. It smells like winter. Like Rufus Wainwright and Neil Gaiman. Inextricably tied with winter.

Secondly, don't ever live on bread, jam and butter for a week. It weakens your bowels and kills your will to live. I've been writing lies about myself all week and subsisting on breadbutterjam to help me through the ordeal. Breadbutterjam for breakfast may be a good idea. After a week you begin to lose your humanity.

Thirdly, this must be my second month living in limbo. Living in limbo sucks. You don't know if you're going to hell or heaven. You just hang there, suspended in space, watching the stars above and the fires below, and wondering if you will fall or rise. The funny thing is, I think most people, whether they deserve to or not, believe in the fall. Somehow, I think limbo is worse than heaven or hell. Certainty flies out the window as you stare at the void around you. In hell, you know what awaits you, and if youre strong enough, you accept it and bare your chest to the flames. In heaven, you rest, peaceful and relieved. In limbo, you stare afraid, forever wondering whether you will fall or rise.

Fourthly, I've missed a bus. Or a train, or a plane. I've sat around at the stop, watching my carefully laid plans drive past, staring after the number plate and the passengers in the back window, friends all, crowding the back window, wondering if there's any way it will stop and let me get back on, hoping I'll catch the next. Plans and plans and plans... We always make the best plans in our heads. Real life fucks them up in unimaginable ways. Like my brother said, I should have had a backup.

Fifthly, I've begun obsessing about Rufus Wainwright. I've even begun imagining the conversations we would have if we ever met.

Me: Rufus Wainwright?
Rufus: Hey, yeah that's me, what can I do for you?
Me: Rufus
R: (a little worried) Yes?
Me: Can I ask you a question?
R: Sure man, as long as you're not asking the obvious ones.
Me: Do you really think that men reading fashion magazines is such a strange thing?
R: Oh what a world we live in.
Me: Blank eyed admiration.
R: Whatever happens, never forget Bolero.

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Wha?

Bloing. Post Friday night special. That contented, filled, semisozzled, pacified feeling. Then, of course, you spend half the day in office. Aaaah, the joy of life. I'm going back to Maddu ras soon. Maddu ras, here I come. In the meantime, the Antitrust-IP Guidelines await, with sharpened teeth and black slimy tongues.

Mood meter: Wha?

Reset.

Normality seems restored today. In fact, I seem to have come out the other side.

 

The temperature in Delhi today was 4 degrees celsius minimum. I'm not sure what it was at 8:00 in the morning today. I decided to have a cold water bath. Was re-educated on the principles of heat transfer when steam started coming off me. Realised that abovesaid steam was actually vital internal body heat disappearing into the air. Continued anyway.

 

Now, a few hours later, I feel as if I've been reset. Most educational.

 

Worth trying once, but not more than.

Bzzzzzzzzz

That strange feeling that starts in your eyes and moves through your head when you haven't slept in 24 hours. I assume a caffeine high feels like this. I've never had one, though I drink lots of coffee. Symptoms:

1. bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

2. everything is surreal and unconnected to reality, like images viewed through a thick glass pane.

3. people are talking to you, and you can hear what they saying, but relating to them is like pushing through gelatine. Your reactions are on instinct, from a subconscious rulebook you've picked up over years of human survival and etiquette. Nothing really matters.

4. And finally, an underlying layer of bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 

And then, somewhere in the middle of the day, you crash. Total systems shutdown.

 

The only thing I can compare it to is Fever Bright.

Random Overheards.

Overheard at a coffeetable conversation:

 

"Of course you need prostitution, yaar. Its very important to have them. Otherwise, imagine what other men would to to all our wives and sisters..."

 

Have I misplaced the irony again?

By the way, I flicked this concept from the website/blog http://www.overheardinnewyork.com . Definitely worth a random visit. Dont expect profound revelations, but be pleasantly surprised when you come across a few.

Dead Rags and Dust

This was on my dreamscapes blog but i just revisited it and I dont think the poem was so bad, so here it goes again:

 

Something stirred him as he stared,

something quiet, something scared

turned his head but failed to look

or did he?

 

From office cramped to office dusty

Aboard the sturdy not quite rusty

Jeep

 

He smoked, and stared into the sky

Barely nothing caught his eye

But barely nothing's something still

Dead rags and dust

 

A hint of elbow, a hint of shirt

A hint of brown skinned, shambling dirt

and no fingers

 

A hint of hatred, hint of pain

Hints of anguish, hints of shame

Hints of bruises, cuts and sores

Hint of sweat from tired pores

Blood and sweat and hatred hinted

He never saw, he merely squinted

At mounted lingerie

 

To fail to see is quite a task

How do you do it? One might ask

Think of British Comedy

 

Existentialism

 

Bertolt Brecht

 

Conquistadors

 

Large Breasted women

 

computer games

 

post-modernism

 

Beer

 

Anarchy

 

Anime

 

Deadlines

 

Maya

 

Comics

 

Salman Rushdie

 

Wait.

 

The mind it is the queerest thing

A bell once pulled forever rings

And strange detectives dig the earth

Uncovering skeletons spouting dirt

From the subconscious

 

From a book where once he had escaped

To hide from taunting kids who taped

the memories of childhood tears

and taunts and insults, calls and jeers

A book where shambling cudgel knees

Crunched at skulls, and of a man who sees

India and Indira in a strange double-vision

 

A word reached out, to drag him back

To the traffic, where commuters hacked

their lungs out, and the smog-filled sky

played strange games with the sun

 

And squinting worked upto a point

but city eyes can only blind

He who has learned, with his mind

To dull the screams, the blood, the tears

To separate models with big bustiers

from dead rags and dust

Khan Market, Delhi... I dont know ow this ultracool grafitti got there 

My kingdom for bengali rock

When people speak of the ghost of things past, you can never figure them out until they haunt you.

My ghosts are mostly aural in nature. The sound of mock screams mixed with mirthful laughter, the sweet cacophony of eminem, lynyrd skynyrd, bhangra and led zeppelin all playing from four different corners at max volume. The random screaming of totally unrelated words for the pure shock value. Hour long discussions about whether if you swallow half a kilo of spinach, your crap'll be green the next day.

I miss my hostel. I miss all the chaos, all the pointles ennui, all the cameraderie born out of pure mutual joblessness.

The place was an experience.Curse and scream all you want those who are in there, and heave huge sighs of relief if youre out. But you cant deny it. We had a blast.

To NALSAR. And all the good times. Vive la Bengali Rock

Welcome my son... Welcome. To the Machine

Money. Its a gas. Have a cigar, boy, you're gonna go far. If any of you floydians out there think this article is about an over publicised band whi cant even stick to what they write by, then you can all go to hell. I'm merely using some rather appropriate lines to methaphorise my life. Yes indeedy,ladies, gentlemen and sundry eunuchs, I have sold out, so to speak. I have sacrified my values, my beliefs and most of my free time to the altar of Mammon. I have got what is referred to in the trade parlance as A JOB.
To tell you the truth, its not so bad. It's actually pretty fun, life is pretty enjoyable, alcohol flows rather freely and, well, generally, things are ok. Except for the fact that i have had anda real freetime to spend on this here blog. Thats ok. I've used most of it to finish STAR WARS: KNIGHTS OF THE OLD REPUBLIC. AAaah... escapism. You gotta love it. A dream is a wish your heart makes... when youre fast asleep... In a dream you can leave your heartaches... Whatever you wish for you keep.
Sorry, a little stream of consciousness writing over there. Hey, James Joyce gets away with it. Why not me?
I saw some really interesting stuff on another guys blog called found poetry. Never heard of it until now. It involves poetry composed of words you see around you. Only. I am now prepared to torture you with some.

Aim Aim.
Do not.
Ctrl.Alt.Del
Philips do not.
Finished when off.
Pump. Choice of new generation.
Fridge the internet baby.
Aim.
That sucked.

That last line wasnt part of the poetry by the way.

I lost my ring today.

Hey! I bought a ring today! The first piece of ornamentation i have ever bought for myself in my entire life! Decided to go wild, bunked work and went to Dilli Haat to buy gifts for people, with a friend. She showed me hers, which looked really nice. Then she suggested i try one. She took me to this stall there, and i found this interesting metal ring, not very fine or anything, but with some rather interesting looking characters in a strange language. I must get that translated, by the way, cause for all i know, it might just say "go stick your head up a pig (Douglas Adams, a toast).
Also, I saw what has to be one of the most beautiful (NOTE: not sexy) girls in my life today. She was seated at a stall selling some paintings, and her face was turned away as i was approaching the stall. She was wearing a blue sweater. Then she turned and I stopped in my tracks. She had the most innocent features i've ever seen. Her skin was radiant, like nothing i've ever seen before. She had on no makeup or anything, it was just like that.
And the eyes.
My God.
They were the most beautiful eyes i've ever seen in the world. I mean, they were grey... grey like brushed silver. With shine in them so beautiful i didnt know it was possible without an experienced fashion photographer. I wanted to take her photograph, and i would have, i was that determined to remember those eyes. My friend had a camera she was willing to lend me if i didnt involve her in the whole thing and get us both chappaled out off dilli haat. But i gave up the idea. I know that beauty like that is not going to show on a piece of chemically treated paper. The only place i can really keep it fresh is in my head. I'll never get those eyes out of my mind.
Besides, we also discovered that my friend had been walking around for two days with a camera without any film in it.
God. Those eyes.

Viva cheap books and darya ganj

"The Sexual Politics of Meat"
"The Use of Light and Shade in Close Combat"
"The Tongue- a Creative Tool" (Philosophy, i swear it.)
I pray that every major city in every country has its own version of darya ganj. As far as ive seen, every major city in India ive been to does. Delhi’s darya ganj needs little description for the dedicated book lover. Something of a 3 kilometer stretch of books stocked with books of all types, falling over each other… its too brilliant for words. As brilliant an area is koti and abids in hyderabad on Sundays. A whole lot more chaotic but all the more fun because of the infinitude of exploring you have to do. Madras’s Moore market is supposed to be pretty good too, but all I’ve seen of it is a desultory four or five shops selling old text books and pirated bestsellers. Bombay’s stretch of booksellers between churchgate and fountain is really good in terms of quality books but very OUCH pricey.. well, for a second hand book junkie at least. And its not as if the only fun part is the actual acquisition of the books.. that's pretty cool, no doubt, but the really amazing bit is in the major fast paced bargaining, the back and forth duel for the best price, the (usually) jocular exchanges of famous bargaining one liners ( try mentioning the quality of the book, the fact that its so old, look, see, someone’’s scribbled all over this page). Try doing this with the equivalent knowledge of hindi as an American who’s just done with an ISKCON conference and the fur’ll really fly. The best part is the fact that these areas are usually (with exception of Mumbai) located in the “proper” areas of their respective cities, the “old towns” so to speak. Happily divorced from any semblance of a Barristas or a Pizza Hut, you can munch on bread pakoras and kachoris all over darya ganj, or have lots and lots of chai and chaat in Koti and Abids (try looking for a place called, I think, Gokul’s Chaat Bhandar, if you can find it, you’ll know it by the AMAzing bhelpuri), and in Mumbai, ok, you can have lots of peanuts in Mumbai. Unfortunately, it’s also my belief that these places are starting to… somehow, sag. 3 years ago in darya ganj, the sellers were exploding with offers, deals, buy 1 kg of books for 10 bucks, buy 2 books for 15 etc. now it seems they’ve become a whole lot more, I don’t know, professional? Here, this book costs 50, take it or leave it. No saar, fixed rate. This time’s trip was a whole lot less productive thatn the last, but I still got hold of: the wilder shores of marx, 1 michael moorcock satire collection, l ron hubbard, aldous huxley’s a brave new world revisited and a full William blake reader for only total Rs 200. ok. Im cheap. I love books. What better combination could exist for me?

Dilli Chalo, Beer... um. Drinko

The brilliant thing about being slioghtly tipsy...
you dont careweq if you misspell all the damn words.
Yiou dont care if the woerld sucks
Yoiu dont care if you cant finfish stupid lists like this...

Now, moving on. I'm off to Dilli todaqy. Dilli chalo!!!!

Darya Ganj, here I come. 15 buck vodka shots, here I come. 15 hour workdays, here I come. AAARGH.

While we're on this little trip, I hope your life is pleasant. I hope you're really happy doing what you're doing right now. If not, if its just for the money, or the prestige, or the long term benefits, or whatever, chuck it. Its just not worth it if you are not truly happy.

I hope I can follow this advice. I really do.

In the meantime, there's beer.

VIVA LA BEER!!!

Hope to watch 2 brilliant movies today, Requiem for a dream and Dead Man. Dead Man, with johnny depp in it. MY GOD, what an actor!!! Ok, i exaggerate, but still one of the best ibve seen in ages. From edward scissorhands to don juan to nick of time to Pirates of the Caribbean.

Ok, ok, I'M not the one obsessed with the Depp guy. I've got a friend whose dialoogues are 3/4ths johnny depp in POTC. God, he's stranglerable when he goes "Welcome to the Caribbean" for the 113th time.

At any rate, he's a brilliant actor. Majorly

To prove i can still go off on a mindless tangent, here's a link to The Onion, one of the funniest sites on the web that I know of. If you know any funnier or cfooler ones, mail me at george_rohan@rediffmail.com