My experiences with English August + Ramble da Damble

| 3 burps

It was the hype of Dev Benegal’s Road Movie that directed me to Upamanayu Chatterjee’s English August, passing across Benegal’s edgy and spiced –up ‘Split Wide Open’.
Since the movie prints had been ruined somehow, the only way to experience what fascinated Benegal’s mind was to buy a copy of the novel. It is interesting to note that Benegal’s features have always been based upon Chatterjee’s novels, which have a unique style in them, which I was supposed to explore.
Being not much of an avid reader, and belonging to the Chetan Bhagan class of readership, English August was a difficult read, more because of its content and less because of its language. The content, which deals with Agastya Sen (the protagonist of the novel if you can call him one), is surely a slow paced, in depth study of Agastya Sen’s lifestyle which in itself is snail-paced to the extent of an exaggerated Godardian traffic jam. (Refer: Jean Luc Godard’s Weekend)
Agastya Sen , an IAS trainee, used to the comforts of metropolitan life, feels low and out-of-place when he is placed in Madna, an over-heated village, which would be something an NRI would be shameful in discussing with his colleagues. Disinterested in the context of his life, his surroundings and even himself, he resorts to senseless masturbation and endless dosage of marijuana to shove some sense into the black hole of his life. To cope up amongst the fat old bureaucrats and make sense of why he should be there at all.
It almost took me a year to finish this novel, but whenever I read it, I ended up being unaware of the surroundings to an extent, where awareness would remain a mere formality. The feeling of aimlessness resonated and began haunting me. It felt as if a spongy stuffing of laziness rested between the two stretched slices of fungi infested bread depicting the severity of the aimlessness.
And yet, I tried to make sense of it, much like Agastya, who kept on making sense of “O Krishna, the mind is restless” from Bhagwad Gita… I tried to associate the “stagnancy” and relate it with “progression”. Make a philosophical cinematic sense out of it. Make Mani Kaul out of it and just like my past attempts bring an abrupt end to what I write.. (to this write-up)

Re: Lets on

The random rambling turn more rambler as i type these words on the hostel computer, pretending its existence inside the resource center ( a not so slang term for cyber cafe).

And since i am bored and with absolutely no readership, this is my 3rd post in a row which deals with nothingness of the blog and deteroiration of my so called blogging skills that never existed in the first place. 

BTW u can kill me 

Lets on

Still testing

Sent from my mobile device

portable post


| 4 burps

The cloud cushions of the Gods grinned at us – pass the first person – They continued grinning at us – NO FIRST PERSON, YOU AIN’T FUCKIN’ CHETAN BHAGAT.

Hanuman and Ganesh statues looked down at the sight of 12 BJMC students, sane enough to arrange a bonfire amidst a hill – and that too when the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. The cushion clouds moved to and fro. The Gods could feel the jerks on their heads. Hanuman turned angry. He grabbed one of the clouds, messed it up, transformed it into a camera and captured the BJMC students in a group photograph with all those forced smiles that could scare away the kids of peacocks. In fact it did scare a few of them. Half of them fled away because of the sound generated by the shutter, the flash was even worse. In normal terminology, it could be called “lightning”.

The BJMC students looked at each other in amazement, focusing on the hair, focusing on the “late hair”. The updated their facebook relationship status to “widowed”.

While returning down the hill, they found some Ghost Rider, whose name wasn’t Nicholas Cage. His name sparkled on his chest – Kilojoule Mehta. The rain which immediately occurred after the snapshot washed away the hair that made most of the students itch like bitch… and extinguished Kilojoule’s fire – He was draped in four colours namely Red, Blue, Black, and Green.

‘Sorry but I am totally a media person’ he roared and acted like Kane as the four lights sprang out of his arm pits and pubic pit(s). Red, Blue, Black, Green exhaled their presence. Even the heavy rainfall couldn’t wash off his colours. ‘See, I emerged from some place called FART (Fake Allahabad Radio Transmitters) and all I wanted to say was that whenever you find some security  guard, traffic policeman, engineer, doctor, prostitute, cricket player, Chauhan or even the goddamn’ prime minister – don’t argue, remember don’t argue, just say sorry and fuck off’

‘Both sorry and fuck off?’ replied one curiously retarded girl, nibbling her chappals.

‘No, no, no, no, no …seriously, are you media persons or what? Say sorry and then leave, isn’t that called fuck off in Queen’s English?’

‘No’ replied a curiously frustrated guy beating the hell out of himself with a leather belt.

‘Fuck it then’ mentioned Mehta.

‘Sir, what if he doesn’t talk to us and we don’t talk to him?’ queried another curiously hallucinated girl.

‘First stop being a feminist, he might not always be he, he could also turn out to be she or hee hee or even chi chi. Think before you speak’. She nodded. ‘And you need to interact with everybody; journalists interact with everyone – from grasshoppers to tortoises to Bani G or Vani J or whatever.
All nodded lunatically.

‘Start your conversations with sorry and end them with sorry. That’s the basic essence of journalism. YOU MUST APOLOGIZE FOR YOU GODDAMN’ EXISTENCE’

Ho gaya? ’ one guy asked, with curiosity levels smooching Bachendri Pal.

‘No,no,no I was actually searching for a bush to… you know’ smirked Kilojoule.
All nodded.

‘A thorn to clear the residue left over, and of course rainfall if the thorn doesn’t work, and the thorn can be painful sometimes’

Some of the students were trying to escape stealthily.

‘WAIT’ he cried.

The scared expression paused on their faces.

‘SORRY’ he said and ran away.

Few minutes later, they slid off the peaks, bruising their legs, arms, posterior etc.

Trudging on the Amity route, they found two local habitats, dragging their Royal Enfields. One of them was Ashoka Koka Chauhan (AKC), the other was Warden Warden (W2). W2 whistled at the sight of girls and AKC contributed his sounds in favour of boys.
‘You guys from amity, yeah?’ grunted Chauhan
‘BJMC’ face-farted W2.
‘No we are from DU’ replied a non-curious girl.
‘But DU teaches Bachelor in Journalism Honours’ interrupted Chauhan.
‘Then we must be from Amity only’ replied a depressed guy pulling his nose hair.
Chalo then, we’ll drop you there’ insisted W2
The ever so diplomatic BJMC students agreed at once. One guy stood at each rear end of the bike, tied a mutual metallic rakhi connecting the bike with the waist. They formed a semicircle with intermingled herd of boys and girls shouting ‘Chuk Chuk’ and dragging their semicircular trains as the super-rogues sped up.
Within seconds, the group reached the threshold of Room No. 302, without changing the semicircular shape. Before they could get in the classroom, Bani G/ Vani J stepped out and blocked the door.
‘KEYWORD PLEASE’ she uttered in a Rajnikantish Robot tone.

‘Chabad Chabad’





‘Culture is Vulture’

‘You are a bitch’

‘Tadpole Tortilla’

‘Moose lotions’

‘Bhen ki bahu’

‘Brad Pitt is Shahrukh khan’s stepmother’

‘Bwoo woo zapelley como’

‘National Chowkidars’