There was an article in the papers a few days ago about how much the Japanese enjoy Indian curries. Here's the article:
http://www.telegraphindia.com/1081003/jsp/nation/story_9922257.jsp
So, it was no wonder I chanced upon a manga which has curry as it's main plotline: Addicted to Curry is the story of Sonezaki Yui, a schoolgirl, whose father is the owner of Curry House Cooking Ganesha. The curry house is going out of business, but a saviour emerges in the form of dashing master-chef Koenji Makito, who turns things around for the shop. The manga also offers simple recipes curry fans can try themselves! Read in on onemanga.com:
http://www.onemanga.com/Addicted_to_Curry/
Friday, 24 October 2008
Friday, 17 October 2008
A garland of orange
A garland of orange-colour blossoms swings in the jerky motions of the bus. They look new, freshly bought from the local flower-wallah with the pot-belly and the betel-stained teeth. Marigolds: too bright for the diminutive, faded idol that drowned in their fragrance, unnoticed by the pious multitude. Only I saw her give a crooked smile.
Take me away from this narrow space. Let me not feel the raw bared rusted fangs that prick my translucent membrane, spilling pink blood. Let me not feel this cramped half-life, where to straighten up is to feel pain. The metal pushes against my delicate spine, frail and brittle, threatening to snap it in two. Would I die instantly? Or would I jerk about like a headless chicken, as my nervous system went into involuntary spasms, trying to go on living a life that had long been dead?
The bulbs are too bright, the head of oiled hair before me too dark; this life too empty. I had vomited out what was left of my soul on the pavement before I boarded this bus. It must have been the phuchka, so tangy I almost enjoyed it; followed by some oversweet milky tea from the footpath. I had wiped the last dribbling bits of blood-stained bile from my lips with my new white hanky (not white any longer) and stood up, pushing against the whirling crowd which, like a pack of sharks has singled out the weak one and trampled it into the ground, almost.
I look at the flowers with a disdainful half-grin. I want to spit on them, like the oily-headed girl sitting before just did, through the window, into the blurred world outside. The floating world outside is streaked orange from the lamps, like marigold petals sprinkled over the filthy mud, one with plastic bags, old toffee wrappers and bits of broken old clay teacups. Only some feral child had rubbed his unvaccinated feet into them. Yes, the world outside was the pasty orange of nocturnia.
The garland swings cheerfully as the driver jams down on the brakes hard. My forehead smashes into the stainless steel bar on the seat in front, staining it temporarily with pink blood that sprays from my burst vein. “Last stoppage,” shrieks the conductor, as this ghastly orange world is smeared with my pink. At last.
Take me away from this narrow space. Let me not feel the raw bared rusted fangs that prick my translucent membrane, spilling pink blood. Let me not feel this cramped half-life, where to straighten up is to feel pain. The metal pushes against my delicate spine, frail and brittle, threatening to snap it in two. Would I die instantly? Or would I jerk about like a headless chicken, as my nervous system went into involuntary spasms, trying to go on living a life that had long been dead?
The bulbs are too bright, the head of oiled hair before me too dark; this life too empty. I had vomited out what was left of my soul on the pavement before I boarded this bus. It must have been the phuchka, so tangy I almost enjoyed it; followed by some oversweet milky tea from the footpath. I had wiped the last dribbling bits of blood-stained bile from my lips with my new white hanky (not white any longer) and stood up, pushing against the whirling crowd which, like a pack of sharks has singled out the weak one and trampled it into the ground, almost.
I look at the flowers with a disdainful half-grin. I want to spit on them, like the oily-headed girl sitting before just did, through the window, into the blurred world outside. The floating world outside is streaked orange from the lamps, like marigold petals sprinkled over the filthy mud, one with plastic bags, old toffee wrappers and bits of broken old clay teacups. Only some feral child had rubbed his unvaccinated feet into them. Yes, the world outside was the pasty orange of nocturnia.
The garland swings cheerfully as the driver jams down on the brakes hard. My forehead smashes into the stainless steel bar on the seat in front, staining it temporarily with pink blood that sprays from my burst vein. “Last stoppage,” shrieks the conductor, as this ghastly orange world is smeared with my pink. At last.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
20 SE
The Twentieth Year of the Sharadian Era
I, the Grand High Master Sharados of JUDEaea, Emperor of the Galaxy, Devourer of Worlds, am pleased to announce the completion of the twentieth sun-cycle of my being. Praise my glorious perfidy and insiduous splendour!
I, the Grand High Master Sharados of JUDEaea, Emperor of the Galaxy, Devourer of Worlds, am pleased to announce the completion of the twentieth sun-cycle of my being. Praise my glorious perfidy and insiduous splendour!
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
The Mattress
The sunset is over. The violent flashes of purple haze, have subsided into an uneasy sleep. A trite melody hurtles in from the radio. The coir mattress seems beastly, hugging the sweat oozing from your once-white vest.
It has claws that sadistically scrape into your sunburnt skin, like crickets’ harsh gratings. After suffering confinement for so long, the brown pinpricks poke through their faded covers and near perforate the redness of your blood. In the distance you can hear a jeep approach.
The night air is like a solid block of ice, pressing into you chest, and you are too shocked too remember breathing. Breathe. That’s better. The drowsiness has almost engulfed you. Your eyes feel heavy. So heavy. They hurt. You don’t want them to. Don’t hurt.
You concentrate on the mass of beastly coir around you. You take your hand off your chest and slowly, almost sensuously, slide it to your side and just a little under your thigh, where the mattress cover gives way and rough clumps of coir break into pieces. You run a coarse finger through the mass, like the hair of a sweet, monstrous child. It tickles. You feel like smiling. You smile. You think you are happy. Your arm, so long inert, feel powerful, stretched out like this. You try it with your legs. A spasm of happiness runs down it.
The jeep has reached its destination. Have they come to take you?
It has claws that sadistically scrape into your sunburnt skin, like crickets’ harsh gratings. After suffering confinement for so long, the brown pinpricks poke through their faded covers and near perforate the redness of your blood. In the distance you can hear a jeep approach.
The night air is like a solid block of ice, pressing into you chest, and you are too shocked too remember breathing. Breathe. That’s better. The drowsiness has almost engulfed you. Your eyes feel heavy. So heavy. They hurt. You don’t want them to. Don’t hurt.
You concentrate on the mass of beastly coir around you. You take your hand off your chest and slowly, almost sensuously, slide it to your side and just a little under your thigh, where the mattress cover gives way and rough clumps of coir break into pieces. You run a coarse finger through the mass, like the hair of a sweet, monstrous child. It tickles. You feel like smiling. You smile. You think you are happy. Your arm, so long inert, feel powerful, stretched out like this. You try it with your legs. A spasm of happiness runs down it.
The jeep has reached its destination. Have they come to take you?
Friday, 5 September 2008
Abusing the exclamation!
Today, I realized the exclamation mark, when misused, is like an insincere smile! You automatically assume something exciting is written! It must be so! There's an exclamation mark! Much like a smile tricks the brain into thinking someone's happy! Nothing of the sort! You may not be happy, although you are smiling! See! Same difference! It doesn't matter what you are writing about! Just add exclamations! Everything sounds happier when you use exclamations! And if you want to sound like you're delirious with joy, use two!! They are double the fun!! And they look so cute!! Like two eyes staring at you!! But what if we use three!!! That should logically be triple the fun, right!!! In principle, we could just keep adding them!!!! Until you feel ill!!!!! from the!!!!!! insincerity!!!!!!! of!!!!!!! it!!!!!!!!! all!!!!!!!!!! Thanks for reading this far!! Moron!!! You are L!T!O!!
Monday, 1 September 2008
Feeling down today
The Sinking Ship
There was a time when my caress
Swept softly on your shore,
When my desiring heart was loved
By you, my old amour.
But now I'm not the mate your pride
Once loved beyond delight;
Was once your need, but now is stale,
A habit you'll set aright.
So here's my kiss upon your lips,
I board upon a new-furled ship.
There was a time when my caress
Swept softly on your shore,
When my desiring heart was loved
By you, my old amour.
But now I'm not the mate your pride
Once loved beyond delight;
Was once your need, but now is stale,
A habit you'll set aright.
So here's my kiss upon your lips,
I board upon a new-furled ship.
Sunday, 24 August 2008
Can't get it out of my head
I can't get this song out of my head: Kaze no Hana from the anime Someday's Dreamers. It's very soft, with Western classical influences and has beautiful orchestral interludes; not the mention the beautiful vocals. I'm listening to it 4-5 times a day! I recommend you watch it on Youtube:
Monday, 18 August 2008
The lowpoint
Yesterday, I happened to flip the TV channel to HBO, where I was horrified to watch "The Mummy" dubbed into Hindi. What's going on here? I feel a cold dread grip me when I think that very soon, all our TV content could become Hindi-dubbed. I had to give up watching Cartoon Network because of it! All that godawful dubbing, all those "fikr mat karo"s and "chalo dosto"s... I can't help feeling a little sad when I think that English is slowly becoming a foreign language here in India. I mean, I learnt my English mainly by watching cartoons like Dexter's Lab and The Flintstones, and of course good ol' Star Movies (as if I'd ever learn anything listening to my teachers with their ludicruous accents)... Ah well, time goes on. But I will seriously use the f-word if another ICICI Bank agent calls up and acts confused if I reply in English.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Manga update
Alright. So I recently read two (more) Kindaichi Case Files manga: The Opera-House Murders and Smoke and Mirrors. They're written by Yosaburo Kanari and beautifully illustrated by Fumiya Sato. They are seriously good detective fiction and not your usual fantasy/fairy stuff. Each book, while part of the series, is a stand-alone episode in their own right. Apart from these two I also have Kindaichi the Killer and Death TV. Tokyopop Publications does a pretty competent translation.
Thursday, 24 July 2008
The Case of the Missing Professor 2
Well, it turns out to be a simple case of misplaced luggage...SB went one way, while his trunk went the other way. They are both safe and sound in Calcutta. Had a fantastic first class with him yesterday. The man is a genius. I am so glad I took this course.
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