Disambiguous Bandwidths

Pune's constant mindplay
She does it again! The evening sky over here seems to have such a transfixing effect on brittle minds like my own. It was orangey-pink the other day, and as womanly as it may sound, I was mesmerised by it. Lying on the lawn outside hostel, getting my bald head licked by an over-excited dog and feeling the cool wind on that aforementioned baldness made me pull a 180º and force myself to change my views on life (proving that my views on life are highly subjective to the weather and the colour of the sky).
I like it.
Yeah. About 2 and a half weeks away from our dreaded term-end juries and I'm more bothered about the hues of a paranormal-ish firmament than the hues of my pending solarisation assignment. Typical Munk. While a backlog list - large enough to keep me warm at night - sits inconspicuously on my table (as oxymoronical as it seems) my desires to do anything else but work appear to be fast-growing. And by 'anything', I literally mean 'anything'. It sometimes ranges from a stroll on a beach in Goa after having a curiously tasty, sand-dabbed ham and cheese sandwich to an intimate night of passionate romancing near a lake not far from here.
I am disturbed and proud to be so. Also, women who want to opt for the latter desire of mine can fill up the form (not) pasted at the bottom of the post.
No, I'm kidding, please don't close the page.

The Sultans of Schwing!
Haha. Bring on the dubious vocab so as to stall you for a moment or two. My current blanket (who unlike my childhood one, doesn't have a name) has stopped looking at me with the same light over the aging days of my college life. Since mother isn't around to keep a check on things and since dhobi is too cool to wash large items like this, my blanket has been a subject to all sorts of filth and has gone unwashed for almost 4 or 5 months now. Yes, I know... It's disgusting. In an attempt to shield my eyes from the gloomy fluorescence of our room last night I was intoxicated with the trapped scent of chiwda hailing from my blanket. The horribly sweet/spicy atmosphere that was created while trying to make a makeshift light-shade almost killed me. I'm one of those few survivors from the wrath of entrapped chiwda scent. And it doesn't stop at my blanket. Our current course demands us to visit a chiwda factory everyday and gather appropriate information on how the business runs. WTF is chiwda anyway? Sounds like something one of my Chennai friends would tell me if I was bolting food.
"Ey... Pandu... Chew, da"
Other than this, 'blanket' has many other travails that I'm sure he would like to blog about. Courtesy my vivid dreams of intimate nights and passionate romancing near lakes not far from here, 'blanky' (I'm coining names as I go) experiences a certain rise and fall in his altitudinal and considerative inclination towards me. The poor fellow. The poor me. The poor grammatical errors I choose to make in order to drive my decently-written post into rubbles. Madness.

Band-with-out
Eveda Chechi, the band of gorillas that we are, are all in the agglutinating process even though I'll only be part of the tribe towards the end of June. It's lonely thumping heavy (and usually machine-cut) fingers on a bass guitar (that needs to be flung out the window). And my room-mates find my once awe-inspiring talent to be a bunch of 'cacophony' now. Pity that. Well I guess I can't expect much else. All you hear are boom-booms and the regular 'twang'. And to someone who isn't accustomed to the different tones and notes dwelling so beautifully within each boom-boom, then it just sounds mundanely monotonous. So much for me trying to "break the monotony".
"Stop playing that gooey shit, I'm trying to sleep"
And for our great plans of re-writing and re-recording and re-mastering and re-doing everything else re-able this summer... well, the plans have (to my disappointment) become re-dundant. We've sort of decided that after our respective 4 years of college (if I ever see that day) we'll record a proper-proper album... somewhat like how the Radiohead story goes. I doubt we'll ever be like Radiohead. Or ever reach their status. But if fate (I'm not going to say Destiny, 'cause Destiny's a bitch) proves me wrong, I'd be more than glad. Till then, we'll jam till the last strawberry, as repu(n)gnant a joke that was.

Cheers.