Woke up with a horrifuck cold and aching head. My nose is still leaky and I have a Christmas party at Tnt this evening where I have to be painfully chirpy. Met Ankush for coffee on Wednesday. We have to meet once every 2 months or so since we both suffer from the Syndrome of Acute Randomness. I tried to steal another of his shirts (he was carrying this huge pile of freshly-laundered clothes) but he wouldn't let me :(

I picked up some Penguin Pocket Classics at th TnT sale. Currently am reading 'Summer in Algiers' by Camus. I'm also half-way through 'Conscience Deluded' which is a gorgeous collection of stories by Russian women. I recommend all books published by Kali which is the first publishing house run by women in India. Look out for 'Relationship' which is a series of letters between writer Nayantara Sehgal and E.N. Mangat Rai.

I've been meaning to write about some Bernardo Bertolucci movies I saw in Cal this time. 'Last Tango in Paris' and 'Stealing Beauty.' I didn't watch them with as much care as I should have, but what I noticed was that there is no mere object in his movies. Everything has a purpose, a reason for the camera to slither around it, caress it, worship it. Everything is raw, thrown open. Nothing is too sacred for the camera...in fact it is the camera that makes it all sacred with its touch. I loved them.

Enough name-dropping. Aami ghoom dite jachhi.