WORD WHISPERER

2011-12-07T15:55:00.004+05:30

The Black Mole

A black mole,

Residing underneath my unshaven armpit

Grows.

Every time I lift my arm,

I find it sinking into the cavity

Of absolute darkness

And it grows

Like Darwin's child.

Every day

As I lift my arm,

My nose smells the stench of my body,

While m long, skinny fingers,

With a cigarette in between the vertex,

Reach out like tweezers

To squeeze out the mole

And it grows.

Like a worm in an apple.

I consider it a part of me.

I think.

Protruding from my skin

Like a pregnant body,

Stomaching zillions of bacteria and microscopic whatevers,

And

It grows.

And when I lie in bed,

Men slide down my underwear

Lift up my shirt

As I lift my arms.

And there it sits

Like my chastity belt.

Men.

They promise to never lift my shirt again.

2011-03-07T22:42:00.006+05:30

The Dhobi Ghat

Dhobi ghat didn’t really sync with my definition of a brilliant film. The directorial debut of Kiran Rao, although promising, doesn’t urge me to stand in a queue to buy a ticket for one of her future projects. Given, it was a good first attempt, given it had misfortunate, almost eccentric characters pulled off the streets of reality, given it tried to intersperse and stitch several psychological layers and even introduce the concept of triangular voyeurism of some kind into the storyline, it still failed to impress me.

Take 1 - The film begins with immediately jolting the typical Bollywood masala-expecting movie goer by introducing its documentary, handheld style camerawork within the first frame. The audience is introduced to an unknown voice belonging to a woman, who is probably the one holding the camera. Her narration and simultaneous video images although addressed to her brother, locate the film into the heart of where the story is going to be set—the city of Mumbai. The voice belongs to a newly married Muslim woman, Yasmin who has just shifted to Mumbai with her husband and feels that the best way of interacting with her brother is by sending him short video clips of her ‘happy’ life in the alien land.

Take 2 - We are then taken into the life of Arun, the not-so-eloquent (at least verbally), painter. Evidently, he is an introvert who lacks the art of mixing with random strangers, unless there is a plausible option of bedding them. A divorcee, Arun spends most of his time divorcing himself from everything that’s around him and mostly dwells in his own world, coloured by his artistic creations. Until one day, he comes across a set of DV tapes (forgotten belongings of the previous tenant) and decides to play them on his television screen. Incidentally, the tapes belong to Yasmin, whose beauty and autobiographic digital letters Arun seems seemingly besotted by. As the days go by, Arun sits with the audience and watches how Yasmin shares intrinsic details about her life with a smile with her brother—from her trips to monuments with her passive husband, to introducing the friendly neighbourhood kamwali bai and her talented daughter to even a poignant image of her cutting a cake alone in front of the camera. In the lone world, all Yasmin has, is her video camera, her sole confidant, through which she can communicate with her brother. Why the DV tapes have been left abandoned, is a question which is answered only towards the end of the film.

Take 3 - After an exhibition-cum-party of his, Arun spends an illustrious night with Shai, a rich, desi NRI, who has recently returned from the United States to pursue her hobby as a photographer. Apart from having an impressive taste in dressing, she also carries an unforgiving annoying accent, which literally made me pull my hair out every time she spoke (especially, in Hindi). Her character seems lost, or rather, misplaced in the film. I am sorry, I am being far too polite: it’s absolutely REDUNDANT! I considered all the pros and cons as to why Kiran Rao would invent a character whose so incorrigibly mindless, and I came to the revelation, that it’s not the fault of the character, it’s the fault of wrong casting. Simply pathetic in acting, Monica Dongra seemed the most unimpressive actor on set. No wait, that was Aamir Khan—but more on that later.

Shai’s character, unlike her name, is anything but ‘shy’. Her sexually vocal and bold character seems unrelentingly strange in Monica Dongra’s skin. Shai defines the rich, brattish 1% population of the entire city of Mumbai, who has enough money (and hence, time) to waste. And although many would stop to ponder to say, “hey no, Shai is a caring and considerate character in the film,” you sir, are abysmally wrong. Her character involves photographing ‘reality’—which in the dictionary of most dim-witted idiots is documenting the life of the Indian poor—eg. ratkillers, dhobi ghats, so on and so forth. She does social service by interacting with a poor dhobi boy and uses him as a tool to reach her ulterior motive—to see/stalk the recipient of her recent infatuation, Arun.

Take 4- Meet Munna, the misfortunate dhobi ghat boy, whose lifelong dream is to become an actor. Working as a dhobi boy for both Shai and Arun, he serves as the conjugation point between the two of them. After reprimanding Munna for discolouring Shai’s shirt, Shai eventually feels guilty. She accidently meets him at a cinema hall and approaches him in a friendly manner. When she learns that Munna knows where her love, Mr. Arun lives, she decides to befriend him, hoping he will help her meet Arun. She decides to help Munna make his modelling portfolio, if he promises to help her take pictures of him at the dhobi ghat, where he works. Munna, taken aback by a beautiful, gori mem’s sudden interest in his personal life, misreads Shai’s bold overtures and begins to fall in love with her, eventually to realise that Shai is not his to begin with.

The concept of voyeurism is artistically implemented in the film. It begins with Yasmin’s recording of herself with the camera, where Arun and the audience are taken deep into her life. Her story is driven by the video letters which Arun watches every day, perhaps as a form of entertainment. As the story unravels, the facade of her ‘happy married life’ begins to crack and with each video letter, Yasmin’s smile seems to smother every word that she speaks. The audience is given an insight into Yasmin’s sense of loneliness as most of her video letters are of her talking alone to the camera. Her smile completely shatters when she confesses to her brother that her husband is having an extra-marital affair, the shock of which she herself cannot hide. In her last letter to her brother, Yasmin indirectly suggests that she is taking her own life, and eventually hangs herself from the dining room fan. Voyuerism as a motif is further extended when Shai quietly visually documents Arun’s movement in his house from an opposite construction building, while he is watching Yasmin’s video.

The film plays on the concept of six degrees, accessing and assessing the lives of four diverse individuals who come together in the city of Mumbai, each one ~~falling in love~~, infatuated by the other and eventually realizing a deep sense of loss: Yasmin’s dejection at her husband’s affection/love, Arun’s loss of his muse (which eventually leads him to paint her in art form, thereby immortalizing her), Shai’s realization that Arun is not hers to have and Munna’s dejection at Shai’s pyaar.

On second thought (which occurred to me after I wrote this), the films works on several levels, barring the typical infusion of Bollywood mirch-masala. Although the film aches to be ‘real’, the script seems deranged sometimes—why would a rich, young woman go out for lunch/dinner with her dhobi boy alone, let alone become his chaddi-buddy?—I am aware that it is the 21st century, but transcendence of social circles to such an extreme is trying to really stretch it. Also, has anyone noticed why does Shai talk to Munna sometimes in absolute English and he seems to immediately and almost, efficiently understand it? And I am still not entirely sure as to why Rao popped in the expressionless, eerie old woman into the film.

Weird.

2011-03-01T14:56:00.003+05:30

Ian Curtis. The Eccentric Poet.

Four fingers and a thumb make a palm. The fingers long, bony, bend into perfect arches; almost identical in form and shape. The thumb, short, stubby, flatter, stands alone, at a lower pedestal, almost two inches apart.

The dwarf might appear inefficient, but without it, there would be no mankind.

He woke up that morning. His body lay flat on the ground, tired, fleshy and immovable. Wrapped in trousers and a shabby tee, his left knee made an obtuse angle and his right arm reached for the ceiling. A yawn opened his mouth wide and unleashed the foul breath. The toothbrush stood on the first shelf in a glass, in his bathroom; its bristles not used for over a week.

The birds fluttered, twittered, perched and spotted the branches with their beats. The flies buzzed, swirled, meandered, sat and infected. The outside pond rippled, the tadpoles squiggled. Egg yolks cooked in a pan; a hen plopped another egg. A barber cut a woman’s hair, a teenager grew his. The leaves painted the ground yellow. The ground sat quiet, unpretending, keeping secrets. The clouds relayed the sky. Scissors cut moustaches, clothes, cardboard boxes, pages. Clothing lines hang clothes, people.

Somewhere in Macclesfield, a poet hanged himself to death.

Inspired from the last scene of Anton Corbijn's film, Control

2010-10-01T15:02:00.005+05:30

AUTO-NOMOUS

(A Simple Guide to Handle the Auto-walas of Delhi)

Let’s face it, most of the middle class Indians like to nurture a sense of aristocracy. While the ‘aam-janta’ is forced to travel by the cheap, pan-stained, sweaty DTC busses, there are some of us who prefer to travel alone in chauffeur-driven vehicles. In all likelihood since we can’t afford the fancy, air-conditioned limo, we have to opt for our very own desi-auto.

The problem which most snooty auto-walas have, is that they believe they are the boss. They will argue, they will bargain and they will not shut up. In the yester-years (or rather yester months), before the great-Meter-system was brought back to life from the land of dead, the auto-wala-Dilliwala interaction was always uh, a colourful experience. However, to board an auto, we need to pass a three-step process:

STEP 1-Holler. Get their attention

Requirements: A strong larynx, a long hand which flaps incessantly for attention, and bright colourful clothes.

Process: It’s easy for women, because the auto-walas usually would stop for a damsel in distress. It is important to catch the auto-wala’s attention in the first go, so that he stops, rather than just happily driving past by you with a sadistic grin. Men on the other hand, have it hard. But fikar not, an auto-wala has to make his money, so he will stop anyway. Just practice that larynx.

STEP 2-Let the Bargaining Begin!

Requirements: Knowledge of the word ‘bhaiya’; knowledge of the pronunciation of the word ‘bhaiyaaa’; a handkerchief to wipe your sweat off (this may take a while); extra mascara for fluttering your eyelashes if nothing else works! (Yes, men too can give it a go).

Process: Now unless you are a Baniya, a Gujju or a Sindhi, you haven’t really mastered the art of bargaining, and you’d probably have a tough time convincing the auto-wala why he shouldn’t rip you off. But all this was before the meter-system came along. Yes, gone are the days when the meter box sat redundantly on the ledge, longing to be acknowledged, while the auto-wala randomly quoted an exorbitant fee to take you to a place which was 10 minutes away from where your feet stood. Of course, the ride would include a bumpy drive, a curious ‘checking you out’ glace from the rear view mirror every now and then, and a mind-numbing, anaesthesia-infused yak on politics, the youth of today and city etiquettes—all for free, but still, let’s just not go there. However yes, if the autowala throws his nose in the air and refuses to budge from his price, the archaic yet effective ‘bhaiyaaaa pleaaasseee?’ teamed with a polite smile to melt his heart can be applied. It usually works, not kidding. Or am I?

STEP 3-Get your hiney in, sista!

Requirements: Good music on the I-pod or tune up the FM on your phone and pray to god the RJ is not playing Himesh!

Process: Now don’t make me teach you how to sit in an auto for heaven’s sake, but yes, be sure to turn up the volume on the music—you don’t want the auto-wala chatting you up. I’ve been there, and believe me, it’s no fun.

The Syndrome: Every auto-wala possesses the “chutta nahin hai” syndrome—it’s a classic ‘let me earn some extra bucks off my naive customer... hehehe’ strategy. How to outsmart our man? Simple, carry extra change and pay him the exact amount. He’ll be heartbroken but life alas, is unfair, isn’t it?

Return ticket: Most auto-walas will crib about where they have to take you. Whether your destination is tucked in some god forsaken place or whether he’s just playing bluff, almost every Dilli-wala has come across the phrase: “Vapis savari hi nahin milti, toh kya kareingey phir?” There are two situations that can arise out of this statement—either he is not going to move his butt, or he’s going to charge you extra—and usually, it’s the latter. What to do? Play the bluff back. Tell them you’ll make sure you’ll get them a customer on their return. And once you reach your destination, then what? Well, promises are meant to be broken, aren’t they?

So now that I’ve given you enough gyaan, I suggest you go out on the streets brimming with confidence and tackle those auto-walas!

2010-08-12T15:40:00.000+05:30

NOTES FROM A WITCH’S DIARY

So you took your shoes and left...

Riddled streets
Converse with time,
Lusting for that aging night, once more:

The night crouches over the city, tucking her bridal skirt in
As her hungry mouth licks on the silenced statues--
The wolves welcome their kin.

Her eyes search for my moronic lover;
As the moon wanes behind the cloudy sheets
She pants, as her breath embraces the wailing rivers
And wraps her body around the yellow streets

Insects seethe in her underbelly
As the dancing leaves blow back her hair
She lashes her tongue at the vengeful windmills
There, screeches in anger, the bicorn mare.

And the wind mourns in misery
And the raven seeks its prey
Bianca’s nightingales sing in the distant, while
On the riddled streets, the night snakes her way

And though this graveyard will have another visitor,
And our visitor will stay,
"His epitaph will be written in blood", she whispers,
"For his is the soul who betrayed"

*

2010-08-12T15:24:00.001+05:30

THE TRAVELLER

I’ve met people
Of different colours—
Blue, green, violet, maroon

I’ve met eyes
Of different shapes—
Cubes, cuboids, circles, triangles

I’ve spoken to tongues
Of different dialects—
Minowoh, Ginowa, Blah blah, Bli na

What are we,
but jaw, fingers, spine and knee?
Swathed in aging flesh

Naked bones spell naked truth

Once dead,
Will the dust on these bones remember:
The colour of flesh that covered them,
The jaw which spoke that particular tongue,
Or the memories which were made while being
what they stood as on ground?

2010-06-09T14:06:00.002+05:30

The Comma vs. the Full Stop

While commas are dots with curled up tails,
Full stops are dots to end or curtail.
While one encourages you to go on further,
The other stops,
to let you ponder.
If the commas are many a too in one's life:
slash their tails with a knife,
and put a full stop indeed my love,
to your life!

*

2010-04-23T19:43:00.000+05:30

A Song for Eliot

Morning winters,

The smell of cigarette on your collar,

I muffle, biting into your skin

As your fingers take a walk

Into the darkness of my hair

The morning groans,

Stretching its arms across the silent city,

Its breath pressing against the dirty windows,

Waking up in its own waking,

To a handful of illicit love-affairs

Promises that crawl against one’s bare back

Scratching against the skin like broken porcelain,

Searching for answers,

Why their lover deserted them?

Like paint peeling off the walls,

Fragmenting from the whole,

Into unknown spaces

Of beautiful misery

They fall…

The streets that linger on,

Swerving, curling, smoking, mulling

Existing, hiding, running, halting,

Speak of sinful nights that walk,

Dressed handsomely under the winter cloak

Emptiness slithers across their wooden floors,

Her black body rubbing against their empty beds

She clicks her tongue mockingly

As she coils around them,

Biting into their skin

And their fingers knead

The darkness of my skin

As I wrap myself around their bodies—

Me, a nameless child of the streets

For their love has deserted them

And I am their emptiness,

To whom they make love

Every night

*

2010-01-22T19:48:00.006+05:30

Emotion? Sans.

Lips. Invite.
Red, intoxicating.
Fatal.

Your eyes.
Corner me; shove me against a wall.
Mesmorize. Devour.

Our breath.
Rhythmic. Moist. Inaudible.

Your fingers search for mine,
As your lips tuck themselves into mine,
And the tip of your nose (warm),
Draws invisible (passionate) lines of lust
against my cheeks.

I. surrender. willingly.

Tomorrow is another day.
I'll learn your name then.

2010-01-22T14:47:00.002+05:30

ODE TO TOMATOES

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

*

Poet: Pablo Neruda

Just wanted to share his brilliance.

2010-01-19T19:45:00.004+05:30

A Glass of Water, Please?

This is what I had written over a year ago. Came across it today evening. And I'm glad I've moved on.

*

Dignity. Self-respect. What else?--

--important labels we stitch onto our identities, in order to value ourselves more: "There you go baby, I'm branded." Maybe, somewhere down the line, I have forgotten to value my own self, my convictions, my talent--forgotten to value the very notion of being: Me.

Someone told me once:

"R, if you don't love yourself, no one will. It will never happen. If you don't believe in yourself, the world will never believe you."--

--maybe it was me, chanting this to myself. Maybe.

Sometimes I find myself lost, entangled, unable to glue the screaming debris in my head in order to find my peace of mind. Lost: Me.I sit on my bed, hugging my knees, meditating over my blue socks that keep my feet warm, with a mug of coffee in my hand, wondering, just wondering: this was not what I wanted. I loved literature, now I can't even study it.

So what was it you wanted? Don't think I'll even let myself know the secret as to what I really want. Shh.. I'm not coming out with it.

I have been living an existence till now, not life. I had been dreaming, divorced from the strands of reality I now find myself entangled in. Till now, I was unaware of the fact that I was letting myself just... go...

No, perhaps I don't love myself.

I never do anything for Me. It's always, "oh, if I do this, what will s/he think?" What I do, is always governed by what others do or think. Crap, I'll be another anon face walking in the crowd. That is not what I wanted--why am I walking, then?

I'll never turn to myself--My eyes search for friends. Why can't I ask Me for help? I am twenty-ek. This should be easy. It never is though. Never was. Maybe because I was pampered, cuddled, nurtured a bit over the extreme by my mother. Not denying that I loved it. appreciated it. But now that I am coming more to terms with reality, with people, with myself, I realized:

"Honey, there is no one in this space called 'world' for you, except you."

You will have friends, sure, but for how long? You are an individual. Revel in it. Don't search outside the realm of your spirit for strength. Trust yourself, and yourself alone.

I might sound like someone who has just returned from an immensely inspiring sadhu-ed preaching in Dharamshala, I might sound even *blah* to some--honestly darlings, I don't give a damn.

*

2009-11-24T21:20:00.003+05:30

WHERE I BECOME MY OWN

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been.Sometimes we listen to words of a poet, and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of what he is,but what he thinks.Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from the book of an unforgiving author,and we lie crumpled, abandoned, silent..., yet unfinished.Sometimes, we wait for every passing second and by then,we're too old to even love.

2009-08-30T20:31:00.006+05:30

FILM REVIEW-MAN BITES DOG

Recently I saw two films: Man bites dog (Dir: Remy Belvaux) and All about my Mother (Dir: Pedro Almodovar). Since the first one is less well-known than Almodovar's creation, and because it's one of the most weirdest, but most unconventional films I've come across so far, I take the discretion of writing on Man Bites Dog.

Man Bites Dog is a crazy, whacked-out, unusual Belgium film, (or rather a documentary), made on a serial-murderer (Benoit Poelvoorde's ) who agrees to take an almost amateur film crew (a small group of 4) along with him, every time he decides to inhumanly kill someone. His favourite victims are the mailmen, but also enjoys killing old people, as well as other age-groups every now and then. His ruthless acts are brilliantly intermingled with classical instrumental music and visuals of old architecture which lend a jarring tone to the entire film. The film works on the lines of a dark comedy. Initially, I was pathetically lost within the first few minutes of the film, trying to untie all the strands of the film from the start. First thought that entered my mind was that it's a grossly sick (!) film. However, once you figure out the actual rhythm of the movie and swallow the idea that there will be gross murders in front of your eyes--you begin to enjoy the film--particularly for it's originality, I suppose (as well as for Benoit Poelvoorde's contribution to the film). Belvaux's team initially stands outside the diameters of Poelvoorde's job (I call it 'job' because this is Poelvoorde's way of earning his livelihood--he murders people and then takes their moolah). Anyway, soon a friendly (and ironically 'human') relationship begins to build between the team and the murderer, so much so that the team actually begins to "help" Poelvoorde with his "accomplishments". One of the interesting scenes in the film is on Poelvoorde's birthday, which is held at his best friend, Valerie's house. Belvaux's team, Valerie, her boyfriend (who apparently treats her badly) and a few others attend the small get together. Belvaux gifts him a gun pouch. Poelvoorde's is extremely thrilled, and he puts his gun in the pouch, hangs it on his shoulder, and tries to see how he'll look while taking the gun out. The mood at the party is jovial, and the camera locks on to Poelvoorde as he practices taking the gun out. Soon we hear a gun shot and we know Poelvoorde has just shot his next victim. The camera pans only to discover that it is Valerie's boyfriend who has been shot right in the head. Valerie sits still, aghast, looking at her supposed best friend, with her boyfriend's blood all over her face and body. It's a crazy moment in the film, trust me!--and you'll come across more of such once you're into the film.

You need a strong stomach to watch the film, of course, but if you like to experiment a bit with your taste, you must watch it! It gives you a different perspective towards many things, as well as almost an insider-look in what goes on in the mind of a psychotic serial-killer.

Enjoy.

2009-05-11T21:18:00.011+05:30

Walk in the park

So I was the youngest kid in the family of seven--dad, mum, brother, grand parents and dog.
Grew up with my tying my pig-tails with pink ribbons, wearing pink shirts, and devouring on gems packets. Barbie dolls became my plastic room-mates. Thought make-up was the best way of 'looking good', so tried convincing my ma to purchase a box of cosmetics, along with a new pair of pink high-heels ever year. Of course these demands were conveniently ignored.

Evidently, I was the child of the commercial age. Mind you, my parents never encouraged any of it, but what did weave my notion of conventional good-looks and cosmetics, was the pure and simple lineage of advertising.

I brought myself up on a strict diet of television entertainment--obsessed with watching Bollywood songs and Khiladi dance numbers. At the age of four, I would sit cross-legged in front of the television, eyes glued on to everything that encapsulated within the four corners of the television screen, showing off my polka-dot panties off to the world with little care, and sucking on two thumbs. I was the zombie-kid.

Modelling became my ultimate goal in life (yes, I was sincerely very naive), since I thought that was all there was to life. Acting was my second option. Or reverse--either which way, you get the point. Of course all these goals soon were deconstructed, underwent a harsh series of experiments, and eventually (and thankfully) changed--but that's for later.

Television constructed an ambiguous, ill-defined and unreal perception of reality in my mind, and I grew up ignoring and detesting news channels, being completely disengaged with other crucial issues which plagued the world. I was the anonymous product of the dumbed down era.

Up until the age of 20, I lived in my comfortable bubble--where men, music, poetry, literature, weight, clothes and telephones, superseded other issues in life. Pink however, was no longer my colour. My existence was terribly narcissistic in character, where I was happily disconnected from the world. Elections, politics, covert media messages, natural calamities were not of importance to me. I had poverty in information and knowledge.

Though brought up in a family of scholars, and surrounded by a plethora of books on science and history, I gifted no importance to them. I had intellect, but chose not to practice it. There were times when I brought myself to question certain things, but always suppressed them, thinking that even if I did actually think about them, what good could it bring about? I always thought news was passe (as ironic as it may sound), and an element which formed a dominant part in the lives of those who had passed the age of 40.

Reading the newspapers, I believed, was boring, ineffective and 'oldish' in nature. I was young, I wanted to live young, and thought that drooling over Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise was what was 'hip'.

Mistakes. We all make them.

v. al. r. im-perfect.

Life at 21 changed. I decided to move out of the cocoon of my home and create my own nest elsewhere. Mumbai, I thought, was the best place to do that. I wanted to be independent. I was sick of parents literally breathing down my neck and controlling everything I did or say. I was a rebel (evidently inspired by James Dean). I wanted to break-away, thinking it was 'cool'.

What I got, was a kick-in-the-butt.

I reached Mumbai to do a post-graduation course in Mass communications, where pink transformed to black and white. I was forced to open the newspapers (much to my disinterest) and reality, not milkshake, was literally forced down my throat. I was given a different perspective to life. Films, theories, news reports, books dominated my life. I was forced to think. Forced to practice my brain, forced to question and challenge theories, concepts, norms, notions.

It was a good kick-in-the-butt.

Men lost their importance (not that I've changed my sexual orientations or anything, but love-affairs just didn't seem to matter so much anymore), my tastes in television viewing changed, I began taking interest in politics and issues that concerned the world. I became more passionate about films, and my ideologies steered towards the left.

Change is the only constant. Bring it on.

2009-05-08T20:34:00.001+05:30

Senselessness in Sensibility

Inkstains creep on the paper:
Blots of imagination,
and wreathes of scribbled emotions,
Speak in curves and motions,
Of fictional characters that chatter in my head.

The windows clatter,
Reality shatters,
Idealism bleeds,
Words become avant-garde.

Voices. voice. vice. ice.

Lost. Losing. Letting go.

I sip my wine, unwind on the bed:
Lie on the bed. Lie on you. Lie to you.
Lovers lie. Liars lie.

I am one of them.

*

2009-04-24T09:50:00.004+05:30

The Legacy of Malthus and Something Like a War

Man’s vocation, according to the essay, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, has two real alternatives—humanization and dehumanization. However, while humanization is an ‘inescapable concern’, those who are economically and socially powerful, usually take to exploiting, oppressing and debasing those who are in a weaker position. Dehumanization therefore, manifests itself in an oppressor-oppressed equation, where the oppressed seldom speak out or voice against their ruthless abuse.

The relationship of the oppressed-oppressor can be identified between the first-world countries to the third-world countries (America waging a war with Iraq, purely for the greed of oil), master-servant, and employee-employer, of man-woman, student-teacher and landlord-peasant.

Deepa Dhanraj in her film, The Legacy of Malthus depicts how the landlords (rich) victimize the meager-waged farmers of Rajasthan. She draws parallels of their predicament, with the ruthless exploitation of the peasants in Scotland, by the landowners during the 1800s.

The film is woven by narrative voices of women peasants, narrating how through ages, the rich Jats and Thakurs have lived on the grains produced by the farmers, while the farmers themselves, have starved. In the entire village, there are 20 rich houses belonging to the landlords, while 400 huts are below poverty-line—their wells remain dry throughout the year.

The system of oppression becomes more haunting when Gora Bai (peasant), describes how the landlord pulled out the seeds the government gave her, from the land and forcibly argued that it was his land. When she revolted, he threatened to shove her head into the ground. Two levels of oppression come into being here, first, of the master and servant (due to economical disparity) and the second, of man and woman.

Gora Bai however, introduces a new element to the lineage of oppression: “We live in fear of both the shopkeeper and the government.” Under Indira Gandhi’s government, India accepted a loan from the International Monetary Fund, which demanded, among other things (like increase in exports), control over population. Shortly thereafter, the United States intervened by trying to ‘help’ India reduce her population. The relationship established between America and India then, become one of the oppressor and the oppressed, where the former’s behaviour showed elements of ‘false generosity’.

In 1974, America relied a lot on the 3^rd World countries’ resources. For this reason, the United States was interested in the social, political and economic stability of these countries, which was invertly related to population. Population stability of countries like India, then became of important concern for the U.S.—it therefore encouraged the Family Planning Program in India.

Something Like A War, a sequel to The Legacy of Malthus, begins with a group of women villagers talking proudly about menstruation and how giving birth empowers them. In the 1980s, the Family Planning Program was implemented with enthusiastic support from the central government, especially in the rural areas. Indira Gandhi’s government undertook strict methods such as withholding salaries and denying ration to villagers who refused to participate in the program.

Oppression intensified through the game of power, when the jobs of Patwaris and ration-shopkeepers were threatened by the State government if they could not bring ‘cases’ for sterilization. The Patwaris then functioned as ‘government officials’ who promised male farmers money (Rs. 500), loans, land, television sets, if they pressurized their women to get sterilized—none of which, as one woman says, “were incentives which actually benefited the woman”.

These women became the voiceless, anonymous ‘cases’, identified with numbers pasted on their foreheads during operations, where they were operated in the most unhygienic, fly infested conditions, without anesthesia. Many of them even died after the operation.

A simple pattern in this legacy of oppression and exploitation can be identified—a I^st world country pressurizes a 3^rd world country—the government of the latter pressurizes/oppress the rich landowners, who in turn oppress the male farmers, who oppress their wives—money here, functions as the underlying catalyst to this inhuman domino effect.

The disconcerting visual and audio elements in the film, jolt the viewers off their seats, since for the first time they are shown the dark side of the Family Planning Program, which was otherwise celebrated by the Indian government as a mark of ‘progress’.

In The Legacy of Malthus, the underbelly of the Green Revolution is also exposed. While the government corroborated with the U.S. and decided to incorporate chemical fertilizers in its agricultural methods, the only ones who dangled at one end of the rope were the farmers. Gyarsi Bai, a villager states that earlier they were healthier, and now: “we eat vegetables grown from fertilizers, which has made us weak.” The fertilizers destroyed the land and lowered the nutrition value of the crops, adding to the farmers’ plight, since the landowners already gave them arable land.

Deepa Dhanraj intersperses the film with a scenes from a play enacted by actors who retell the impediment of farmers in Scotland. The ‘commons’ (which was land for all) was infringed upon by proprietors, and arable land was given to the poor peasants. Poverty ensued; the highlanders were starved to submission and forced to immigrate, in hope to find better lands for survival. She does this for two reasons: First, to justify why the poor immigrate to cities, and second, to show that the behaviour of exploitation and oppression is universal and exceeds time and geographical boundaries.

Something Like A War, throws light on the shocking forcible atrocities the government inflicted on women in order to control the population. The rural women not only boldly discuss how they were forcibly sterilized, but also share how the government, for its selfish interests, was the least concerned for its citizens, especially the women.

National ‘development’ in its most gruesome form is the subject of Dhanraj’s films. Both the documentaries are therefore, told from the perspective of women—one who are the primary victims. Dhanraj gives the women a platform to speak, to voice how they felt during the program and the dilemma they faced between being answerable to their in-laws, who demanded innumerable sons, or to the government, which demanded not to have more than two children. Their own demands however, were never taken into consideration.

One of the most haunting scenes in the film is that of a woman held down on a bed, while the doctor (with half-concentration) operates on her, while he speaks to the camera. Her mouth is clamped shut and her face contorts with pain and anger as she tries to beg for mercy. Gyarsi Bai leaves us with the most potent message—the government is mercilessly eradicating the poor, not the poverty.

The Legacy of Malthus ends with a teacher in a municipal school making his students repeat the ‘benefits’ of the Family Planning Program: “The country’s population should be reduced so that people can live comfortably and the daily needs of the people are met.”—illustrating how through education alone, the mind of a child is indoctrinated with false ‘truths’. The scene in interposed with a woman villager confessing that she too has begun to believe and internalize what the landlord taunts her with: the villagers are poor because they are illiterate, idiotic and senseless.

The last shot of this film, is the view of the slums from a moving train—it is Dhanraj’s way of stating, that we have become so immune to poverty, that though we see the sight everyday, we remain unaffected. Through this film, Dhanraj successfully counter-argues Thomas Malthus’ Legacy, proving through the exploration of the rituals of the landlords and the government, that the principle reason for poverty is not overpopulation, but the inequitable sharing of land and the ghastly economic disparity between the rich and the poor.

Documentaries by: Deepa Dhanraj

2009-01-21T20:00:00.005+05:30

FOUR CORNERS

You stand within the four corners, with your head bowed down, naked. And you think. It’s not a new feeling, this nakedness. You squat on the orange tiles, thinking, staring at the empty bucket: wishing, waiting, wanting to be filled, completely. And you wonder why you’re referring to yourself in second person—perhaps because, you’re your story yourself. The tiles turn yellow, to green, to maroon... and you swoon in your own emptiness, in that void of absolute nirvana, where you belong to your own nothingness; you smoke it in, swirl in it and tap your feet against that wet floor overflowing with the water that has filled that once empty bucket. Sufism, of the mind, really. My god? The nothingness I find in blank sheets of paper; on streets lit with lonely street-lights; in moths who find a purpose to their lives in those very lights; in my hands, confused with lines, speaking of nothing but age.

Here. This. This is your world; anything can be your truth. You create your truth, you believe your truth. Question is, do you believe in your own existence?
*
I exist in the city of Mumbai, within the boundaries of India, where almost every third girl in my class (as elite an economic bracket my class may belong to) has found her life partner at the age of 21, or has intentions of finding him soon. I, on the other hand, am single, which by Indian standards, is something to be worried about. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter whether my mum is concerned that I find a boy or not, but for the neighbours, the matter is gravely important.

What they don’t know is that I intend on having lustful, dark, secret affairs with Bergman, Kurusawa, Godard and the likes. Even though they won’t probably look at me, or be interested in having conversations over smokes and coffee. I don’t smoke, so coffee maybe. I wonder what they’d think....

Here. This. This is your world; anything can be your truth. You create your truth, you believe your truth. Question is, do you believe in your own existence?

2008-11-06T20:56:00.005+05:30

SUPER-SIZE ME

Written and Directed by Morgan Spurlock
Genre: Documentary/ Non-fiction

The documentary opens with a bunch of children happily chanting, “McDonald’s, McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pizza Hut! I like food, you like food, Kentucky Fried Chicken and A Pizza Hut!”

No prizes for guessing what this film is all about.

This documentary is a shocker. If you want to know how ‘happy’ you can get with a McDonald’s 'Happy Meal', this film is a must watch! The documentary is a journey of a man, to prove to the world that eating high-cholesterol food products almost every day, is indeed injurious to health. He takes it upon himself to completely detract from his healthy Vegan lifestyle, and take a detour to the big bad world of McDonald’s.

Set in New York, Morgan Spurlock explains how obesity in America, is second to smoking as one of the major causes to preventable death and innumerable illnesses. In 2002, a bunch of Americans sued all the fast-food companies, blaming them for their obesity and related illnesses. This film is Spurlock’s experiment to find out how much role do fast-food joints (like McDonald’s) play in contributing to an individual’s body weight (and size).

Spread over a period of 30 days, the camera tracks Spurlock’s fatalistic plunge into a strictly high-cholesterol diet (eating Mc onald’s products three times a day), with absolutely no amount of exercising. It investigates how this approach to life adversely affects an individual’s work progress, his mental frame of mind, including the physical relationship with his partner.

The documentary functions as a proof to how unhealthy-eating, does (surprisingly!) ruin your body, increasing your chances of diabetes, heart attacks, liver failure, and other fatal diseases. In under a month’s duration, Spurlock had actually put on a horrifying 20 pounds, proving to the world (and to McDonald’s food joints), that their food products are not human friendly at all!

I rate this film 8/10. It is DEFINITELY, one heck of a film to see.

2008-08-08T22:14:00.009+05:30

So we all were 'troubled' by what happened in Ahmadabad and Bangalore. We all were extremely disturbed, and we all wished for peace. On the 6th of August, there was a peace gathering that was held by an NGO (Citizens For Peace) in South Mumbai.

Personally, I felt the entire event to be very 'unnecessary', for there were many who just spoke, lamented, cried--but no one really discussed how a change or a solution could be brought about. It was the same old sob story, where people assembled, quoted, dispersed and forgot.

Two weeks after the blasts in Ahmedabad, who talks about it now? Everyone is back to living their own lives. During the blasts, the media covered all the amputated corpses it could find, weeped with infants who were to grow up having no 'saaya' of their pitas (fathers), showed innumerable women crying hysterically beating their chests, and now, two weeks after, the media has moved onto covering other 'important' issues, such as Abhinav Bindra winning one bloody gold medal in rifle shooting. Now, isn't India is really 'shining'?

Below is an article I had written right after the 'Peace Talk' gathering held on the 6th. It details what all happened at the gathering:

“We can and will triumph if we all stand together, with two powerful weapons: great pride in our rich diversity and unflinching unity at all times.”

--The Declaration for Peace

Prompted by the gruesome bomb blasts in Bangalore and Ahmedabad that have once again disturbed the peace of the nation, the Citizens For Peace, in support with other NGOs, held a gathering on the 6th August 2008, the 63rd anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. This gathering was held at Churchgate’s Patkar Hall, as a desperate call for peace.

Using Gandhi’s quote, “An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind,” as their slogan, the evening’s compere, Rajni Bakshi, siad that the gathering was a result of the “sadness and fear and also the helplessness we all feel when such bomb blasts happen.” The assembly was attended by several well-known personalities like Javed Akhtar, Shabana Azmi, Nandita Das and Ameen Sayani.

Javed Akhtar spoke of the grim contrast that existed in the country. While on one side, “the IT industry is booming,” he said, “on the other side, India has the most illiterate people and poor labourers...” He said that India had not left a single ‘type’ of terrorism alone. He was sad that before considering the existing problems at hand, the first thought that worried him was, “whether we’ll be able to exist at all.”

While the poet read out a few of his most thought-provoking poems, Shabana Azmi read out their English translations. Overwhelmed by the atrocities, she broke down into tears at the podium, saying how helpless and weak she felt, and how “some serious steps had to be taken, and not only symbolic gestures,” to regain the country’s peace. Anita Deshmukh recited Vasant Bapat’s Marathi poem, ‘Deh Mandir Chitta Mandir’. Ameen Sayani remembered how the current situation reminded him of Gulzar’s line—“Roz subah mere ghar akhbaar khoon mein lath-path aata hai.” Actor Nandita Das quoted Martin Luther King, “In our times, we will repent not for the evil deeds of the bad, but for the silences of the good.”

The event came to a full circle, when the Children of the Happy Home—School for the Blind, moved the crowd by singing some of Mahatma Gandhi’s favourite songs, including, ‘Vaishnav Jan To’ and ‘Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram’. Gerson Da Cunha read out the Declaration, which was required to be signed by all those who were present. The assembly ended on a peaceful note with the lighting of the lamp and the singing of the National Anthem by the people in chorus, giving us a sense of Indian solidarity.

The event was rather hollow, a superficial attempt at highlighting what already exists in our country, for no one discussed the issues or how they could be ‘resolved’. Those who spoke, merely quoted others, sang or recited poetry. At the same time, at least such attempts by the ‘literate and aware’ and their public expression of thoughts increases within each one of us the desire to move towards a peaceful India , contributing in our individual capacities to build a nation of empathy and love.

2008-07-10T22:52:00.014+05:30

POSTBLUE

Currently singing: Close my Eyes Forever, Ozzy feat. Lita Ford
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Right, so I haven't visited this space for quite sometime--my sincere apologies to all. For the past one month, I had been running up and down the Capital, giving entrance tests and what not. And now I'm happily settled Mumbai. Ironic, isn't it?
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Recently, I visited the National Art Gallery in Mumbai. So this is my take on Raghu Rai pictures: thought-provoking, and extremely trippy. If any of you ever have a chance to take a look at his pictures, go for it, I say. Truthfully, I've never really appreciated the art of photography, until now.
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For decades Raghu Rai’s pictures have spoken to us—each one having its own voice and its own story to tell. Though set in India, Rai’s photographs have had universal impact, evoking varied emotions in the hearts of those who’ve come across them. Using a mesmeric interplay of light and dark, Rai’s works celebrate the extraordinary in the ordinary. Whether his subject is a ‘baby donkey’, or women thrashing wheat grains with the sombre Humayun’s tomb in the distant background—his pictures portray life with compelling simplicity.

In 1965, Rai’s photo Baby Donkey, catapulted him into prominence as a photographer. For more than two decades, he experimented with the elements of black and white, and coloured his photographs with different intensities of these elements. His photograph, Among the Sparrows (1968), for example, touches upon the themes of racism and alienation, by depicting a lone raven, surrounded by a threatening wall of innumerable sparrows. This is probably why Hoffman felt that Rai’s work dealt with the “subject of humanity on a universal scale.” Another picture, the Two Old Men (1970) articulates the economic disparity intrinsic in society. Rai depicts this through the posture of the two men while walking. While the man in a suit walks upright, his counterpart, wearing a ‘dhoti’, walks with a stick in hand, hunched. The posture of the latter speaks volumes about the oppressiveness burdening the poor. Moreover, an Indian wearing an Englishman’s suit testifies that imperialism continues to exist in India.

For a considerable period of time, Rai’s photographs involved minimal entities (Sensuous Baby, My Father My Son, and A Train to Darjeeling). However, post 2001, Rai began to capture more elements of life, playing with more colours, thanks to modern technology. Pilgrims after a Holy Bath (2005) is one such picture. Taken at Varanasi, the picture details numerous pilgrims performing different rites and actions—each pilgrim is distinctive from the other, yet all belong to one frame and—one existence.

One of Rai’s most striking images is of the Sensuous Baby. In India, the picture has the propensity to trigger off several debates. It shows an infant suckling his mother’s breast, playing with one of her nipples. The nakedness of the mother and child is symbolical of naked truth: sensuality and sexuality are all basic to mankind and there should be no room for hypocrisy. For Rai, photography is to celebrate life in every form, including, “capturing the rhythm and music in a human body.”

Rai has dedicated himself to capturing the life of India and her people, gifting insightful glimpses of her ‘being’. His contribution to photography as an art form, as a study of life in black and white, as well as in colour, and to the understanding of India, are beyond comparison.

***

2008-05-09T20:55:00.002+05:30

SUNDAY LETTERS

Recently, I wrote a letter to the Editor of Hindustan Times regarding Anbumani Ramadoss's delightfully entertaining statements concerning the Indian film industry and the adverse influence it has on the health of the Indian audience.

____

Vir Sanghvi's The Publicity Hound article (May 4th) gives a penetrating insight into the psyche of our illustrious Union Health Minister. Anbumani Ramadoss's fifth-grade arguments as to why Indian cinema should not portray actors who smoke, drink or even eat potato chips for that matter, are stupid in their entirety.

It is silly to believe that the audience would blindly mimic everything that the actors do in movies. We are sensible, capable, thinking individuals—the actors puffing cigarettes on screen definitely cannot have a drastic affect on our so-called 'impressionable' minds.

It seems attacking the movie icons is Ramadoss’s only passport to making it to the headlines, and unequivocally he has been successful. Our Health Minister should focus on more crucial concerns such as drug abuse, providing hygienic conditions in government hospitals and ensuring proper availability of medicines, and leave us to decide whether or not we should buy the next packet of chips.

I do intend on writing more on this topic, and shall return once I'm done tackling my entrance exams.

2008-04-18T02:14:00.004+05:30

She

I wish I could eat a peach. Or a strawberry. Or buy a prickly pear from a man who goes by the name, Empti.

I wish to wish, to have, to lust, to crave, to drink, to dream, to seduce, to play, to amuse. But alas, my graceful locks swaddle me in my own darkness, and my mother teaches me to plait them everyday.

And as I grow, they grow viciously around me, until one day, they offer me a fruit. Now, I'm not Pope's Belinda, so why can't I eat a slice? Nibble on it a bit perhaps, and wear the dress of a Maenad? Why can't I make you ashamed of your nakedness, your own truth?

I wish I could eat an apple. Or a strawberry. Hmmm.... I wonder if raspberries are in season.

Prickly pear: From Eliot's The Hollow Men. 'Empti' (Empty) is an allusion to the hollowness of man; spiritual sterility.

Pope's Belinda: Reference to Alexander Pope's Rape of the Lock. Lock/hair symbolized a woman's chastity in the early 18th century English society.
Maenad: Devotees of Greek god, Bacchus. These were wild women with unkempt hair who celebrated sexuality and self-intoxication.

2008-04-08T23:51:00.006+05:30

Conversations of the Mind

Thought I'd share this with you:

One day you'll be blind like me. You'll be sitting here, a speck in the void, in the dark, forever, like me. One day you'll say to yourself, I'm tired, I'll sit down, and you'll go and sit down. Then you'll say, I'm hungry, I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up. You'll say, I shouldn't have sat down, but since I have I'll sit on a little longer, then I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up and you won't get anything to eat. You'll look at the wall a while, then you'll say, I'll close my eyes, perhaps have a little sleep, after that I'll feel better, and you'll close them. And when you open them again there'll be no wall any more. Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn't fill it, and there you'll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe.

*
Extract from Samuel Beckett's Endgame

2008-03-25T19:46:00.003+05:30

Limbo-Bimbo

Currently singing: Zephyr Song, RHCP
*
I am supposed to be studying, unfortunately however, I cannot pull all my will and want together in order to bring myself to do so. I find myself dwelling upon thoughts that had been craftily wrapped in a muslin cloth and buried underneath all the other concerns that stand to be of higher importance to my life. Distractions, I tell you. For one thing, I keep mulling over what I would plan to pursue in the coming years of my life--whether I should deviate from the mainstream and completely push myself into media (a subject I've had my eyes on for quite sometime), or whether I should probably take up a course abroad on dance and theatre.

I've always found my life gravitating towards the creative field. My mind is imaginative, I love movement--facial and bodily expressions, and since childhood I have had the inborn inclination to write and express. However, as honest and surprising as this may sound, even if I do take up English at a post-graduation level, where will I go with it? I do not see myself becoming an English professor, standing in front of a large army of moronic teenagers and trying to work with them. Even the mere imagination of such a situation seems humourous. I for one, cannot be strict--and though I am aware that there are teachers who are not strict and are still capable of teaching, it is something I cannot fashion myself into doing.

Moreover, a three years course in English Literature has taught me that though I love the subject, I absolutely cannot learn the texts, quotes and what have you not--it's simply unacceptable by my character and my intellect dissuades me from enjoying such liberties.

So the question thus proposed is, what next? Though I do continue to ponder on such matters, I am also conscious of my responsibilties towards my immediate present: studies. I must therefore, do nothing whatsoever in order to disrupt my concentration.

Must. study. Must.

2008-03-19T19:27:00.002+05:30

Confidently, Indian

Currently singing: Don't Cry, Guns and Roses
*
Today, my mom sat down with me (you know, those mother-daughter conversations one indulges in every now and then) and gave a detailed experience of her ride in those new, perfectly painted 'green' buses that have been transporting Delhites all over the City.
The description was hilarious, considering she mimicked those individuals who accompanied her on a ride to CP--I couldn't take her personally, since my mother decided to visit her mum unexpectedly, and without a forewarning walked out of the house in complete enthusiasm while I was lost in my yoga session..

So anyway, the women on the bus were apparently comical creatures, really--my mother described one scene where one woman confidently went and sat on the bus' gear box (as many usually do on the normal DTC buses), and when the driver asked her to move, she refused to budge and replied in a rather crude fashion:

tu bas apni bus chala, mera khayal mat kar'
(You just drive the bus, don't worry about me).

Next, my mother lamented on the fact that though the DTC bus drivers have been given fashionable new buses to drive, with commendable state-of-the-art facilities, the poor chaps are oblivious as to how to work with these technologically advanced buses... The driver of the bus mum was travelling in had no idea as to when to open and close the doors in time... While ascending the stairs of the bus in order to get down, a lady's saari got stuck in between the doors due to the untimely act performed by the driver who abruptly closed the doors. What ensued was an unpleasant exchange of dialogues between the two, punctuated with a few 'rude' remarks here and there...

Entertaining? O boy, yes! The way my mom was narrating the entire episode threw me in fits of laughter, and considering she writes and is a story-teller, she did a brilliant job of communicating the events of her day to me, leaving me absolutely impressed.

I am yet to travel in these buses, but rest assured, I am honestly well-prepared for them. Let's see, next trip to college--I am definitely counting on public transport!

2008-03-15T20:47:00.001+05:30

Full Circle

Currently Singing: Kiss From A Rose, Seal

Right..

Honestly, I really don't know how to begin this post.. Was on the phone with a friend today.. We just realized (moment of epiphany) that we will be going to our college for classes for the last time on Monday, and the knowledge of this completely threw us into a fit of hysteria. Now, I am an emotional freak, so it's understandable if I find myself falling back on memories and remembering the past three f-ing brilliant years of my life... My friend on the other hand, is one who barely gets attached to anything and hearing her feeling low about leaving college was something I was completely not prepared for...

People enter your life for a reason... They have a purpose, a role to play to your existence... once that purpose is achieved, they head out... either abruptly, or the process is extremely slow... It depends on how you want them to leave... Some, however just stay..

Honestly, I adore my friends, and knowing that I wouldn't be seeing them everyday from Monday onwards, wouldn't be famously standing under the sun at Sat. Nik desperately waiting for chicken rolls, or wouldn't be making spontaneous plans to travel off to random places with absolutely no money in our pockets--overwhelms me with a feeling of discomfort.

It's disconcerting, really.. Somehow, everything that was constant and stable in my life seems to be dismantling itself... Now I can't say I wasn't prepared for it, I mean, I knew that this phase in my life was going to come--just didn't know it would come so early. Hmm.. sounds cliched, doesn't it?

I see the books gathering dust on my shelve, and I have lines to read before I sleep... Memories creep into the present and I sit starring into the green wall, enraptured by my past.

Honestly, I feel sad that my college life has finally come to an end... but then again, something needs to end in order for new things to begin... that's what life is about, until it completes a full circle.

College ends here R, grow up love.

2008-03-01T09:17:00.000+05:30

Bumping My Way Through

Currently Singing: Baby's Got A Secret, Madonna

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Let's see now... the other day a few of my friends came up to me and enquired why I hadn't written anything recently? Hmm.. good question. Honestly, I have nothing to write upon. No, no, don't give me that grin now, it's true.

Wonder if this may suffice--
The other day, I encountered a driving disaster: Now I know that on speed-breakers, one must slow down. I did... however, I wasn't slow enough for the speed-breaker to grant mercy and allow me to pass in a respectable fashion. I was at 35 kms/hr, and this baby was huge--you can let your imagination play for the rest of the events that ensued.

I was extremely slow thereafter at every speed-bumper, driving my car carefully. However, even after such an event, I still stand to say that I am improving and turning out to be a pretty decent driver. In fact the other day, my brother, who usually doesn't compliment me on anything, gave me a thumbs up for my performing skills in the driving arena.

Well, what can I say? Live and learn my friend, live and learn.

*
Yesterday however, I did enjoy a good home-cooked meal of chicken drumsticks immersed in gravy, baby corn-broccoli (stir-fried) vegetable mix along with some deliciously and geometrically circled (mind you) rotis. Yes, an interesting combination I must add. This treat was made by my friend as a token of admiration and portrayal of deep respect and immense gratitude towards me... In other words, the meal was made in my honour. Naah, not really. That woman doesn't even give a damn, I just wrote all this to massage my ego and feel happy about myself.

However, my friend loves to cook and it was indeed a delicious meal, at the end of which, I did promise her that she'll be the official caterer for my marriage (irrespective of the fact that I do not intend on marrying in the next seven to eight years! Yes, disheartening, isn't it?)

After the lunch we watched Russell Peters on Utube--an absolutely adorable and amusing fellow, who has the potential to throw anyone off their chairs in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. For those of you who haven't see him perform--honestly, you are missing out on something. I have always been a Peters fan, and yesterday was one of those days that made me adore him even more!

It was a good day indeed, two thumbs up to the girl with the curly hair!

P.S. Just so you know, the site is: www.youtube.com--in case you visited the wrong site. And this is where you need to go :)

2008-02-23T00:00:00.000+05:30

Hit Me With Another

Currently Singing: Follow Me, Uncle Kracker

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I should stop eating ice.

If one is high, water stabilizes you. Now, I am aware of that fact. However, it is highly likely that when one is high, one must muster up all the sense he or she has left in one's head to realize that ice is water as well. My point being, here I was letting my hair down, swaying my head to the music, voicing inane lyrics which didn't even correspond to those which were playing, was down two Screwdrivers and two Long Islands, when suddenly I had the habitual urge to munch on ice. Corollary to that, the drinks began to betray me, the tipsy-ness began wearing off, and my senses began to regain their strength. Not fair, I say.

I should stop eating ice.

Did you know though, that at Pebble Street, the buggers have started playing 'mast' hindi songs as well? Though earlier I protested, I realized that this New Friend's Colony pub hits the perfect note when it comes to blending Hindi mu-gik with the Angrezi. Well, needless to say, I enjoyed. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the booze... Or maybe honey, it was just me ;)

2008-02-07T14:30:00.000+05:30

Soul Speakth

Currently singing: Dark child, Toni Braxton
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An image of a forgotten reflection which earlier sparkled through my kohl-lined dark eyes. The girl who would swing her arms merrily in the gardens which embraced The Habitat Centre, or the one who would not think twice before munching on those road-side bhel puris at CP, or even gol-gappas for that matter; who would sit at any cafe and just smile to herself at the very thought of a Latte or a Cappuccino; who would dream of plays and consider them to be better than life, or the one who would love to sing, even though she knew she wasn't good at it, but still hit the wrong notes because she didn't give a damn.

The girl who walked the roads of Delhi nonchalantly in her chappals with and her famously loved jhola placed daringly on her shoulder; who smirked sheepishly everytime the wind whispered in her hair--Me, a girl who just didn't give a damn. Just didn't.

One can be happy within oneself, you say. It is true. I am a better person now :)

*

I am reading Walcott. Flirting with Neruda. Indulging in secret affairs with Eliot. My imagination finds me in better spirits. I doodle when lost in thoughts, scribbling poetry on abandoned sheets of yesterday.

I make tea for mom, coffee for my soul, make conversations for relaxation, and study for....? sigh, numbers, marks, a f-ing first division?

Answers, anyone?

P.S. It is 1 in the morning. I am terribly sleepy. If, pray you, you do notice certain grammatical errors, do ignore--they are errors exisiting only to remind us that we humans are immensely flawed. Oh, and good morning.

Category: Personal

2008-02-05T13:33:00.000+05:30

Simple Words

Read something about me today: This made me reconsider who I am.

I am loved, and now I know.

"... it is possible to live within one's own self."

--Aaki

2008-02-02T22:53:00.000+05:30

Three Years of Living

College shall end, soon.

It's funny, my past three years have been a dream, really. You know that phrase right? Living in a bubble... Well, I suddenly realized, it's all true. Never thought college would end, never felt life to be so unstable, so uncertain. Never.

My final year has been.. well... I have ambiguous emotions towards describing it.

Honestly, I completely ignored my friends during my third year... as a result, they distanced away from me--it was my fault, and I am not shying away from admitting it. Although, recently when I began hanging out with them again, I realized what I was missing out on. Fuck, these guys are brilliant, beautiful people--people whom I absolutely adore, and I missed one entire year out without them. I am repenting being without them for so long. And I shall repent, for the rest of my life.

*

The other day my dramatics society, Verbum, gave us seniors our final farewell. They sent us custom-made invitation cards, indulged us to delicious chocolate cakes,made a movie on our memories in Verbum through a string of photographs with music in the background, and made sure we felt loved, wanted, and terribly missed. Verbum is a family, and will always be one.

Sigh.

Memories remind you of the good times, yet weaken you at the same time. My college: I have lots of memories attached to that yellow-red educational structure. Honestly, coming from a girls school and entering the grounds of my college, made me realize that I had the capacity of making loads of friends. So, I made lots of friends; lost many too, but what makes me happy is that, they were there at some point or another, to make me feel special. Wanted.

*

This is indeed one of my most emotionally charged posts.

College has ended.

End. Finis.

2008-01-29T22:02:00.000+05:30

Blabber-Talkie

The other day we visited the Vasant Vihar market, a.k.a the famous Priya joint. It has become our second home, literally. There was a point in time when I had absolutely no idea as to where Priya really was--me, a being living in another part of the world!

Another place I frequent a lot is Khan market. But then again, who doesn't like going over there, enjoying the view of populated India and it's tiny cars from a second-floor view at Barista while sipping on hot cocoa or coffee? Or going over to Big Chill and indulging in that delicious Chocolate Oreo ice-cream? Or even visiting those knowledgeable bookstores and feasting on those alluring book covers--Or just, basking in the sun, walking, gibber-jabbering with your friend.

By the way, did you know that the word 'Oreo' is actually a racist, derogatory term associated with those who have black skin, who wish to have a white man's way of thinking? Oreo: Black choco biscuit on the outside, white cream on the inside. Consider yourself educated. One up on your IQ level.

*
The architectural structure of my institution is built in such a manner, that it seems that the sun deliberately tries to evade it. Class-rooms are mercilessly cold, and we all sit close together in order to generate some warmth. There is ample amount of sunlight at my college gate though, so after the classes we all sit at our college gate, devouring oranges or gulping down on some sweet coffee.

Then comes the time to leave.

Driving is tiring: one has to literally inch on the Delhi roads which are consumed by more than ten thousand vehicles everyday. It's so painful that I have to concentrate more on the traffic and bitch about those who are hogging the road, rather than enjoying Jim aptly singing to me:

"Keep your eyes on the road

And your hands upon the wheel

And then roll baby, roll"

Well, I am rolling!--but somebody is gonna get hurt real baad, if people do not stop driving like pathological maniacs on the road! Ugh. Delhi traffic. Ugh.

*
My mother read out a piece written by Rumi to me the other day. He said (very poetically, of course), that if one keeps moving, swirling and doing things in life--then, one is centred: paradoxical images beautifully placed together, to bring forth a very important aspect of life.

SiGh. Some people are born profound. Others become. Make it happen, R.

2008-01-28T12:29:00.000+05:30

The Open Baithak @ The Attic

Attended the Open Baithak today at The Attic. It was a relatively cold day, the streets of CP were tremendously crowded with people buzzing and passing by, as I scurried from DV8 to People Tree on my two feet, humming the tune of a song I don't remember now.

The door of the Attic opened into a warm and cozy room, brightly lit, accessorized with antique furniture--a space I would love to rent as an apartment, but alas, the space is not for sale. I was greeted by known and unknown faces, all smiling, happy to be there, waiting for the poetry session to begin: An evening with the performance poet, Bob Holman.

The thing that I have always loved about performance poetry, is the performing bit. I cannot endure people just standing in one place and reading out their poems which, mind you, are brilliant pieces left unanimated due to the lack of display of emotions, correct articulation of words, blah. Thus, to perform one's poetry is very essential, for it gives life to the piece and also leaves the audience enraptured, wanting for more.

Of course, one has to have the art of performing, and that is achieved through experience. I, for one, have done so at a college poetry recitation competition, but still do have a long way to go. Perhaps in the next Open Baithak session, I will be enthusiastic enough to read out my poems. Perhaps.

Today, a few read or rather, performed well. A few. One of the poems read was despicably atrocious, and I was confident that I could do better than the gentleman on stage. Over-confident? Noo. Just sure.

At the same session, I also met a deliciously handsome guy, whose name I shall not disclose, for the sheer fact of knowing that he might come across this page. Though extremely talented, I could not stay back for his performance. Did I mention that I like men who rap, by the way? :P

There is so much potential in me, potential I wasn't even aware of. Certain things happen in your life, and though initially you feel that they shouldn't have happened, when you see life from a broader perspective, you know that it was the best thing and that you are so much better off...

Ah well, you live and you learn. This is ME at twenty, and still going strong.

2008-01-24T13:24:00.000+05:30

Sing It

Tu dhoop hai, chan se bikhar. Tu hai nadi, o bekhabar--

-- You have it in you to make it. Make it then.

*
My friend called from the States and gave me a lovely surprise by doing so. It feels good to know that there are people there in the world who still care.

*
"O hip-hopper mujhe pyaar toh kar, O hip hopper."

When this song first splashed across the television screens, I screamed. I could not believe that people could come up with such inane lyrics. Though I cannot shy away from saying that the song actually grows on you--and I have surprised myself by humming the tune now and then--but err... what happened to the entire concept of writing and making songs that actually made sense?? But I guess the music company will make songs for the masses. I feel alienated from this culture and at the same time am aware that I belong to it as well.

*

My brother told me a story the other day: There are four kinds of gadhas in the world. The first is the one who keeps walking, doing things that are required of him and is content with life. The second donkey keeps hitting the first one with a stick, wanting the first one to do his work for him. The third kind keeps lying down, sleeping, dreaming and does his work once a while. The fourth gadah however, sits in one place and mourns: "Mein ghoda kyon nahin hoon?" (Why am I not a horse?)

Most of the people in the world fall into the category of the fourth kind. Always wishing why things can't be better off for them. If you are not content with life, change it. Do it on your own--no one is going to come to you and help you change it. Don't crib, just do.

I think that's what convinced me to start driving on my own. Being dependent on someone is the last thing one wants in life. I decided, I can no longer be dependent on my dad (or auto wallas) for taking me somewhere. Lesson: Do everything in your stride to be as self-sufficient as possible. That's the way the world roles--it's your wish in whose palm you want it to roll.

Sing it: Tu dhoop hai, chan se bikhar. Tu hai nadi, o bekhabar.

2008-01-20T20:39:00.001+05:30

Cotton Candy

January creeps in
Smokey eyed
Crawling through the dingy passages
Hunched on its paws,
Licking,
Rolling the fog in its mouth
Like grey cotton candy

*
Blah.
*

I woke up in the morning today with a song in my head. I kept myself busy today. Made breakfast for my dog, took him for a walk, listened to music, drove for a bit, read--life's been decent. Wanted to go to Khan today and have coffee with a friend, didn't work out.

Reason? "You need to study" (says mom).

My mom has recently decided to write an article on 'Literature and Memory'--I, being a good daughter was giving her a few tips on that. She has begun writing some beautiful poetry in Hindi and Urdu and I sit mesmorized listening to her and the emotions that are awaken through them.

Love these moments.

Someone rightly said: Ignorance is a bliss. It's true.

2008-01-17T18:21:00.000+05:30

Random Thoughts

Driving has become a necessity in winters. I hate being dependent on auto wallas who bargain with me every morning as to how much I should pay him for a ride to college. Coming back is another head ache--they throw tantrums, "Madam, vapsi mein saavari nahin milegi." Bullshit!

I prefer driving now days. It's warmer in the car, you get to listen to good music, and you don't need to exchange dialogues with any annoying auto walla!

I have to admit, I am new on the roads.. but this time I ain't quiting. There are certain things in life which jolt you into reality so much, that you realize you need to take the reins of your life into your own hands.. or the steering wheel--which ever suits you best.

*

What can I say? I have the instinctive urge to write, but time evades me. She is always there when I have nothing to do, but begs to leave when I really need her. I have so much to do, and I keep contemplating as to what I should begin with, little knowing that every second counts. Sigh, here I go again knitting cliches with my thoughts. Ambiguous thoughts, really. Nothing is substantial in life and that's the truth.

One of my oldest friends told me something very important today. Something I didn't know, something I never even thought of about life. Funny. I suddenly look at things from a different perspective.

*

The other day my friend treated me at CCD for passing the army entrance test. Army. Sigh, all I can think about army is a bloody hard life--though my pal looked extremely thrilled about passing. There are some things in life you just know you want to do. Perhaps it's the calling from within.

I however, am still confused as to what exactly I wish to do. Write? Dance? Make movies? Ah, this damn indecisiveness--it happens to the best of us.

*

Notion of the day: Nothing is better than a hot mug of coffee with a pal.

2008-01-10T19:35:00.000+05:30

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

The other day dad got a flute for me. Wonder why though, I have no clue how to play that thing. Nevertheless, I kept it, to keep his heart. It's funny how I love it when he gets me the most innocent of gifts unannounced. My dog was one of them. Anyhow, today my dad peeked into my room to see what I was upto. He saw the flute lying there, untouched by the owner who was peering into her novel.

"You aren't playing this fella' ?" Dad asked enthusiastically.

I looked up. "Naah. I don't know how to use this thing," I replied sheepishly.

"See, this is where you put it," he said picking up the flute and placing it right below his lower lip. A phenomenon which disturbed the air along with the dust particles which flounced ecstatically in the column of sunlight that was penetrating the curtains.

Frankly, all I could hear was "foooo"--the blowing of air by my amateur musician a.k.a dad. As a result, my dog perked his ears and happily jumped around my dad. It was honestly a very amusing episode.

"Well," I said humouring my dad, "at least you've got one fan." I winked at him and he responded by smiling, "You my girl, are becoming too big for your boots," and winked back.

He left me laughing. It was one of those beautiful days. Father, daughter, and the holy dog.

P.S. The second last word is highly debatable adjective.

Today we had a discussion on whether women have a good sense of direction or not. Two guys, a girl and a canteen place. I defended my stand, for I know the roads decently well (except for those parts of Delhi which I have rarely visited). The men tried to pull me down (sigh, friends!) but I still fought. Ultimately the conversation dissolved by a series of coffee and chai orders. It was cold. The sun winked through the leaves. College will end in a few months. These days won't come again. I look at my watch: ten minutes more before the classes begin. Here we go again, preparing ourselves for a new day.

2008-01-05T16:28:00.001+05:30

WAITING FOR NOTHING

"Do you think I am a fool?"

"Do you think you are a fool?"

(Silence)

"Can fools think they are fools?"

"I sure think so."

"Are you thinking right now?"

"I don't know."

"Think."

"I am not Lucky and you are not Pozzo."

"Who was Pozzo?"

"Master of Lucky who asked him to 'think.'"

"That means Lucky was his slave... Then how was Lucky, lucky?"

"I don't know!"

"Lucky, Kucky, K-l-ucky, yucky, mucky." (singing)

"Enough!"

"Is it Klucky or Erky?"

"Lucky!"

"Are you sure?"

"Haven't you read Waiting for Godot?"

"Waiting for who..?"

"Godot!"

"I thought you said Lucky first."

"Yes, but Lucky was in that play."

"Was Godot in the play as well?"

"No."

"Then if it is Godot's play, why is Lucky in it?"

"Because Estragon and Vladimir are waiting for Godot, Lucky is a marginal character."

(Thinking) "So... Ass-my-gone and Lad-im-r are in the play, Lucky is in the play, but Mr. Go-dot-com is not?!?"

"Its Es-tra-gon and V-lad-imir. And Godot, pronounced as Goo-do."

(Slowly.) "Doo-do. Dodo!"

"It's Godo!

"Dodo!"

(Sighs.) "Forget it."

(Silence)

"Does Godot meet them?"

"No."

"Then why do they wait?"

"Well, because that's the play. It's about waiting. They just... pass their time."

"That's the play?"

"Yep."

"BORING!" (loudly.)

"Well, it's famous!"

"Is it?!?"

"Yep."

"Boy! People are dumb."

"U think?"

"And to think we call ourselves the fools."

"Hmm."

(Silence.)

"Well, are we waiting too?"

"For whom?"

"Dodo."

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you want to wait for a dodo or not. Dodos are extinct by the way, so I think we'll have to do a pretty lot of waiting."

(Sadly) "I didn't know Dodo was dead. No wonder they keep waiting."

"It's Godot!!!"

"That's exactly what I said."

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't."

"I think contrary."

"U cannot think!"

"Why?"

"Beause a fool cannot think!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Ph-roooo-ve it!"

"I don't want to."

"Neither do I." (Silence.) "So, are we done waiting?"

"We weren't waiting for anyone in the first place!"

"We weren't?"

"No!"

"Then what are we waiting here for?"

"I don't know."

"Well? Shall we go?"

"Yes, let's go."

(They do not move).

Inspired (evidently) from the Absurdist playwright Samuel Beckett's magnificent play, Waiting For Godot.

2008-01-02T16:12:00.000+05:30

XX versus the XY SOCIETY

I am sleeping
Or am I awake?

I answered in the first,
And questioned in the next

Should I learn to be me from me
Or turn to you, to 'be' ?

Should I place my legs together?
For I am a girl and not her brother

Why should I wait for men to woo me?
Why does wo separate me from he?

Why can't I stay out late?
Burp on beer and smoke on cigarettes

What has sex got to do with it?

Speaking of which:
Why can't I have it before marriage?
Why should I whisper and speak about it?
Why should I call it, it?
IT- it- iit- itt- iti- tit--
Oh, I get it... It's because of my... hmm..

Is this poem going anywhere?
Am I going somewhere?
So-me-where?

Unless you change your designed roles
No where, is where I am going to be.

Apologies if this poem does not make sense. It is something that just came out of me as incoherent thoughts. Pardon, me.

2007-12-30T11:23:00.000+05:30

"IF U BE MY BODYGUARD, I CAN BE YOUR LONG LOST PAL"

I wake up early and trod across the hall to wish my dad a jolly "good morning!" When I begin leaving his room, he questions: "Where are u going? To wake up your brother again, I guess?"

"Naah dad," I reply smiling, "I am way past that stage."

It's amusing to know that there used to be a point in my life, when my entire world literally revolved around my brother's. He always slept in late, and I being a morning bird would 'rise and shine' early(as the saying goes). So I used to make it a point to wake him up, not because he'd ask me to, but because I would love to annoy him that way. It's a silly little thing which all younger sisters do, I being one of them. My brother would groan in response, perhaps even muster all his energy to throw a pillow at me, and I would duck triumphantly, winning yet again--and thats how our mornings would begin.

My brother and I always shared a closely-knit relationship, he was not the stereotypical 'bhaiya': over-protective, over-possessive; nope he was, different. As a child, whenever the two of us got down to fighting, I sprung my nails out and scratched him all over, while the poor thing couldn't even hit me back because he never thought it was right thing for him to do (or maybe he did hit me, its fortunate for him that I just don't remember).

The two of us always understood each other (most of the times): as I grew older I learnt the profound technique of saving his butt [keeping mum about his escapades and well, his ladies ;) ], he never backed out from returning the favour.

He was not protective lad, but a concerned one. He kept out of my life, gave me the discretion of making my own decisions (even if they were the most stupid ones), but always prepared me for a lecture that would follow inevitably. Now, his lectures would be basically suffused with weird metaphors (ones which would make me twist my brows a million times), silly puns, lame jokes (which made me laugh hysterically) but were ironically, laced with logic--a 'lecture' which would take 5 minutes of his time as well as mine, but would drive home the most important point in my head. This was his way of handling me, and he handled me well.

He has been more of a friend than anything else. If I was low, down in those lousy doldrums, he took me out for a drink, made a comfortable space for me where I could tell him everything that bothered me the most and and he would provide me with the most sensible advice and make it sound the easiest as well. He laughed, ensured that I would laugh, and I would forget all the things that were on my mind and enjoy the moment, precisely because that's exactly what he expected from me.

However, it isn't as honky-dory with us always as it sounds. Even though both of us have grown and have matured, we still fight: it's an aspect inherent in our relationship and that's something we can never grow out of. Our fights are verbal, but we barely abuse because we respect each other. Sarcasm however, is a weapon we both use and subconsciously, we keep competing on whose argument is more cynical. The winner however can never be decided upon because our counter-dialogues are eventually intervened by either my grand father or my mother--dad just yawns and ignores the whole thing (he'd rather stay out of it). Typical, I know.

My brother is the one who introduced me to English music when he was in the seventh grade of schooling and I was in class five. We had gone on this trip to the mountains, and it is there when he first made me listen to the Eagles and Simon and Garfunkel. Ecstatic, I learnt all the lyrics and we both used to sing all the songs together in the car. 'The Boxer' became one of our favourite songs of all times. I think this is where our friendship really began.

This is the way we were and perhaps still are. Two very different souls and even though that boy never tells me that he adores me, I know he does. I don't know what encouraged me to write this piece down, but writing it made me remember all the great times we two have/had spent together--times which I had forgotten, but have loved to remember once again.

2007-12-29T12:26:00.000+05:30

THE SECRETS OF THE NIGHT

And cats walk the silver street
Tails as question marks
Their paws compete

Orange with brown stripes
Black with white puddles
Brown with black masks
They walk into the night

The air breathes winter:
Veils the windows,
And seduces the leaves

While the burning red
Of pregnant lamps
Haunt the dark corners
Of the night...

And the winds mourn and wail
beckoning morning;
Forgotten letters
Fly as Aladdin's carpets
Sailing into the night

And shadows follow
The lone walkers
Whispering deceitfully where they have been--
To the quiet night

The mandir sleeps alone--
A white concrete of promises
Built on gandhian notes and gold

(The beggars still sleep on the road)

The moonlight tip-toes
Into the night
Anxious to leave the sky
Just this once

And she pours and pours,
And does not stop,
And is caught when the morning arrives...

*

2007-12-25T02:00:00.000+05:30

PARDON, ME

You have spoken.

Speak. And I shall listen.
Whenever you want. Wherever you want.
I am here.
And I shall do as you say, sire.

Words fall
Like shavings off a blunt pencil
Now turned sharp.

Loneliness beseeches.
I shall comfort you, says she.

You take to her and wine.
The chap in the red suit
sure ain't gonna visit your house tonight.

You recite poetry
to silence.

You have coffee
and cigarettes
at khan

And you smile.
For no reason
but for the knowledge of knowing
that you are there for yourself.

No (f-ing) matter what.

**

I listened to Elvis yesterday morning. After a long time.
Danced with him under the sun, in my aunt's garden.
He sang love songs to me, made the idea of a jailhouse more interesting, and made me keen to purchase blue suede shoes for next Christmas.

He left with the electricity.

And I am by myself, again.

Will give Cobain a call tomorrow.

2007-10-11T20:07:00.001+05:30

Conversations

Did it hurt?

It did a bit, but its really hot. It feels good to have it.

Hmm.

What?

I mean, I'm sure it does. Sigh, but the pain one has to go through in order to get it.

So?

Nothing. She yawns. I'm just saying it's frivolous. Besides, you look like you're bruised.

Wait. Have you ever got one of these?

No.

No wonder.

***
(Scenes from teenage life-First Hickie)

2007-06-17T20:30:00.000+05:30

WITH A SPARKLER

I want you to write my name in the dark, with a sparkler!

Okay… but why with a sparkler?

Because others things are boring. Some people tattoo their darling's name on their shoulder; others have it engraved on their tombstone. But I… I want you to write my name in the dark with a sparkler.

Hmm… but why in the dark?

Because a sparkler won't sparkle in light stupid! Then writing my name would be pointless…

Okay… so tell me, what is the point in writing your name?

You ask a lot of questions…

I'm curious…

About what?

About who we are… and what do names have to do with us?

Names give us an identity…

I thought personalities did that…

Argh! Does it really matter what names do?

Yes.

Why?

Because you want me to write your name in the dark with a sparkler…

Yes, that's precisely what I want you to do.

But… why your name?

Because you love me and you can't just write anyone's name in the dark with a sparkler!

A moment ago I thought you said that names don't matter.

Well, there are exceptions…

Hmm…

What?

I'm bored.

Are you saying that this conversation means nothing to you? That I mean nothing to you?

No, I'm just saying that I'm bored.

Are you trying to fool around with me?

Sadly, I think by the time we are done with this conversation, the only thing I'll be 'fooling around' with will be the sparkler…

Anyway chuck that… you in the mood to do it then?

Do what?

Write my name in the dark with a sparkler!

Oh… you're still on that…

What else do you expect me to be on?

Me.

Argh! Men! Just think about themselves all the time!

Oh! Forgive me Mother Teresa!

Do you really want to start a fight right now?

No, that's your job.

Uff! This conversation isn't going anywhere.

I'm sorry, did you actually think this conversation would go somewhere?

Yes!

Where? Timbuktu?

This is not funny. I know why you're doing this. You don't love me anymore.

Oh god.. Here we go again…

You don't care about my feelings, or what I want, or what makes me happy. Sarcasm… that's all you know. You don't know how to love, how to-

Enough! I can't take this anymore! I'm going!

Where?

To write your name in the dark with that bloody sparkler!

~~~

2007-06-07T11:46:00.000+05:30

IN MEMORY...

Remember the time when we were in love?

When the days collapsed into nights, where the roads chased dragonflies, where rain danced on roof tops, where the mountains echoed sunrise ~ it was the season of mistletoes.

Remember?

When we ran wildly after rainbows, when the trees wore the colours of olive and bronze, when the sun bathed the sky red, and your eyes sang poetry.

Or the time, when we lay naked on the grass, entangled like the roots of an oak tree, breathing into each other, while your fingers teased my skin, touring the outlines of my body, snaking the curves, as you blanketed me with your kisses.

Remember? I'm sure you do, for that's all I have to offer. Memories.

~~~

Genre: Prose Poetry

2007-05-23T13:47:00.000+05:30

LET US GO THEN YOU AND I

Sometimes, you just have to listen...

To the stillness between moments, to the rustling of leaves of yellow and brown twisting and twirling with the wind, anticipating rain, to the flapping of the wings in the sky-calling out to freedom. Listen... To the breathing of your body, to the ticking of time, to your feet caressing the grass beneath you while you walk alone in silence as darkness colours the blue of the sky...

Took my dog out for a walk in the evening... The Retriever leads me down the road, sniffing about, wagging his tail, perking his ears every now and then whenever a fellow canine scurries past.

I hum unconsciously as I walk. It's a beautiful road. A long stretch with tall, intimidating trees hugging it on either side, casting innocuous shadows onto the grey boulevard. The lamp posts stand nonchalantly at equal distances from the trees, creating small pools of light, illuminating the dreary road as far as their circumference allows. Fallen leaves lie scattered in dismay, they have their own stories to tell. The air is dry, lifeless, still.

The cicadas sting the air with their shrills: high-pitched, droning sounds that compete with silence, and win. My pace becomes slower, as my eyes search into the night, for beauty, life and celebration of it. The moths dance hypnotically under the lamp posts, their translucent wings slithering against each other, as the light seeps gracefully into their fine, muslin-like textures. Lost in trance, their movements explore the space, with definite and indefinite troughs and crests.

They are spell-bound to the magic the light renders. Drunk, as some may say. Lost, as lovers may say. Mystified, as the poets would say.

It begins to drizzle. I extend my hand out, wishing to embrace the moment, as few droplets parachute down. Then a few more descend. And then, some more.

My dog turns his head around to look at me, while he continues to walk. His eyes seem to question, as his tongue hangs out insipidly in thirst.
I smile.

"Lets go home, shall we?"

He wags his tail in response. We turn around, as the clouds resonate in anger, promising yet another thunder-storm. We keep walking, fearlessly like lovers, eventually disappearing into the night, leaving the whispers of dead leaves behind to tell our story.

~~~

Genre: Fiction

2007-05-16T13:23:00.001+05:30

REMEMBERING THE FORGOTTEN

He smiles at me mischievously as the sunlight plays with the silver in his hair. Sitting on the park bench, with his hands delicately resting on his lap and feet placed firm on the ground, my grand father is not an ordinary man. A scientist by profession, this man of eighty-four is a remarkable story-teller.

The air around us brews up little moments of nostalgia: the lilies, the damp grass, the warm and moist smell of mud—they all conjure memories of a forgotten time. This park has seen me grow up. As a child, I have sat down on the swings, raced with the wind, have even imagined the swings to be magical wings that would help me soar as high as the over-ambitious Icarus. I have not only imagined all of this, but have also attempted little feats of my own, only to fall face down on the ground, and to learn (at a very young age indeed) that gravity does, in fact, exist and can make me bid farewell to two of my teeth. I've stood in awe under the once giant slide which once upon a time proudly towered two feet over me, and which meekly seems to dissolve under my presence now when I approach it; I’ve chased butterflies, for colours and movement have always fascinated me. I've sung several Hindi songs at the top of my voice while sitting under the quiet trees with my friends [until 2^nd grade, when I took to listening and appreciating Dire Straits and Eagles. Courtesy: my brother]—this park has seen it all. This park has endured it all. It celebrates my childhood every time I visit.

Past speaks in whispers, the see-saw beckons, time stands defeated while my grand father's voice scissors through the world my memories have woven, re-introducing me to reality.

He begins to tell me a story.

I was always interested in science... My maternal grand father was an educated man. He had studied agriculture and was interested in farming. Education made him liberal minded and broadened his perception towards life. It was during that time spent in his house that I realized my first love and the subject I wanted to pursue later on in my life-Science.

My father's death left my mother a young window of 18, with three extra mouths to feed-her children. I was four back then, while my sisters were one and two. In south India, widows were ostracized and hence it was inevitable that my mother would have to face several hardships. Though she was illiterate and young, my mother was a strong and intelligent woman, determined to educate us.

{His smile fails to leave his face as he talks ardently of his childhood. His dimples teasingly play hide and seek with me, while the wrinkles near his eyes deepen and relax with every movement. Sitting opposite to him, I wrap my arms around my knees and place my chin comfortably on them. I wait anxiously, wanting him to go on.}

***

This piece is a part of a much longer story. The story is growing beautifully. Will try to complete it as soon as possible.

P.S. Thank you Aaki.

~~~

Genre: Creative Non-Fiction

2007-02-26T07:42:00.000+05:30

FRAME OF MIND AS OF NOW: PISSED

Early in the morning, I wake up with a sore throat and no intentions to go to college whatsoever. I listen to Schism as I try to wake myself from the senseless consciousness I am in. The music changes to The Road I'm on-makes me question my existence. It's a cold day and I'm guessing I'll be falling sick pretty soon.

It's a fucking annoying day. Yesterday I had gone to 'cover' the Alumni meet of my college . Had to take interviews from random pass outs and ask them vague questions like, "So, how were your three years in this shit hole?"... So basically you can understand how my Sunday went. Pathetic .... Gloomy as the weather was, I still managed to catch up with friends. Two guys, a girl, an old monk and the religion of music. While the guys had something to drink, I went into a pensive mood. Music played in the background. Sunlight played hide and seek with the curtains. Smoke danced in the air.... "I like the randomness of smoke" says one in the group, mesmerized by the hypnotic dance of the plumes and the magic with which they animate the still air... The music plays on... plays in my subconsciousness... yet, I'm surrounded by this silence. Where I can hear absolutely nothing. I breathe... Every breath is slow, warm, moist. It creates its own music... in... and out.... in... and out....

Brought back to reality with the clicking of my friend's fingers... Clicking to the beats of the music thats playing... He takes out a photo album and shows me pictures of his childhood... I have an ambiguous perception towards pictures... Don't really know whether I like them or not. They revive memories. Remembering memories makes us live in the past while being in the present. Why? Why should we think about something that has gone? That has ceased to exist? Those moments will never come again. You may call me pessimistic, but here I'm asking you to look forward, embrace the future, live the life that is to come. So am I optimistic then? Naah... I'm just sane... I think.... I guess.... I hope....

The music changes track: "The Logical Song"

"How apt" my consciousness mockingly tells me. Nothing seems to be logical in this world. It's illogical. That's the beauty of it. Ironically, it is the insanity we live in that somehow, in a very weird way, makes sense. We humans love to dwell in depression. Drown ourselves in self-pity. "Life is harsh," I hear a friend of mine tell me. Sure it is. If it was easy, who would want to live it? Boredom would strike, melancholy would take over and we would be living a mundane life as an answer to an existence already known. If this doesn't make sense, don't bother. Probably we aren't on the same plane....

Mom asks me to make chai for her. My reply: I have to rush for college after this. I'm meted with a glare, a shrug and a pissed off, "riiiight" from my mother. She walks off.

LESSON #1: No matter what you're doing, never say 'no' to your mom. What will ensue otherwise, will be an endless cheer-up--mom process which will inevitably take up more time.

Will probably shove off now. Have to 'get ready' for college-a world where everyone lives in a comfortable bubble, completely divorced from reality.....

GOOD MORNING

2006-06-26T11:31:00.000+05:30

ANOREXIA AND ME

It's weird you know, how young girls are becoming victim of diseases like Anorexia and Bulimia... I have been a victim of Anorexia... and thankfully, have been managed to get out of it...
In 9th grade, a certain line, said by a certain boy in my bus triggered everything off. I was fat back then. Really fat. Obese perhaps, I don't know. I used to have a packet of Lays chips everyday, had fried finger chips during recess in school, finished the half-eaten sandwiches left by my friends in their tiffin boxes-I hogged. My weight was a matter of discussion between my parents. My mom would sometimes object to my pig-like eating habits, yet my dad was the one who always defended me.

"Let her eat. She's young . If she doesn't enjoy life now, when will she? She'll grow up and start worrying about her weight in any case. She'll never eat then. Let her be for now." And with that, the conversation would end.

My daily food intake was huge. I loved eating... I loved food {still do actually}... People eat to live... I lived to eat. Jokes were usually centered around me... or involved me in someway or the other... Terms like 'moti', 'fatso' etc. were often used to refer to me. I didn't really care about my weight back then. I was thirteen! Guys in my bus often made fun of me. I usually ignored them.. Retaliated... Fought back... did whatever I could to keep my pride. If I had an argument with anyone of them, the first thing they would attack on would be my weight, my size, anything and everything. Yes, it did hurt me, but then again, I was used to it. No, not immune... I just learnt how to live with it. But that all changed. One day, in my bus, a guy (whom I used to hate.. Have had several fights with him) said something really painful... He pointed out to one of his friends, loudly, that I wasn't walking properly due to my gigantic size.. (that wasn't true by the way).. I was walking pretty well.. but for some reason, what he said, hit me. I don't know what it was.. maybe it was the sudden outburst of laughter that affected me or the smirky looks given to me by some of the teachers in the bus... but it just hit me... a whole run. I went back home, crying all the way, crying in the lift, crying.. just crying. When my mom opened the door, she consoled me, comforted me and said,

"To hell with those stupid kids! You are beautiful Radhika, ignore them. Now, I know what will make you happy. There is nice Aloo ki sabji for you... Your favourite. Now go wash up and I'll get the food ready."

That did it. Food. That was the reason to my unhappiness. That was the cause of my humiliation. I started hating food from that day forth. I stayed away from it. My mom was happy that I was controlling my eating, so she didn't say anything when I suddenly reduced my food intake. I started with having one spoon of rice, one chapati and a bit of sabji... then, I removed rice from my eating list. Mom made me join these Shamak Dawar classes, where I learnt the importance of exercise and how out-of-shape I was. I started exercising day in and day out at home. I used to work out for an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays, then Tuesdays, Thrusdays and Fridays, then I started working out even on weekends.. and then the entire week. I stopped eating chapatis... I learnt that sugar was something I couldn't do without, so I switched to drinking Real Mango juice (3 packets per day-120 Cal/pack) and peanuts... It is said that an average human being needs at least 1300-1400 intake of calories per day... I reduced mine to 600 calories and exercised like crazy. In Dec 2000, I was 70 kgs, in May 2001, I was 55 kgs and by the time July arrived, I had become 50 kgs. In six months I had lost 20 kgs. With a pale face, a considerably thin waist and no strength at all, I had turned anemic. My parents tried to reason with me, literally begged me to start eating again, sometimes my dad screamed at me for abusing my body, but I didn't listen to him. At 50 kgs, I wasn't happy, I was determined to lose more weight-a definite sign of anorexia. Even with a waist of 26", I felt I was fat, huge, humungous! I stayed away from food. If I had even a small bite of my mother's chapati, I would feel like I have put on a kg. I used to envy girls who were skinny and wondered why couldn't I be like them. When I returned to school after the summer holidays in July, I was greeted with open mouths, surprised looks and utter astonishment. A sense of triumph visited me. Girls came up to me and asked me what I had done to become so thin. People couldn't recognize me. It felt good to be the centre of attention and not of jokes.

Back home, my dad and I fought every night... He would be angry about the fact that I didn't eat properly. To avoid eating food, I would sleep all day long. When I would get up, I would exercise, watch TV, have my juice and then sleep off again. My hair started to fall along with my weight. The group of popular girls at school befriended me, bcoz I belonged to their 'size' now. As for my old friends, they were still there.. and were very concerned. They tried to shove food down my throat on the grounds of friendship... But that all didn't work. There was a point of time when I took to Bulimia as well. Whatever little my friends managed to feed me, I would puke it all out in the toilet. I wanted to look 'good'... I wanted to do away with the title of 'Moti'... I wanted to impress guys around me (I had turned 15). But there was something terribly wrong in all these wants. I wanted to look good for others, I wanted to impress others, I tried to find happiness through others. My mother started taking me to doctors and made them drill some sense into my head. All of them explained how badly I was misusing my body and offered me correct alternatives for losing weight. They told me about other girls who had ruined their lives due to anorexia. Mom made me read several articles on the disease and its side-effects (some of which I had started to encounter already). I wanted to lose weight because I thought I would start looking prettier, better... After reading one of the articles, one day I went and stood in front of the mirror and I saw how pale I had become. How ugly and fragile I was looking. I realized how stupid I had been.

Slowly, slowly, I tried to get myself to eat food again. I started enjoying solid food in my mouth. After about a month and a half, my face began to regain its colour. I was happier, healthier... Eventually I got out of anorexia and as soon as I became well, I gained weight like crazy. This is one MAJOR side-effect of anorexia. You put on weight after loosing sooo much. Moral of the story, just lose weight the normal way-exercise and eat healthy.

When I look back now, it feels almost like a dream. I learnt that instead of finding happiness within myself, I looked elsewhere. Thats what peer pressure does to you-it prevents you from thinking straight. You start living for the world and not for yourself. Screw the world! Who cares what the world thinks? At the end of the day, nobody gives a damn, seriously. Everyone is concerned about their own life. Be happy with who you are, what you look like, what you weigh like. Now, I'm not saying that its 'okay' being overweight, I'm just saying that its pointless pleasing other people. You need to be happy with yourself, you need to find that happiness within yourself... don't be dependent on others to give you that happiness. So next time you think anorexia is the anwer to all your stupid weight problems, slap yourself, read this article all over again and go have a proper meal!

2006-05-19T12:12:00.000+05:30

MORNING BLUES

I start my day by getting up at half past seven... Those of you who get up at noon and call that their 'morning', I truly envy you guys. For those who are undoubtedly confused, I may articulate myself by saying that, the exact time as to when I should get up, rests completely in the paws of my much loved dog. His early morning "coos" and deliberate yelps successfully wake me up and I reluctantly stagger towards my bedroom door so as to free my dog from the boundaries of my petite room. Yes, that is exactly how I begin my day, period. Anyhow, moving along... today I went out and got baked under the scorching sun (err, I went out for some personal work by the way, n' no, I don't do this for fun)... I came back and then religiously turned on my computer to listen to music. Music is my only escape from the monotony in my life n' I simply adore it! (yeah, I know this sounds cliched) Well, my life isn't as boring as I may put it.... But then again, define boring? Anyway, I just realized that I may be 'boring' quite a few of you with my incoherent use of sentences. So basically, I should now stop my fingers from typing any further. Thanks for reading my thoughts and you can now carry on leading your complacent lives....
P.S. Those who don't like sarcasm....Well, too bad! I really couldn't care what you didn't like anyway. Happy reading! :D

2006-05-18T13:09:00.000+05:30

VOCAB

New phrases have been introduced into our vocabulary... Phrases like, 'funny shit', 'shit happens' etc... I just don't get it though.. I mean, how can shit 'happen'? And even if it does, whats so great about that anyway?!? Seriously... What is up with our language? With our way of communicating? I mean, I myself greet my friends by calling them names which, if my mom would hear, would leave her mouth open in utter astonishment for quite some time. But still.. Think about it... Isn't it weird how our sentences are almost all the time punctuated with profanities and vague abuses... Who would have known that a certain finger of the human hand would become an integral part of ahem, human 'communication' shall I say?

Hands... Ah, the creative mind can think of so many different ways of making use of them... from polite gestures to immature, debasing hand movements; hands have done it all. It's just amusing to notice how verbal thrashing has been replaced with uncouth hand gestures. Not that I'm saying that I don't behave like an average teenager or that I have never committed the 'sin' of affectionate abusing... I have.. But the fact of the matter still remains that our vocabulary is continuously being influenced and dominated by several words and phrases completely uncalled for.

FUCK... I'm sure most of you were almost certain I would bring this word up... From the age of twelve {maybe younger} many kids discover the existence of this word. Now, the actual meaning of it may not matter, but the deliberate continuous use of it does.

Fuck! I've lost my pen!
What the fuck are you talking about??
Are you fucking kidding me??

Seriously, we have got so used to using this term that it's impossible to let go of it! God knows who invented this word, but if this individual had a face, teenagers would worship him! okay, maybe not... but you get the basic picture, don't you?

2006-05-17T11:15:00.000+05:30

My friends and I decided to go out after college-since we got tremendously bored in class and desired to do sumthing fun... Now picture this, four people in one auto! yep, not a very pretty sight... Even the auto walla, instead of looking at the road, kept on looking at us through his rear view mirror!
Now its completely understandable when foreigners stare in awe at completely jam-packed DTC buses or enthusiastically take pictures of more than two people sitting on bikes, but it was kind of embarassing to notice that a bunch of travelling firangs were nicely pointing fingers at us and nodding sympathetically as if they empathized with our situation!
Anyway, we reached Vasant Vihar Market in one piece and as soon as we get out, we were greeted with a 'Bomb Disposal Squad' Bus or a name something pretty close to that... Oh man, we were so scared... I was literally on the verge of getting into the auto again... but then again, the bus had come just for safety purposes, so my friends calmed me down, and off we were gallivanting into the market... After nearly half hour of contemplating where we should go for lunch, we settled on 'Yo China!' And I must say, there was nothing 'yo!' about it... it sucked... the food was served cold and to top it off, when we complained, the waiters were bloody rude! Haha, somebody wasn't going to get a tip today... so anyway, we had our totally non-delectable meal, had a few laughs, welcomed many frowns and got free fortune cookies... I had read somewhere, that if u read your fortune from a fortune cookie, make sure u end the sentence with 'in bed'.... it somehow adds a new meaning to it and turns out to be more fun... mine said-'It's your turn to be a good samaritan (in bed)'...hehe... for those who don't know what a 'good samaritan' means, it means 'a person who voluntarily offers help in times of trouble'.... GO FIGURE! Of course, I hope such an incident never arises :P.... Anyhow, after that, we guys went off to do some shopping-that was fun... couldn't catch a movie because the movie's time didn't suit us [dammit]... After that, I took a bus back home, and returned home with an splitting headache. When my dad opened the door for me, I was greeted with a huge lick on my face, courtesy-my dog, who was evidently extremely happy to see me... He followed me around like a little puppy after that... I turned on my computer, listened to music and here I am , writing yet another account of my life... so, how was your day?

2006-05-17T02:31:00.000+05:30

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY...

This is so weird, I can write an entire book on DTC bus rides! While some people may consider it 'dumb', I think its the best way to bring ur creativeness into being. The following is an account of what I come across during my journey in a DTC bus (which is now so popular on my blog) almost everyday...

1) The other day, while traveling, i saw a cycle-rickshaw upon which a mobile no. was written-'for service, call pappu on 98.....' Hahaha! I'm not kidding!

2) Whats even more hilarious is to look at cycle rickshaws which have 'CNG vehicle' symbol painted on their seats!

Now, there is one universal truth about auto-rickshaw walas... They act like they are our customers.... Most of us who have taken several autos in our life have to listen to the whims and fancies of the auto walas. If they don't feel like going to a particular place, they'll just drive off. No ifs, not buts, just drive! Okay, so maybe that was a sad one.
Their Favorite pastime: - Bargaining! Over time, I have learnt that if you want to pay a particular amount, say Rs. 100, then always tell them that by meter, it usually costs you Rs. 80... They by themselves will increase the amount to Rs. 100. So technically, though they might think that they've won the bargain, indirectly, it is you who has won it. However, if u tell them that u usually pay Rs. 100, they jack up 20 bucks extra and demand Rs. 120 out of ur purse!
Another tantrum u may come across is their, "Kindly madam, pay Rs. 15 extra since I will not get a customer on the way back" excuse. Also, if they agree to go by the meter, the idiots will purposely take you via the longest route possible to reach your destination.
Yes, smart-really smart. So the next time you think you have paid decently and that u have got 'value for money' just because you have traveled by meter, think again. Live and learn my friend, live and learn....