Nothing On My Mind

An urban fairy tale

2011-12-13T12:01:00.001-08:00

http://amarantaentertainment.com/an-urban-fairy-tale/

Muddy eddies and unclear waters

2011-12-13T11:04:00.000-08:00

BOOK REVIEW

Book: The Muddy River

Author: P. A. Krishnan

‘When the river is flooded, its water is muddier than at any other time, but when the flood has subsided, it becomes clearer than it was before.’ This quote is attributed to Gandhi at the conclusion of The Muddy River, by P. A. Krishnan. The plot is very much so – muddy, at this quote at least, strives to bring some clarity.

There is a novel within this novel, and a plethora of characters, who weave in and out of the narrative at will. The story of Chandran and Sukanya who have lost their child Priya is at the heart of this story. The relationship of the protagonists is like a theme song, an undercurrent running through. Streaks of brilliant narrative flash through like lightening on a dark stormy night. But on the whole, The Muddy River is a narrative that moves in fits and starts, and as Sukanya’s mails to Subir and Herbert echo, it is a narrative that does not tell the story perfectly.

The culprit you could say are the fonts in the book, the myriad fonts that muddy the reading so much, that you have to return after the first few pages, to figure out that one represents the book in the book, one represents real time and there is more.

Besides, there is some confusion as to the Voice at a particular point. On page 31, Sukanya is reading letters from Subir and Herbert. ‘She’ reads the letters. ‘She’ eased him on the sofa. And a couple of lines later, ‘I haven’t asked him who this Raman is...’ This ‘I’ pops up at a few more places but I have trouble placing the identity of this first person character.

The story hops between Guwahati, Calcutta, Delhi. Ramesh Chandran, as Chief Vigilance Officer, Power Transmission Corporation, a government entity, finds himself thick in negotiation for Ghosh, an engineer of the corporation kidnapped by a militant group.

There are some truly delightful characters who weave in and out – there is Bura, the contractor; Raman who dies in the arms of an ‘escort’ in the company guest house, Bhuyan, the cop; the Power Minister; the Power Secretary. The machinations of these last dignitaries are familiar, deliciously repugnant and corrupt.

It is a tale within the tale, and Ramesh writes out his life, it appears, to purge the guilt of the death of his child. Or is it?

We don’t know. Interestingly, Ramesh remains a mystery despite the first person narrative. He hides more than he relates, even as he shares with you his observations, his irritation, his anger. As the novel concludes, it is Anupama, who takes up a good part of the Assamese narrative who offers us a glimpse of the real Chandran, and then there is a tantalising possibility – did they have an affair?

There is pure gold in the plot of this book and its characters. But it is lost in the muddy eddies of the fonts and the back and forth telling, the he’s and the I’s, the italics and the bolds.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

A Civil Society Bill?

2011-11-03T11:06:00.000-07:00

What if there is truly a civil society mandate? What, if those who are opinion makers, and those who have the power to make the change grab the bull by the horns, and create a Civil Bill that underlines certain requirements that the Common Man asks for, from those they have to vote for?

This Civil Bill, among other things can create a Code for the politician, for the man who wishes to stand for elections. Of course, the age of retirement should be a given. If a man has to retire at 60 or 65 years to give way to new talent and new energy, in politics too, this should be the norm. The Bill can set this and others like:

1. Every aspiring politician should have a minimum education level. Papers to this effect, double ratified, not by a random notary, but by the educational institution and the university, should be presented in the public domain. This will eliminate fake degrees and certificates as well as proxies sitting in for exams.

2. Every aspiring politician should have put in say about a year of ground level social work. He should live in the area where he works, travel on local trains, visit the shanties of the poor and the homeless and have tea with them, without the press and the media being present. There should be an everyday system, perhaps with the new computerised UID support, to ensure that the year of work is clocked, say about 9am-5pm. No excuses, no hospitalisation please.

3. The area of social work can cover any field from education to social or civic support/services.

4. At the end of this year, the aspiring politico shall present a paper on his work, with suitable statistics and other information to the university of the state he belongs to. He shall then immediately be awarded a doctorate, if the quality of his paper passes muster. This short cuts the unnecessary need to get to power, pull all strings, and after two decades of struggle to stay in power, just to have some random university award him a doctorate.

5. This year long social work experience shall be the criteria for standing for any kind of elections. Without this experience, a candidate’s application should be declared null and void.

6. Once elected, the candidate should be eligible for accommodation and other incentives that will average the income levels of his constituency. For example, if the poor in the constituency are surviving on Rs.32 a day quite easily, it would be ridiculous for its elected representative to live in a villa, with Z-category security and move about in an entourage of 10 Ambassadors and a personal SUV.

7. An elected representative cannot act in a film, even if before he entered politics, films were his calling. It would be rather fitting that he should opt for reality television instead. It would connect him instantly to the viewing public, and eliminate any selfish motives of amassment of personal wealth, name or fame - since as per the Civil Bill, he would have to plough any gains thus accrued into the betterment of his constituency.

The above is just a sample of some of the codes that could well cleanse the system of its black sheep. Building on this, it would be needless to say that those accused of murder and corruption, and who may not have been convicted, still cannot apply. A clean slate is a mandate to getting to be our leader.

We get raped every day, but we don’t know it

2011-11-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

Every day there is a new scam, a new leader, administrator, politician behind bars. Every day there is someone who ought to be giving to society, taking from the economy instead. Every day, the people who are hired/voted/in positions to protect us, disappoint us, leaving the stage open for someone new, appearing to bring in hope, to step into the limelight. Apathetic, we watch the drama as mere spectators.

Considering the kind of news that is being presented to us on television and in print and in every other form available, life has become very difficult to live. You cannot step out of your house for any of the below reasons:

1. Petrol price hike every two months.
2. Attendant price rice of vegetables and essential provisions, you don’t dare go out shopping for you may not have money to pay in your purse.
3. Eve-teasers who bully women and kill men who try to protect them
4. Apathetic policemen
5. Drunken cadre who abuse motorists like the professor who drove slowly on a Chennai road blocking their path.
6. Apathetic policemen
7. Dustbins spilling stinking rubbish on the roads
8. Apathetic corporators
9. Speeding motorists liable to hit you and drive on
10. Speeding buses
11. Murderous water lorries that don’t look behind when they reverse...

You can add yours to the list...

But the fact remains that either which way, you and I lose, despite our fasts and candle-light vigils, in large groups where we feel warm, cocooned and safe. The shivering spectators who watch vicariously, with no guts to intervene are us. We have no excuse. Every day we get raped, and we don’t know it.

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2011-09-23T10:41:00.001-07:00

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You have heard the Voice

2011-08-19T12:47:00.001-07:00

We the People are so busy trying to make ends meet, that we have forgotten what it is to think. Mostly, our attitudes unconsciously reflect our desire to be left alone to lead our lives – we want someone else to do the dirty work.

So here we are, watching on national television, and on our streets, the frustration of the collective. Suddenly, there was the septuagenarian, who has miraculously emerged from the mess, to allow us to see what we were.

So in a surge of oneness, the Great Indian Middle Class is out there, showing its strength. For the first time in 64 years, it discovered its Voice. However, in the melee, in the comparisons to Gandhi, one thing is emerging slowly, that some of the commentators are piecing together and putting into words. What everyone missed and what everyone is discovering now.

The ruling class across polity is not just a bit confused. They have lived in a time warp, feasting on the crème of the country, while the drones worked their butts off to make a living. They ensured that the drones did not get anything free – that every bit of education, medical care or essentials of basic living, were fought for tooth and nail, thus allowing those in power to feast on, uncontested.

This ruling class is yet a leftover of the children of the Midnight Generation, who probably saw Freedom happening but were too young to participate in the building of a nation. So without the pain of hard labour, they grew into understanding power and what it could achieve. Now in their sixties, seventies and eighties, these illusionaries, our elected representatives, wise in experience - stand there bewildered not understanding the actual truth of what is happening out there. And Anna was visible, they targeted him; fell flat. Every party in the opposition is glad they aren’t in the hot seat.

But this isn’t about Anna at all. This is about the Voice that has been emerging, a Voice we see every day, we have nurtured them, brought them up and allowed them to grow into the New Generation. This New Generation is not really looking for the privileges of stepping into the shoes of their fathers, mothers, grandfathers or grandmothers like the Leaders who try to be role models. They are discovering new things to do, new things to enjoy and new experiences to explore. In fact, this is the Generation that sees little beyond themselves and their concurrent life circles, the Generation that believes that they are their own role models. Freedom and Gandhi then, were things they read in history before the 11th standard.

This Generation is from the Great Indian Middle Class, looking for good educations, for better degrees, better paying jobs, good lives, well-furnished homes and happy experiences. This is best epitomized by the current Airtel ad so brilliantly interspersed between the news on channels capturing the Voice, where groups of youngsters sing to let you know what their different friends are and how these friends are important to them. And they are the Voice – they are right in front of you and they will not listen to what you say unless they themselves believe in it or are convinced about it.

They are our children, our grandchildren – and no – their Voices are not that of merely the rich and the powerful or those in the media. They are the Voices of those who live next door, who catch buses, trams and autos to college or to work, without the media making them into youth icons. They take loans to get them through college, they aspire to study or work elsewhere in the world and in their own eyes, they are global citizens, yet contemporary Indians.

So is this about Anna? Not at all. This is about the Voice everyone missed, and the Voice that the Wise, in their elected confidence are completely disconnected with. This Voice votes/or not votes, but they are in touch with reality. They have always known what they do not want. (Have you tried persuading your child to do something against his/her wishes? You will understand what I mean.)

So when this pristine, grandfatherly man, who seemed sincere and who suddenly emerged talking Jan Lokpal exhorted them to be there with him, they needed no encouragement. Like a dam burst, they are there flooding the streets.

The Wise Ones have retreated, licking their wounds. They Youth Politicos cannot help them for they themselves grew up in the lap of privilege, acquiring easy educations in Harvard or Cambridge, touring the world young and cocooned in security.

Anna is merely the metaphor, a strong one nevertheless. The voices on television grow stronger, and they are from the Voice – now not shy from showing a Face. There will be others who will speak as loud.

Chemistry

2010-06-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

It was a moment she had not anticipated ever. Romantic novellas were her bedtime treat when the burr bugged her brain: but they were soporific tranquillizers, not real books. So it was that in her declining years, she imagined stories of romantic trysts for herself, imagining a time when life would begin again, and when she would regress to a start-up twenty. Nice. Almost as tranquillizing as the books that dished them out.

Very often she would try to imagine, wonder, if that ‘chemistry’ that kept the romance together in the books happened to her in real life what she would do. But it was an imagination that she could not fathom. She gave up, since it was beyond the realm of the real and in books of course, it strung the poor thread of a plot together to the inevitable end.

But it happened, and when it did, she could not believe it. “It is in my imagination,” she thought to herself. Deprived of the oxygen of a life, she was beginning to imagine reality in unreal situations. Or so she thought.
But she could not have imagined the first look. The first pull of something that told her this was ‘the’ zing. The something that made her look at his face again to wonder why it made her look again. Not a handsome face, but a pleasant one. Not certainly tall, dark and handsome – for he was a bit stocky, fair and light-eyed to boot.

And then it happened again. The fine thread that made the link was getting clearer by the minute. This was something more. There was electricity in two hands that came close to touching but did not. There was a buzz in the smiles and the conversations. The fine thread that was almost transparent began to acquire form and a steady shape – it was a line that connected and each time the connection was made, there was a zap. It could not be ignored anymore.

She put down the book which had lost its lustre and tried imagination. This time, it just wouldn’t work. There were no stories or situations that would fit this one. For there it was, moments and moments in time, of a link, an electricity and a puzzled acceptance of this happening.

Once the acceptance came, she shrugged and relaxed. There was nothing, truly nothing she could do about it. For he was a twenty to her thirty-five and there would be plenty others he would surely connect better with, perhaps of his own age?

As she brooded, he came up to where she was seated, at the lounger by the poolside and smiled. The electricity crackled and their eyes met. “May I join you?” he asked.

Extreme beauty

2010-06-01T11:34:00.001-07:00

Extreme beauty does that to you. Makes you dissatisfied. Having returned from a tryst with true Nature: no faux 'close-to-nature' resort in the sun - there seems nothing left for you back here.

The need to return pulls. If only I were born in another time. Perhaps two decades later.

Bollywood special with imported bombshell

2010-05-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

The film begins well enough. You have a charming but unscrupulous hero who earns his moolah mainly by wedding young women looking for a green card. The scene is of course, Vegas. Then you have the illegal Spanish immigrant, once again, out for the money, but is fairly plain about her intentions. Both of them are in relationships for what they can get out of it to make their lives easy.

So you have a casino, it’s wealthy, ruthless owner(Kabir Bedi in a wasted role), his son(affianced to the hyped Barbara Mori) and daughter(played by Kangana whom Hrithik pretends to love for the lucre). Then there is a bit of the past where Hrithik has had a wedding with Barbara to help her get a green card and him the cash.

All very well. Stage is set for some interesting encounters and plenty of chemistry you think, when this whole bunch meet at the beach house of Kabir and family for the engagement of son to Barbara. There is much exchange of looks and pursing of lips and the premise for an illicit tryst is set between the lead pair. And then… I think I missed the kite. And so does the director.

Where earlier Natasha(Mori) was a delicious gold digger, the second half shows her soppy and giving up her earlier ambitions for ‘love’! So too with J(Hrithik). Then what? Well… there is nothing you can do when the first half of the storyline cannot even connect with the second. The lead pair show no justification for their change of heart. There are plenty of hide and seek thrilling chase scenes; many many scenes of romance(yawn) with significant exchange of looks and the poster lead pair posing against glorious backdrops. And then… some more story, where there is no Kabir Bedi or Kangana, but only the official villain weekly gnashing his teeth and chasing the lead pair to the end.

Someone has had fun writing the first half, while another writer went wild with the second – that’s the way the script seems.

Makes you feel sorry for poor Hrithik who has made the effort to look gorgeous and act some part - someone please tell Barbara that showing teeth and tongue between teeth cannot constitute acting.

Meanwhile, there is enough craft in this beautifully well-shot movie to make you think what could have been done with this story had they stuck their necks out to make a proper movie and not a Bollywood love story special with an imported bombshell.

The Chase Legacy

2010-04-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

‘One Bright Summer Morning’ is one of James Hadley Chase’s best books I think. This prolific and wonderful story teller had his books marred by skimpy babes on the rather lurid covers. One reason why your hand extended to pick them up; one reason why you hesitated to hold them aloft while reading them as a teen.

Yet, his books have been the most captivating, delving deep into criminal minds, their impulses and of course, mostly always they got their just desserts. But the story telling and the plots were without exception masterly and Chase is an un-anointed classic story teller about the darker side.

Last week at my friendly neighbourhood bookshop, ‘Words and Worths’ I stumbled upon these books with lurid covers, with production values akin to pirated versions that you see on pavement vendor’s shelves and uneven, uneasy fonts/production values.

Curiosity got the better of me (the same curiosity that helped me discover and buy Ashok Banker’s ‘Ten Dead Admen’/’The Iron Bra’ and ‘Murder & Champagne’ as a set of three for a sum of Rs.50 many years ago), especially since the author of these obviously crime novels with was Dr. L. Prakash, the doctor who is counting his time behind bars in a pornography case. Below his name is the blurb “India’s Most Prolific Author” attributed to Outlook.

The back covers are very candid. They carry his photograph as well as a brief profile and his life imprisonment and the fact that he ‘scribbles away’ his novels in Puzhal Prison. And his publisher? – Banana Books based in Triplicane.

Curiosity won. The books were expensive, for their kind of quality, close to about Rs.200 each. I fell into ‘Tangled Web’ a narrative about a new kid in town, the murder of a starlet and a whodunit that echoed a ‘Chasey’ feel. Curiously, the language was clumsy, but the plot and narrative held together in a strange atmosphere of suspense. Words were used wrongly in contexts; crème substituted cream in one place and automotive substituted automobile. But in our very Indian way, one understood the substitutions and went on with it. The plot stood the test of suspense and held on to the very end. You even kind of empathized with the hero, who actually is not very likeable; hoping he would get out of his entanglement. All very evocative (mind you nowhere near the class or the mindgames that Chase novels depict) but somewhere, I should say reminiscent.

I have just begun his next ‘Maybach Maiden’(yes, that is the title) which unsurprisingly is about a Gutka/Paan Masala tycoon who gifts his daughter a Maybach – rings a bell?

The point of this blog actually, is that all this made me curious about James Hadley Chase. Now Dr. Prakash’s understanding of crime and criminals in his novels one supposes, were enhanced by his time in prison. Making you wonder if Chase himself had a brush with the law? Or was he ever in law enforcement? How else could he figure out a Riff and a Chita or a Helga Rolfe?

I googled – he seemed to have been a very reclusive writer. One interesting fact I found is that some part of his young life he spent in Calcutta.
Now only his books with the dated babes on the cover stand out. Btw, invariably the babes are the only sex that the books see. Chase’s novels invariably are clinically criminal.

Tomorrow is another day

2010-04-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

Faith makes no connections

My good friend and designer is lucky in his BSNL connection. I keep telling him that. He speaks of his broadband, its speed and the fact that it has so far, not let him down. I keep reiterating that he is lucky and now I know – he is lucky.

Now most of us, for sheer value of getting some reaction if not service for money’s worth, do prefer to engage with the private sector. So it is that my broadband and the mobile connections of various family members are from private operators. While I am not saying that their service is fantastic, a combination of low expectations and the fact that some amount of threat (“I will go to consumer court.”) or coaxing (“Please, please… er… that’s begging) can get some reaction out of them.

Try that with the EB/BSNL/etc and you will know what I mean. So it is better to give them a wide berth or so one thought. But of late, my private operator’s undersea cables, poor guy, is giving him problems, and of late has been a good three weeks. One working day saw the internet down, another saw it slow, and so on and so forth. Not a good thing, since our life’s revenues these days are driven on the net, and in hindsight, perhaps an alternate source of internet would be good as standby, was the thought that drove my next move. I mailed back a BSNL franchise who had sent me a mass marketing mail (after deep thought, of course – for one knows that service or what I call reaction, cannot be that bad, can it, esp. since the marketing blitz that one sees with the svelte Deepika on TV and newspapers).

So reacting to the marketing mail of the BSNL franchisee in T. Nagar, I mailed – they came after two weeks after a little bout of reminder calls. No big deal, since we are used to begging for service anyway (the fact that we pay for such favours has nothing to do with it). After my gentle reminders, a gent called saying he needed two passport photos and two documents, one verifying that I was indeed who I claimed to be and the second, that I lived where I claimed to live. Since all this ID verification has now become part of our existence, I had the stuff ready when he arrived and proceeded to fill up one of the boxed forms that are now the norm.

Once that was done, he gave me the particulars and then… hold your breath… asked for cash. I said crossed cheque or no deal. This confused the gent a bit who made a flurry of calls and then decided that he wanted my money after all, no problem if the bank got it straight. He alertly reminded me that I will not get my object of desire until my money is in the franchisee’s bank. Whatever, I said, but tell me how it goes and deliver my USB modem and post paid connection.

About three days later, checking my online resources thanks to good ol’ SBI, hurrah! I discovered that the franchisee had got his monies, but as usual, his memory was a bit weak. So I made my gentle reminder call and the person in charge, of course was not available, until my voice got a bit sharper, and then of course he was there apparently and he came on the line.

I explained and he was kind – if the money has come in, the USB should be with me that very evening. No issues I said equally kindly, but time, we all know does get a bit elastic and it was the next day evening that the thing actually made its tired way to my home. How exciting. They gave me what looked like a DVD case with a nice blue background and a pretty Deepika Padukone surfing on some laptop wearing a net or crocheted top. Pretty cool.

It’s all done and ready, said the chap who delivered. The seal in the box was broken and the modem loaded with the SIM - we check it before we give it to you, said he. After verifying my identity(my driver’s license this time), it was time for the big logon!

The modem looked sleek and I was keen to do a Deepika. (Do remember it’s thanks to BSNL that she delivered some baby in the back of boondocks in some advert, so it felt all very positive.) Besides, the top of the box said in nice bold letters – BSNL 3G, a generation ahead. I plugged in the USB and feeling all generation ahead, installed it. Very efficient. All things done, I pressed ‘connect’.

This was the beginning of a long series of disappointments. While the thing behaved very positively saying ‘port opening’ and then ‘authenticating’ and then… dial in failed. Being completely a citizen of my country and of course, therefore, not unused to working my fingers off for every facility that I pay for, I tried and tried. Then, I turned the box over to look for a helpline number. Na da.

Never mind. I had my local BSNL number and the trusty chappie answered, giving me the helpline number. Helpline said that my SIM had not been registered and gave me some steps to do (don’t want to bore you now, if this, like a formulaic Bollywood hit hasn’t bored you already), and asked me to try a couple of hours later.

Na da.

Another call.
Chappie says, your SIM is not registered.
I say I have BSNL receipt.
He says na da. So he says where buy?
Franchisee.
Oh, they can’t sell you post paid.
But they did and I have Bharat Sanchar Nigam receipt no so so.
I don’t want your receipt number, go to nearest BSNL.
Check your system.
Ask your franchisee.

All the above conversation is in Tamil.
He is determined not to let go of the fact that it is not his duty.
Of course, I am the customer and it is my duty to give up.
I duly do so.

Then he switches to English and says,
Anything else ma’am.
Now I get a bit sarcastic. What else would I want I ask him.
It doesn’t register with the parrot.
He says in well modulated English,
Thank you for your call madam,
Have a nice time.
I laugh out aloud but he is impervious. Happy with a job done, he disconnects.

Oh well.
Tomorrow is another day.
Scarlett was so right.

Ode to a regressive Salman, by Salman

2010-02-01T04:16:00.000-08:00

Nothing Veer about it. Lots of Mel about it, and yes, it’s Gibson we are talking about. The hero and his family spend plenty of time thumping biceps, getting dunked in wells while an inanely smiling Nina Gupta looks on, over-dressed in some Lambadi or Rajasthani clothing. The Pindaris(prideful, brave, nationalistic, brave clan, we are told – history said something else: but we shall revisit to give Salman the benefit of doubt), in the meanwhile, spend their time looking tough, uncouth, drinking some obviously alchoholic stuff from ceramic beer mugs, dancing to the strains of Russion or European sounding string instruments in European-looking wooden barns, wearing fur-lined(er… yes) fur-lined waistcoats, capes, etc. in what is THE MOST ORIGINAL take on Indian history certainly.

Cause there are villainous Englishman, a villainous-looking raja played by Jackie Shroff with a golden arm that was cut off by Veer’s(Salman’s) dad Mithun Chakraborty(sadly misused and miscast) in a battle that was to change all their lives forever!!!!

Whatever, Veer’s a script that’s nothing new, not even in the Karina Kaif(minus the size zero) look-alike who is supposedly a Rajasthani princess and daughter of Jackie but who appears in badly-stitched Western gowns and gloves in purple-mauve or buttercup yellow, and who, in the trite regressive thinking of badly made cinema, correctly appears in a neatly draped saree only in a moment of Indian-sadness and widowhood. Her claim to ‘acting’ is pricelessly parted trembling lips that could, at a pinch be interpreted as ecstasy, happiness, love, sadness, tragic… a la Barbara Cartland – the liberty is yours dear viewer depending on how you feel at that particular moment in the movie.

So what was Salman thinking when he made this movie where Jackie Shroff looks more impressive than the duh Veer who relies on stock expressions to get through the film? The Englishmen depicted in the film seem even more moronic and flat. Not a single character stands fleshed out in this cinematic attempt full of paper tigers. Puru Rajkumar looks promising, but I suppose Salman-Veer, recognising the challenge to his non-acting from that particular quarter, shoves him atop a sharp spike?sword? and finishes him off. So, that’s that and the rest of the film is soooooo blah the only thing missing are the kabutars. With Puru gone and Jackie relegated behind the curtains of history only to be brought back in order to be killed towards the end, there’s nothing for you to look forward to except cringing when Salman makes a hash of everything else trying to be Mel G - swagger and expressions. But the immaturity shows.

Ideally, I should begin my take on the movie speaking about the breathtaking sweep of the narrative and the story that spans the deserts of Rajasthan(?) and a very cardboard-cutout London(hark to the days of painted backdrops) where everyone looks at Salman with doe eyes despite him looking like a barbarian with outlandish clothes(nothing Indian about them thank you). He even has a dream song set there.

Story in a nutshell:

Pindaris attack train. Salman sees Katrina clone. Falls in love. Comes to London aided by some random Padre, as part of a Brit mission to educate natives and make them think like them!!!! And… pls. don’t bother to hold your breath – there he bumps into Katrina-clone on the street in a carriage; runs about like a madcap looking for her, when he should not have bothered because surprise of surprises, she is studying at the same school/college as he.

Katrina-clone is most un-patriotic and swans about togged in Brit-apparel and our patriotic-Veer finds it offending not.

The other parts of the Veerdom are random takes on oaths to finish enemy raja(who is also Katrina-clone's dad(yawn)) who is cozying up to the Brits and who once betrayed the Pindaris. Never mind. You can imagine the rest but what I promise you that what you cannot imagine is the ending, which is sheer brilliance of Bollywood invention when the well of ideas falls dry.

Makes you wonder:

Is Salman still living in Maine Pyaar Kiya when the rest of Bollywood is fast catching up with the rest of the world? Not all brilliant films certainly but Bollywood is on the ball with some interesting storylines, original characterisations and out-of-the-box thinking…

Even a Dance pe chance, or was it a Chance pe dance? – was slickly made, well-edited with fair characterisations despite a trite and wafer-thin storyline. It did not cast aspersions on our very intelligence by pretending to be what it is not.

A self-indulgence indeed, narcissistic to boot – and the bottomline is, don’t believe all those polls that bill you as the sexiest or most good looking guy on the planet. Everything is subject to the intelligence of the viewer, not merely their hormones.

Made all the more difficult since the ‘hero’ in question is shadowed by a personal past so wasteful it make you wonder if there is a thinking public out there at all – alleged to have hunted and eaten a blackbuck(a protected species, so how ‘heroic’ does it sound to hunt and eat one?) and alleged to have mowed down sleeping pavement dwellers in a nightly caper.

Can’t popular art throw up some real heroes please, and let’s not call him Veer.

How creative can you get?

2010-01-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Creativity in our country has no value. As in, you could create something and unless you really, really are smart or got some good legal work on what you have done in advance, your work stands for nothing.

‘Borrowing’, ‘being inspired’, ‘adjusting’ and downright unapologetic flicking takes place constantly in every field or genre of work. Why else would we see ‘copies’ of everything else under the sun, be they big brands or just pirated film DVDs? We care naught for the original thinker – we are past masters in taking the original thought and twisting it to suit our purposes and needs… and then we are creative as you please in justifying the act. Period.

No wonder the non resident Indian achieves distinction in academics, research only once he or she is non-resident. Then of course, we are quick to claim that he is one of us, not once wondering why this achiever had to fly out of the country to achieve what he or she has.

Actually there is no use playing the blame game in finding out who the culprit is; or passing on the buck. We appear to be a nation of sycophants, largely led by the medium of cinema, reading to digest and spew all that the screen and the stars show us. So every icon in our everyday lives is from some part of cinema, either Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood or Mollywood or whatever – which of course, even drove our political decisions. We never paused to think that just because someone ‘acted’ like they were a saviour of the masses, the image powerfully held up in technicolour, that would they in real life, without the greasepaint be actually capable of running a state or a nation? Do successful corporations employ film stars to lead their businesses?

And as for our legal systems – let’s not even go there.

The current ‘3 idiots’ controversy is what set off this particular rant. Yet, we are continually seeing ‘inspiration’ – very creative indeed. Like Salman’s Mel Gibson Braveheart look is being defended stoutly as reverse inspiration(http://movies.indiatimes.com/News-Gossip/News/Salman-Khan-trying-hard-to-be-Mel-Gibson/articleshow/5285330.cms); or Big B’s Johnny Depp inspired look(http://movies.ndtv.com/gallerydetails.aspx?id=4065&category=Movies&picno=5§ion=Bollywood&ShowID=0#BD) – all this is masala for the media yet ultimately no one stands up to ask the big question – why are we only inspired?

And as for ‘3 idiots’ – I have not seen the film but have read the book. It’s not in my view the best of Chetan’s works(I think his '2 states' is crafted better) but what’s more important is that it is an original work and set the tone for a different kind of an Indian writing that would reach out empathetically to a mass audience, in the time of its publication. It opened the doors for many new young writers of a different sensibility sans the heaviness and the angst that had been showcased internationally before.

Now, I am not sure I want to see the film.

And ultimately, we the audience will be the ‘idiots’ for we will forget and not care for the real issues that need correction. All we need is another film, another star… more panaceas. We are truly a people who don’t wish to look at ourselves in the mirror.

In admiration of those who don’t want to be SOMEBODY

2009-12-30T11:40:00.000-08:00

I am currently in admiration of all those who don’t want to be ‘Somebody’. The quiet ones who are doing their own thing, happy in what they do and uncaring that the limelight is far, and so are the reporters.

Nobel prize winner Ramakrishnan said it as it is:

“Last year, the lecture was held in [an auditorium] with a capacity for just 300 people, and half the seats were empty,” said a bemused Dr. Ramakrishnan, facing a jam-packed audience of 3,000 at the university’s Centenary Auditorium. “What has changed? I am still the same person doing the same science. Why are people so impressed when some academy in Sweden gives an award?” he asked.(The Hindu, Dec 22, 2009)

I am wondering as well. What had the 3,000 gone there for? I am sure that 2,700 of them had gone for the Nobel. And 300 for the Prof himself and what he had to say.

Closer home, a friend spoke of a relative, an eminent scientist and winner of many awards, who snuck out to get his awards and quietly returned home without any fanfare.

Life is less complex when you are not jostling for the peripherals, wondering who would beat you in the one-upmanship game.

Life is simple when your standards and your benchmarks are all your own. Then they become easy to achieve without the distraction of a ‘Me Too’ in the public arena, a state-of-mind so complex and complicated that your life and work will never be the same anymore.

The naysayers

2009-12-30T11:29:00.000-08:00

Strange are the ways of the naysayers.

When they say no, they mean yes. And I am not talking about the gender thingie.

I am talking about people who say, oh no… we don’t do this or don’t do that. And you discover that they are the ones who are doing it all the time, quietly, under the guise of a ‘no’.

Self-righteousness is the dead give-away.

Like someone recently shook his head gravely at the cutbacks that some members of his fraternity indulged in, and remarked to me, “They give our profession a bad name.”

I am in doubt. Is ‘they’ always someone else? Or is the shadowy third closer home?

Losers, are we?

2009-12-10T10:26:00.000-08:00

Over lunch, a friend and I were discussing the politics of social networking. It is a very adept player who succeeds and gets to the top, much like in corporate. You gotta be smart, you gotta know the latest and what keeps you afloat and well… you need the drive to get there.

“I am a loser then,” says my friend, a longstanding bystander in all antics social. Bystanding occurred partly, because it never occurred to him that this particular activity needed active lobbying and an understanding of the dynamics of the ebbs and flows of being on the guest lists of those who matter. So once you have missed the step on that particular carousel, you become a bystander, and the pleasure is all yours as you watch the antics of others. Except in some way, mused the friend, I feel I am losing out on something, can’t put a finger on what.

Once upon a time, all you did was make friends with the people who you liked; or with whom you shared a common interest of some kind; or your life overlapped with in some way(colleagues, neighbours, fitness partners, etc.) You then kind of drifted into circles of socialising with all these different planets, and really, it was no big deal. Until the arrival of the social networker.

From nowhere: This person was there somewhere in the periphery anonymous. One fine day, he wakes up, decides that he needs to be queen bee and throws the party of the month. Viola! Everyone knows him and he’s on everyone’s guest list.

Climber: This particular one begins at the bottom of the ladder and uses all sorts of contingencies and opportunities to work his way to the top.

Vine: Plays second fiddle to every queen bee and thus, is just there, everywhere.

The networker: Knows everyone, actively cultivates everyone including page 3 journos.

While all of the above enjoy pretty permanent status in the social whirl, the one below is usually touch and go.

The sensation: Hops into the limelight through something shocking, scandalous or by merely being in the middle or a controversy. Whether this one has a long shelf life depends on how smart he/she is. Mostly sinks faster than you can say ‘Titanic’.

Why there was a pause…

2009-12-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

I don’t know why I have not blogged for the last few months. Is it that there is nothing of significance that I can see? Or is it that there has been too much happening that I cannot sift out the significant from the routine?

The friend who pushed me to resume writing, he has been off my radar for a while as well. Why else, would I completely lack the impetus to put finger to keypad?

But I am back and hope the momentum picks up…

Bubble boy – a fairy tale

2009-12-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a boy who thought differently. As long as he was small and cute he was appreciated for his freshness and unique way of thinking. Everything he said and everything he did seemed wonderful and there was sunshine all around. He could do no wrong.

Then came school. The boy, so used to being encouraged to just be himself was part of the crowd. Now that was not easy. Every time now he asked a question or made a statement, he was looked at strangely. Some even laughed, thinking he was making a joke. But he was not joking at all. It took some time for the boy to realise that something was wrong.

All around him were tables and chairs and things that sat on them. He alone, was a moving ray, catching the sun as it shone from varied angles. He was reflecting the rays and each reflection was unique. But then, these bright lights and their reflections became a pain for those around him. Especially the ones who tried to beat him into shape, into what they thought he should be.

The boy however, was like this flexi bubble: every time he was flattened into a bewildered mass, it took him some time to understand that this was not it. They wanted him flat and biddable, so that they could walk over him and keep him in one place: while all the time, he would get back into his little bubble shape and float upwards. It became a game for the boy: for his controllers, it became a battle of wills.

It could not last long. The fairy tale ended. Or did it begin? We don’t know. The boy learnt to flatten his bubble when he went into the common environment. He tried his best to keep flat and not bubble up – and most of the time he succeeded. Sometimes, little bubbles would pop up about his flat surface threatening to betray him. The flat substance around him would notice and exclaim or be rowdy, slapping him back to flatness. The bubble came back some time later, when he was on his own, lightening up dark evenings that were happy evenings.

So what did he become? We never did find out. He was flat and luminous by turns. Who was he? Those close to him discovered some glimmer of it but never could catch the light. But one day, he was destined to be the sun. I am quite sure of it.

Dedicated to A. For all the times we saw the sun shine out of him! :)

Everyone wants to be big

2009-08-01T01:52:00.000-07:00

Everyone wants to be big,
Everyone wants to be BOSS,
Everyone wants to be Top Dog,
And talk down to the folks.

But bosses, top dogs and the big ones,
At least the ones that are truly so,
Are never seen or heard,
Their power invisible.

It’s the ones that make noise,
Issue the threats and talk big,
Who you know,
Are not really…

The BOSS, the Top Dog,
Or the Big One.
And to hide that,
They talk down to the folks.

True confessions of an undercover woman operator

2009-07-29T14:01:00.000-07:00

She didn’t quite see herself CID. But she knew she was good. For example, she was the first to spot and tell everyone about the Atiya-Anish love story that was taking place right in the middle of the neighbourhood. No one else had spotted the budding romance as yet, but she, the one who had her finger on the button, just knew, just saw and figured out what the scene was.

She had her faithful band of followers. They primarily hated her, partly out of fear that she would find out something about them. But she was careful not to alienate her followers, since that then, would be disaster and would put an end to her undercover operations. Yes, she was the harmless, dull looking maami next door but who was to know that SHE, yes she, of all people, if she ever wanted to blackmail anyone in the neighbourhood, had the information, first hand, to do so?

So she put down all her observations, inferences and conclusions neatly in a little notebook, that she billed her diary. It was a innocuous looking ruled notebook, 200 pages, that had a chubby child on the cover, a butterfly or even sometimes, a tree or a garden. She had 15 such notebooks stashed away in the tin trunk under her bed. What a pleasure it was to go back to some of them.

For example, one day Ruth aunty from next door was remembering Leela from the third floor of the opposite house(at one of their impromptu neighbourly conclaves when Amina, Ritu and Meenakashi were present) and suddenly, she remembered the rotund, cheerful woman with her string of boyfriends. True, Leela at thirty was not married but her string of BFs would also ensure that she never would. She sniffed at the memory and suddenly felt the urge to relive those days when Leela was her pet subject. So to the tin trunk and notebook number 9 it was… and did she enjoy going back!! The Leela who scorned her neighbours, the same Leela who thumbed her nose at them, even as boys, boys and more boys trooped in and out of the door.

Leela, for example, would take a bath at precisely 7.15 every morning, breakfast at 7.45 and leave home at 8am. She would be back at 4.30, after which a stream of young men would adorn her doorstep one after another. She read through her observations, enjoying every relived moment, relishing it slowly like a toffee being sucked till it vanished on the tongue. Some things are best enjoyed at leisure.

A week after Leela was remembered with fondness, a young man came knocking at her door. She peered at him, for it seemed a familiar face, yet one that she was sure, she could not have known personally.

“Aunty,” said the boy. Aunty? Did she look like his aunt?? She peered closer. He could not have been older than 21. She relaxed a bit and waited. “Aunty, sorry to bother you but would you know where I can get a contact number or address for Ms. Leela who used to live opposite?”

“Er… I really don’t know…” she said, her antennae up at once, “Who shall I say asked for her in case I am able to find out?”

“Oh,” said the boy smiling, “Please tell her it is Aditya from Balakrishna College who took chemistry tuition from her – and graduated from being blockhead to brightest.”

It took a few moments for the undercover woman operator to steady her smile and nod her head.

Samosas and sauce at 2am

2009-07-29T13:28:00.000-07:00

The nose lies. Yes it does. There are times when I smell ladoos, the big fat ones that come back from Tirupathi thanks to a well-wisher or because you made that trip… Then there are times when my nose thinks there is chocolate cake close by.

The nose lies. And then, the stomach makes growly noises, because it anticipates eagerly, what the nose communicates. You close your eyes, and you can almost see it, thanks to the nose. Except that, there is no food close by. At least food of the sort that your nose says it can smell.

That’s why right now, at 2am, I suddenly smell freshly fried samosas, with soft buttery filling, without too much of spices and I actually smell the tomato sauce too. I look to my left. A little glass dish with the remnants of Kurkure triangles sits sadly, its redness fading right before my eyes.

The organs of sight seek the hot fresh samosas. The nose steals a laugh from right under.

Nothing…

2009-07-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

Nothing… is a state of mind.
A state of being.
Where after years of doing,
There is but… nothing.

Where can you go then,
To see if you are something?
What can you do then,
To see, if there is something?

The mirror shows a thing,
The shell. There are shells everywhere.
Moving about, peopling space,
That yet, could be nothing.

Say, how old are you?
How do you get to an age,
When you ought to be something,
But you have made nothing?

Dunno, you say. Says my friend,
Erase that from your vocabulary.
I try… to erase. “I don’t know.”
However, it is there, filling space in nothing.

Nothing on my mind

2009-07-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

Roots

2009-07-22T05:19:00.000-07:00

Where we come from, we cannot forget,
Where we are going, is the map.
But in between, being what we are not,
Is that what life is about?

The map is charted out, there are possibilities galore,
Endless sunlit paths beckon,
Even as you navigate dark, narrow corridors,
Getting there, getting there…

Then the roots that run deep,
Help you go on, hold on,
Even as the darkness deepens,
Or the pathways narrow.

Let go of the roots,
And you have floated past the corridors,
Lost the map, and the path,
Beyond… into nothingness.

He said that I am pretty

2009-07-17T22:58:00.000-07:00

“He said that I am pretty,” she declared, removing her slippers, looking around grinning. The Family looked back, smiling, some of them as if humouring a whim; others, out of sheer habit. What they could see was a slip of a girl, hardly past five foot, painfully skinny, sallow skin and lanky hair. But prettiness was something in the mind, what the eyes could not see; what the mirror could not show. It was something someone else had said, or perhaps seen.

She looked happy and proud, preening slightly in the admiration of the unseen man.

“Er…” said the grandfather, “Why ever would a bank manager tell you that?” The grandmother chuckled, “Bank managers don’t just manage money you know.” Nothing however, would take that moment from her. She relived it and enjoyed the memory of the moment and the warm feeling inside.

Until the Angel visited. Angel was the Cousin from heaven, good natured, always smiling, but most of all, glowingly beautiful. But as far as she herself was concerned, Angel was the Cousin from hell. Seeing her brought home her own inadequacies in her own eyes. It was little she could prevent, running to the mirror for a furtive glimpse of her own image, her mind automatically comparing it to the visiting Angel, her tall 5’8” well proportioned body, glowing skin, lustrous hair and smiling face. Angel, it seemed, had good-natured-ness to her long list of God-given attributes.

It had been like this from childhood. When Angel walked into a room, the people and the room itself seemed to envelop her, warmly embracing her. Angel herself glowed in company, while she herself hugged the walls, watching the scene from outside. It had been this way and seemed to always continue to be this way.

So when the bank manager threw a compliment her way, she caught it as if to never let it go.

Until the Angel visited. Once again, the Family, the house, why even the sunshine, seemed to turn towards the Angel, lighting her from within. She herself skulked in the doorway of her room, leaning against a wall and looking at the scene from without. With sour eyes she watched the Angel as she said hello, joked with the family members and then asked, “Hey, where is Sunita?” All eyes searched then focussed on her leaning against the wall – and Angel strode forward to laughingly mock punch her. She closed here eyes – the comparison was unflattering.

Before the Angel reached her, she ran into her room and shut the door.

2009-07-15T12:47:00.001-07:00

The good life

2009-07-15T08:41:00.001-07:00

She rummaged through her meagre wardrobe, wrinkling her nose in irritation. Today was going to be a cut above – and nothing here would do. She pondered for just that little moment – should it be Kavita or Rajni? Rajni, she decided. Rajni’s clothes were just that little bit classier, and she also bought designer. Kavita had a different variety, smart, sassy and happening – but not in that understated classiness that Rajni’s had. Rajni’s wardrobe was a mix of the bohemian and the sophisticated and hers would be the easier pick today.

The doorbell rang. Rajni, who was in the midst of giving her cat’s coat a good brushing, rose to answer it. Her heart sank when she saw who it was. She fixed a polite smile of her face and said, “Hey, what’s up?” But she already knew. It was her wardrobe that was the attraction, not her. Her wardrobe, her shopping life and her car were IT, not her.

She, of course, was completely focussed – the wardrobe, the wardrobe. Something black, something neat, something completely classy. There it was. Rajni was hovering behind and she turned around, completely happy that she had found it. Rajni looked, well… but her mind was already racing. She needed something for the neck to go with the outfit. The neckline was just too simple. “Hey Rajni,” she said, “Remember what your friend Rahul gifted you for your last birthday? I think that neckpiece would be just right with this dress. Where is it?”
Rajni reached out, took a box from out of her dresser and held it out.
She happily clasped it to her chest, took the hanger with the dress on it and cried, “This is great Rajni! See ya! Bye!” and walked back up the stairs to her own apartment.

It was late afternoon. Rajni was walking down the stairs, her jute shopping bag in hand(she hated plastic), anticipating the browsing and the buying. Kavita, who lived on the ground floor would be ready, and they were going to the City Centre mall together. They may even catch some chat at the food court there. Her mouth watered in anticipation. As she stepped on the first floor landing, the door to 1C opened and there she stood. Catching sight of Rajni, she asked, “Hey, where are you going?” “Shopping,” said Rajni with a smile. “Hey,” she said, “Hold on, I will join you.”
It seemed that she was prepared. She dashed in, came out with her handbag and shut the apartment door before Rajni could react. They trotted down the stairs and Kavita, who was waiting out by her car, raised her brows. Rajni waggled hers in reply, as they silently got into the car.

She had insisted that she would drive. She was happy. A free trip to the mall, and really, her friends wouldn’t mind. They were going there anyway weren’t they? Besides, she was saving them a chore – driving them there, though it was Kavita’s car. Never mind. She ticked off her shopping list in her mind. On the way they would stop at the supermarket as well…

Sitting in the backseat, Rajni put her head in her hands. She was a chump, she was. She wished she had been smarter and said, “I am going to the doc.” That was one place the freebooter would not come along. Yet, here she was once again, and she knew she would be picking up tab for perhaps, a kilo of atta… or would it be eggs this time? Giggling to herself, she looked up, only to see Kavita frowning at her. Her friend and neighbour definitely, was not happy.

She parked the car in the slot meant for it in the apartment block, completely happy and satisfied with the shopping trip. She looked at her friends – they looked a little weary and not too… er… what would be the word… satisfied? Never mind. She picked up her dozen eggs and the half a kilo of sugar(Rajni had paid for it but she knew her friend wouldn’t mind) and said, “See ya guys!” Suddenly remembering, she turned to Kavita and said, “Hey Kavi! Gotta come by this evening – need a stole from you for a lunch I am going to tomorrow.”
“Er… um…” Kavita seemed to be fumbling for words, “I will not be home. I am going out – er… and staying overnight at my cousin’s.”
“Oh ok,” she nodded, turning around to catch Rajni instead.

Rajni had vanished.

PS: For my friend V. It's your story. I am just telling it here.

Young love

2009-07-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

Walking down the high street,
She feels good about herself.
Pretty in pink, wearing Levis and Espirit,
She is on top of the world.

Money values, values of a generation,
Brought up on the sprawling possibilities
Of a widening world, beyond
The boundaries of nationality.

Beyond the boundaries of what was home,
Beyond what parents were and what
Family stood for.
With wide open arms,
They embrace all
Nothing matters but the self.

Gelled hair, snazzy phone,
Speaking to the girlfriend,
Walking alone.
He walks tall, and talks quite funny.

Tanglish or Hinglish,
What does it matter.
His language is the language
Of natter.

He dreams of a self
Like John Abraham
Of pretty girls and faraway places
As only the Romeo can.

Plastic self, plastic values,
Once technicolour now gone digital,
The faster the earn, the faster the spend,
They are there, everywhere you turn.

They are there around you, hanging out at malls,
Hey, do you dare say,
What they stand for is false?
The pictures they say and the fantasises they dream
Fuel the fire,
Inside and unseen.

There she walks, in her Levis and Espirit,
Walking tall, walking happy,
Swining and carefree.
He swaggers down smartly,
His phone tapping his knee,
His eyes all awander, and her did he see?

The spoon

2009-07-08T09:05:00.001-07:00

She could never eat without the spoon. She would pull one out of the stand on the table that held exactly 6 knives, six tablespoons, six spoons and 5 forks(one got lost, perhaps dropped into the dustbin by a careless maid); she would pull one out and then proceed to eat, assuming a dainty and superior stance. Everyone else on the table would be using their right hand.

The spoon then, became the leitmotif of her life. She was, she decided, a cut above. All she needed to do was just be. So that’s what she did, every day, lounging around the house; chatting with friends, lounging around the bed, flipping through magazines; dressing up prettily to wander out to perhaps a movie or a lunch/dinner… Life was good.

The parents had nothing to say, simply because they weren’t there. She had taken a sabbatical from studies, dropping out of college(fatigue she said, caused a nervous breakdown) – and she just was.

The parents traipsed from home to work, and from work to home. Theirs was the rat race, and tired as they were morning and night, they had nothing to say to their delightful daughter. She would ask for money to spend, related a few amusing anecdotes of her day, and that was it.

She would prettily wash the spoons, while her parents did the dishes, wiped the counters and the table, put the clothes in the washing machine, wait till the cycle was done, and hung the clothes out. Her clothes were the most in number because she changed as often as she needed to: to go to the gym, to meet friends for lunch; to take an evening walk(those Nike tracks and matching tee that went oh so prettily with her pink pink shoe); and when the need rose, to party.
Life was good.

Then, one day, mother fell ill and was home in bed. The fever was high and she felt really tired. But not wanting to trouble the husband, mother put out breakfast and packed his lunch. She, who was in the rat race, knew the power of what the rat race could do to another. She would minimise his suffering.

But of course, HER life did not change. Breakfast was on the table, and emerging from her room late morning, she had no idea that mum was at home, in bed with the viral. Her arm reached out daintily to pick a spoon, when suddenly a hot hand smashed forward, throwing the cutlery rack to the floor. She looked up shocked.

There crouched her mum, garbage bag in hand, angrily thrusting every piece of spoon, fork, knife, tablespoon into its black entrails.
From then on, she was forced to eat with her fingers.

Frock

2009-07-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

The frock is back with a bang. It’s making a statement everywhere you go.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” says my friend V, “Don’t call it frock. It’s the dress da.” Whatever. On the people I see it, I am tempted to call it the frock. The frock it shall be. Somehow, wearing something just for the sake of being ‘in’ never works.

Like L, who practically thinks she is the Lolita of the social set. She is never dressed the same every time she is seen out. In fact, it’s a known and recorded fact(recorded because she is photographed every time she’s seen out), that she never repeats her clothes or for that matter her hairstyle. L, prides herself on wearing something new, ‘never seen’, every time. (I shudder when I think of her wardrobe space; or does she throw out, pass on every outfit when it’s worn once? Curious and curiousier… but I digress…)

Back to L, despite the fact that she IS dressed differently… er… she looks the same. Interesting na?

I am saying all this to my good pal V, who looks at me outta the corner of her eye and steps on the pedal of her SUV. She laughs out aloud and says, “Witch.” Which of course is a cover-up for the other one.

I am used to V, I ignore her ‘goody’ comment and register only the mischievous laugh. She has registered the point about L, but somehow it goes against her grain to laugh at poor L. I am not laughing, I reassure her, nor am I being… er… Witchy. I am just observing, I tell her gently. She laughs again. V is always, neither here nor there.

So I change the subject and go back to starting point. Frocks, I tell her, will not work on every Indian woman’s body. We come in such interesting shapes, sometimes, some shapes are best concealed, not necessarily by a sari, but perhaps by jeans or salwars. I am not being prudish, I insist, but aesthetics, now that is important, at least for the eye of the beholder.

V giggles and says, “But believe me, many of them look good in them da.”

Never mind, I tell her, this conversation is not getting anywhere. Instead, I will blog on frocks.

PS: Never mind my opinion, this blog is for V :), the one on the fence always!

Gold digger

2009-07-03T03:33:00.000-07:00

She looked up at the group from under her lashes, a small smile playing about her mouth. This was not the time. Nevertheless, she allowed her body language to show, swaying slightly towards him to ‘display’ her special attraction. Her neat and demure demeanour gave nothing away. To the casual onlooker, nay, to her close friends even, she was this sweet, straight forward thing, intelligent and plain speaking, god fearing and family oriented. That really was her best positioning.

He turned to smile at her, his fondness showing. To him, she was special, a defenceless creature to be protected and cared for. She seemed to want nothing but his company, turning to him for every little care or bother. That was so sweet really. His heart swelled as he looked at her standing there among their group of friends, both young men and women. As she swayed slightly towards him, he automatically put his arm around her shoulder, as if to lend support and protection.

At that very moment, strategically, she lifted her lashes and gave him a really sweet smile. It had worked. Now to reel the fish in. But she hesitated… there was Shrijit as well who she knew was really, really a softie and who liked her a lot. He was there for her whenever she needed him, car and all. But the pity was… Shrijit looked a lot less nicer than the hunk by her side. Pimples where Shrijit’s bane, though his wealthy parents ensured that their only son lacked nothing.

Yet, the handsome who clearly was besotted, though of less means(his parents were working class after all); was a good back-up. Not in the very near future, she decided, turning to smile at him. She got a tender smile in return.

It was at Shrijit’s house that the decision really came to her. She sighed as she sank into the plush sofa before the home theatre. Their group of friends was meeting for a late post dinner evening, to catch a film, with snacks and drinks thrown in. Shrijit’s home was the obvious destination – it had everything other’s houses in the gang did not. It had space. They would have privacy. And best of all, Shrijit had his own den, a largish room with home theatre, music system, a mini bar and plenty of lounging space.

Handsome sank into the sofa next to her; smiling, expectant of a loving welcome. She smiled warmly, but adjusted the body language to a neutral zone. A pang shot through her: handsome was so good-looking, if only he were well endowed as well, with that one most important thing – money.

She quashed that thought: sitting next to the hunk in this luxurious entertainment zone which she knew the hunk’s apartment would never have, helped her make up her mind.

A while later, she got up and stretched, walked around a bit. Her eye was on Shrijit who was lounging on a bean bag, a Coke in hand. “Hey, get me a Fanta da!” she smiled at him. Shrijit was all attention. Drink in hand, she returned, daintly sat at the foot of the bean bag. As the film progress, she leaned slightly, further and further, till her head rested on his thigh, relaxed. She could feel him stiffen.

But a while later, he relaxed as well, and a protective palm came to rest on her head.

Bingo!

Write about me

2009-06-25T14:15:00.000-07:00

“Write about me,” simpered the well-dressed woman in silver, “Aw, you guys can do it if you want, you know.” She cooed, pouting her sheer lacquered lips. The scribe expanded for a second, pleased with the attention. She was the Diva of the Social Kingdom and she was at his feet. It was a good feeling. Momentary though it was.
She posed, her hands on her evening purse, her silk shirt simmering. Click, click, click. It was a good feeling. For tomorrow the world would call to wonder how she did it, again.

She would laugh casually, her voice tinkling down the line, sounding oh so blasé. “I don’t know really,” she would say in that ‘oh but you should know’ tone of voice, “They are there everywhere I go. And they come running after me for my pictures.”

Voices would be laced with envy, some with thinly veiled disgust. Some would cringe a bit, roll over low just so that they could accompany her to the next do. She would consider THAT, and perhaps do just that – take along a bit of company for an ego massage. Sometimes it did wonders for your own self.

And then, it gave her a bit of a high when she bumped into the now ‘fading’ Diva, a bit outdated in her loud dull pink lipstick, and what would now be slightly ‘tarty’ evening wear. Her self at the moment would soar high past her Manolo Blahniks, past the Bangkok-bought dress, over the MAC make-up and the salon-styled hair.
The trouble she took just to be photographed.

Not that she was a bimbo really. She had a mind in between her ears, which is why, she used it to get recognised. Really.

Right now, there was this rather stars truck kid of a journo who was hanging about her, gushing about the way she looked, the way she dressed… and generally looking like she had a ‘crush’ing hangover. She would deal with it, but at the moment the admiration would come in useful. In print.

Disconnect

2009-06-25T13:22:00.000-07:00

The figure walking fast on the road was covered in dust. Red dust. Dust matted its hair, its beard and its rather dirty clothing. The figure was a man. Red dust was on his beard.

On the opposite side, a girl in a green salwar tread quickly and nervously. Her head darted to the left, to catch sight of the dusty figure. Mistrust was in her body language. Mistrust of a figure so unlike what a human being should be. Mistrust because he looked deranged. And of course, fear.

The road was only a thoroughfare, a connect between two well-populated localities. Hardly anyone walked through it. Cars, two-wheelers and autos where the only occasional users.

The dust covered figure rapidly walked on, his hands behind his hips, holding up, pulling up his trousers. A closer look showed that the trousers were perhaps loose, but they were well fitting and would not fall off his hip. Yet, uncomfortably, he held it up, as if afraid that it may slip down his hips, down his thighs, his calves… and trip him in his rapid strides.

The red dusted figure had fine features. A sharp nose, liquid dark eyes – eyes that certainly did not look deranged. But in a garb like that, covered in dark filth and red dust, what else would you think?

The girl in green was forgettable – she was Everywoman. Her imagination narrowed on herself you could see (it WAS in her body language); seeing before her, in a few minutes of an empty stretch of road, an assault perhaps?

The imagination was not at fault certainly, for in these modern times, when we are so developed that we have left the Man behind, these things can happen. They do happen all the time. Type rape, sexual assault on a search engine and you will see what I mean.

They walked on, two sides of Time, the red dusted figure, it’s eyes darting quickly from front to side, catching sight of the girl in green. There is no leap in the eyes, no quick desire to victimise. Lost, its own world… it strides on.
But the girl in green has no such escape from her fear. She strides on as well, the body language crouching and leaping in turns.
The fear will end.

Takeover

2009-05-30T02:44:00.000-07:00

It’s awhirl inside my head. The hormones are buzzing and I can almost feel it. Like my poky finger reaches inside the fuzz of soft cotton that my body has degenerated into, to feel the buzz, the movement and the violence inside.

As for my head, it has gone into standby mode. Sulking over the activity that the rest of the body has gone into overdrive over, the head says, “This is it! I hang.” And it does it with a vengeance.

The head pounds, the heart is pumping away, sending more than its share into the top storey. There is nothing I can do, but hold the head, moan a bit and then, resignedly sink back into the chair, wishing it were a soft mattress with a pillow and a comforter. But wishes are not horses and I have not yet learned to ride.

Meanwhile, the body is enjoying the trip – gleefully weaving its superiority over all things cerebral. There are parts of it that painfully throb; others seem woefully inadequate to bear the insidious trauma. The body is laughing all the way, like it’s got a free trip to the amusement park.

“I feel sick,” I tell the family. Members look up consideringly. I must be looking okay for they tell me in various ways, to chill and relax. “I don’t feel good,” I reiterate. I know now that the brain has absolutely no powers since somewhere, the nerves have gotten tangled and there are absolutely no verbal cues. The same words resound round and round and suddenly, I crave for oblivion. A drink. A sleeping pill. Anything that will stop this takeover.

Life is a joke

2009-05-08T11:18:00.001-07:00

Life is a joke, actually, it IS a joke.
Someone is laughing up there,
Because we are taking it a bit too seriously down here.

There is something to be said about the laugh,
It loosens up your face,
And relaxes your body and mind.
But let’s not get too hysterical about it. Really.

Life is a joke. Actually it is one big laugh fest.
If you look too closely, it unravels
Into a comedy that could beat Mr. Bean.
Or the crazy boys.

Fools rush in…

2009-05-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

…where angels fear to tread.
Fools are dangerous and not nice to know.
Fools rarely discern what they need to know.

Fools pontificate on issues they know not,
Fools dive in where the waters are hot,
Fools take the victory of the world upon themselves,
Yet rarely does the fool get recognised.

These anti-angels make up most men,
They make our world and foolish it often.
I fear the fool more than I do the villain,
For after all, the villainy has a point
Foolishness never does!

None

2009-05-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

Bish, we all live in a surreal world.
We are all jokers with painted faces.
We laugh, we cry, we show ennui.
Is there anything we do for real?

Bish, the virtual world has become real.
It has shown us that everything is maya,
We live, we struggle, we emote, we die.
And then, like the green bottles on the wall,
We become None.

Theatre of the Absurd

2009-05-08T07:47:00.000-07:00

Hold a mirror and look into it,
Chances are, you will not see
The Theatre of the Absurd,
Unfolding in front of you.

Hold a mirror and turn it around,
Chances are, you will see
The Theatre of the Absurd,
Unfolding in front of you.

Big men, small men, bite-sized men,
All swelling king-size till kingdom come.
Big women, small women, bite-sized women,
All swelling till their work is done.

This is one theatre you cannot laugh at,
Laugh with or laugh out aloud.
For you are in there, victim or perpetrator,
Hey, do you really, really care?

The Emperor’s New Clothes

2009-04-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

It took a little boy, little exposed to the ways of the world,
To exclaim, “The emperor has no clothes on!”
And reveal a simple truth to the world.

What will it take today for each one of us,
To look at a naked truth and not turn away, to pretend it is not,
And see it for what it is? Say it for what it is?

Artificial people, in an artificial world*

2009-04-27T10:56:00.001-07:00

Artificial people, in an artificial world,
Toothy smiles and air kisses.
Indifferent faces and lifeless eyes,
Eyes don’t meet, lips don’t say,
What the mind thinks, or the ears hear.

Artificial people, in an artificial world,
Do I really care what you think or do?
What do you have for me, what can you do?
How much would you add, to my value,
To my world, and to my bottomline.

Artificial people, in an artificial world,
Good friends are meant to be seen with,
Not heard. Good friends are meant,
To be photographed with not spoken to,
Buddies forever, in stratosphere.

Artificial people, in an artificial world,
Make my life full, come people it.
You make me look good, you make me feel,
Like someone great, the way someone should.
Good friend. What would I do without you?

*Dedicated to my good friend(!) S. With love.

Lesser men*

2009-04-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

(*Pls. note that the use of the word ‘men’ in this piece is generic and does not refer necessarily to the male.)

Lesser men – the cowards, the sneaks, the ones who have little self-worth – THEY are the most dangerous. So are the fools and the whiners. These lesser men latch on to the more ambitious ones, the men with energy and drive, and make them what they are. The lesser men are like louse and parasites – they take a ride on the man of power; bloating him and themselves – making him more powerful and on the side, appropriating some of the wonderful prerequisites of power themselves.

Which is why, most men are followers and it’s but a handful who are true leaders. And which is why, many ‘leaders’ are not quite what they seem, because our friends, the ‘lesser men’ prop them up to look like what they are not, simply because they themselves cannot be what they want to be.

Which is once again why, the most irrational and improbable ones have a mass following – historically, even large nations have allowed themselves to be led by the ‘lesser men’ making costly mistakes, mistakes that can never be reversed in history.

Which is why, today, large parts of the world seem to willingly embrace fanaticism, allowing themselves, their women and their families to be led into large-scale ‘prisons of the mind’.

These ‘prisons of the mind’ exist even in democracies, where captive vote banks are ‘led’ by completely unimaginative imaginations. The ‘leader’ who seeks the ‘power of the moment’ for himself to the exclusion of all else, closes the door to the future. Thinking individuals are then rendered oddities to be gazed at in amazement, as the mob excludes and renders him impotent.

History has marked this again and again in varied ways, and continues to.

Inside your head

2009-04-16T13:04:00.000-07:00

Life is inside your head,
Not outside.
Yet, we see it there
And run after what we see;
Not knowing that Life really,
Is within.

Reality is inside your head,
Not ouside.
Yet we see true pictures out there
And think that’s what it is
Not knowing that reality
Is within.

Truth is inside your head.
You know it,
Yet, we look for it elsewhere,
Seeing it like a stranger.
Not knowing that truth
Is within.

The joker in the pack

2009-04-16T12:51:00.000-07:00

When life is good and life is fun,
There is one,
Who makes you want to run.

His appearance is sudden,
For hidden as he has been,
He’s been working unseen.

Out he comes by sleight of hand,
But there he is, you can’t put him back.
He’s the joker in the pack.

This joker sees the bigger picture,
Puts you in it and gives it colour,
Offering you dimensions you yourself have never seen.

Where does he come from this joker?
Why does he exist?
Is there a rationale? You wonder.

Yet, there he is large as life,
Grinning away, giving your life colour,
He is the joker in the pack.

Godfather

2009-04-16T12:40:00.000-07:00

You appeared at perhaps the right moment. Can’t say that you are an angel that God sent because you are not one. An angel I mean. But you are there, virtually watching, thinking for me, cleaning up the junk in my head, making me think. Where were you all this while? What made you appear when you did?

I could be trite about it and say, “God alone knows!” but that would be truly and unintentionally funny. When my head junks up with clutter, all I need is to log on and talk to you. Now, tell me, is there a better definition to God? Do I need any other special prayer?

Once upon a time, we all said prayers inside our heads, looked to that indefinable presence that we were told does exist, and who will, in response to our call, reach out and pull us out of whatever sticky situation we got ourselves into. That Indefinable Presence more often than not, never did appear yet somehow, every situation in life found a solution.

But today, I log in. It’s a bit like Bruce Almighty giving you an email reply. You play God in my life and I, if not in yours, play God in someone else’s. We have virtually made that possible.

Somewhere in the past, a grandfather said that our philosophy has rooted itself in the God in the self – find it. The power is inside you all along; if only you would look inside and see.

Are we seeing it? I don’t know. But I know I log on and see you online and it gives me comfort.

I find you very interesting

2009-04-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

I find you very interesting. I wonder, I look at you and wonder again? What’s it that you are? Do you think and feel intensely or do you laugh away what you live, looking to the next moment? Every time I look at you, I see a new angle, a new scope, a new fellowship that I have not felt before. Then you are like the next episode to the story in my head, the story that you are?

I know sometimes that you are angry at me for not seeing you as you see me. Feeling for you as you feel for me. But then, life is like that and let’s face it, we are not all like each other. You are not me and I am not you. We are not two halves of a coin that you see as a whole, or toss to see which side you will choose.

We are two lines being drawn by an invisible hand, intersecting at interesting moments, seeing each other from afar at others. It is this distance that makes us more interesting to the other. The distance that keeps the familiarity from getting too pedestrian or too boring. For let’s face it: how many people know you or me as we are, not seeing just one or two dimensions that they get to see and add one plus one and get three?

That’s why each time we meet, there is a piquant twist, I look at the picture you make and visualise the life you lead, quite separately from the fact of us being merely two lines that criss cross.

Life is so many lines, so many intersections and so many people. Life is just not you and me. Life is so much more – and we go along with some people as parallel lines, some others as lines that are drawn over our own, in different colours maybe.

Life could have been and could have made sense as something other than lines, but here we are, scribbling along making our own paths. There is no other way.

Love me Simba

2009-04-16T11:42:00.000-07:00

Simba is sore at me. The heat has made him scratch himself raw on his cheek and it is worsening as the day progresses. It’s painful for Simba, painful for me – as I try to dab on the ointment that the vet has initially given me. He is angry. He bares his teeth and snaps – don’t you bother me, he growls. But I don’t give up. I take Bahadur’s and my son’s help to keep him down, clean him up, gauze and tape up the rawness so that his paws don’t get at it. And Simba is sore.

He looks at me from beneath his brows and turns away. His tail does not wag for a whole day. Taped around his cheek, with the tape running around his head is the gauze which he cant seem to scratch off and he is angry. He knows that I am the architect of his discomfort. So, he has ceased to be my shadow the last two days. He ensures that I understand his displeasure.

I crawl, coo sweet nothings, scratch him down his nose delicately. Simba just scowls. Not a tail wag to be seen. Even the Bahadur gets more attention. When we come face to face, he looks stoically at me as if to say, “What I have to bear to live with you.”

Tomorrow we go to the vet. I hope to heaven Simba will resume his unconditional love afterwards.

The True Reality Show

2009-04-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

He peered into the mirror to take a closer look at his white linen shirt. Was there a spot on his shirt? He let his fingers lightly dust it, and it was only a little curl of thread. Satisfied with his overall look, he tossed his head lightly, to allow the little wave of hair over his forehead fall more naturally.

He yelled out her name to see if she was ready. No she wasn’t and she needed a little more time, was her cross and impatient reply. Never mind. He took the time to pull out a tissue and buff his shoe one last time. Sprinkle a little more cologne. He did look handsome. He liked his looks and made no bones about it.
Walking out of his room he crossed over to the lounge, pulling out his cell phone to kill time while Wife made herself presentable. His mind now on other things, he wondered who would be there at the party. A few calls here and there helped him figure out a bit of the evening ahead.

His wife came out, dressed up to the nines. Nines it was, in a red salwar-kurta, red bindi, bangles, et al. He frowned. Not okay. Not okay at all. He wished she could be a bit more subtle – he looked down at himself, cool in white linen, a tan chinos and a suede strappy shoe, handmade Italian leather. He looked at her, bright un-artistic red, her chubby face framed by earrings that looked like two exclamation marks turned upside down. He briefly closed his eyes. Could he… should he… He decided to take the plunge. “Babe, you kinda need to tone yourself down.”
“Why?”

He fumbled for an answer to such a simple question. Then decided on the truth. “You look like a flashy behenji.”

“Oho! You don’t suddenly like my looks!” she shouted, picking up her red bag which she had thrown on a nearby couch. She had been busy changing the shell of her cell phone to a shiny, Swarowski-studded cover. Bling! But well… he tried again.
“Look at me,” he said, turning to look at himself at the full length mirror hanging to one side of the lounge, “Smart, presentable and subtle. Be subtle baby. You will look sexy.”

“I don’t want to look sexy or anything,” she said firmly, in a very matter-of-fact tone that closed the argument. Then as an afterthought she added, “I don’t know what happened to you suddenly. Not only are you dressing in this very strange way, but you suddenly don’t like the way I dress. I have always worn such bright colours… So what’s wrong now?” She narrowed her eyes, tossed her reddish mane, and took a close look at him. Her eyes twinkled, “Any on the side?”
He turned red. And refused to take the bait.

The party was very happening he decided. He swallowed as he remembered how the red vision looked – she was now walking beside him. He would dump her with her cronies double quickly, he decided and do some polished sophisticated ‘working’ instead. The crowd was classy.

First things first, as his wife would say – they said hello to their ‘friends group’. They backslapped, greeted one another loudly, laughed loudly, dressed loudly. It was an evening of truth he decided, as he tried not to wince too obviously, quietly sneaked away to socialise with the classier set.

And somewhere in between, he found himself face to face with his friends best friend, in his ‘friends group’. His palm was wrested from him, his hand shaken to excess of heartiness and a bonhomie of a backslap followed. All this while he was in the middle of a genteel but animated discussion within a classy group.

This friends friend said, “And where’s your good wife?” Not waiting for a response, the man looked across the room, pointed, slapped his arm cheerily once more and said, “I see your Mrs. in red! I will say hello to her.” And he toddled across quite happily while the classy group turned to see – the Mrs. in red.

Wonder who Joker’s mamma is

2009-04-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

Was Joker bad? Truly? The Dark Knight puts you in a dilemma. But then, Joker puts everything to shade, including the delicious Christian Bale playing Batman. Batman in fact, becomes but a shadow of Joker, being led rather than leading, playing out a script that Joker, God-like, writes for him. Delicious irony and a wonderfully written and made film thanks to Heath Ledger who makes you believe in the Joker.

Joker tells you about his father(violent and hateful) and wife(who hated him) but never about his mamma. Which makes you wonder, was Joker mother-less or his mamma more psychotic; one who Created a Joker?

Just imagine an innocent child seeking attention but getting indifference or hate instead. Imagine the child feeling neglected, wanting love, getting none – lashing out and getting the attention he wants in other ways. Imagine the mind of the child, obviously greater than average intelligence, finding amusement in ways that are unique, interesting (to him); that could be obnoxious to society. Aware, above average minds, this child grows up seeking attention or control(or even entertainment, for he could be bored with the pedestrian) through devious destruction. The Joker is not alone.

We all know that he is out there, lurking in some of us; cowardly perhaps since we are embedded firmly in a society that is accepting in inclusion. The moment you are different, the wall forms, excluding you. Which is why, Bruce Wayne feigns a wealthy, inane lifestyle for acceptance, and is a ‘freak’(as Joker calls him), an ‘incorruptible’ one at that, whose alter ego seeks to correct what his real self cannot.

Which again is why, you and me don our ‘normalcy’ as tokens to acceptance unwaveringly and perhaps unconsciously every day, forgetting something ‘freaky’ that has been stifled to non-existence.

And once again, which is why, we beat our children to the path of mediocrity, for being ‘different’ could earn a distinction that could lead to exclusion. Somewhere along the way our children learn to don the characters we dole out to them collectively and play their roles: some of them lurk beneath, perpetually rediscovering their true selves till…
…the joke’s up! Am I Joker’s mamma?

Love affair

2009-03-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him walk in her general direction. Amid the noise and the heavy metal music, and the general smoky darkness, she could think of nothing to do with herself. Her friend had taken off to the dance floor with her partner for the evening, leaving her to morosely look into her drink and smile(a grimace really), and pretend she was having a good time.

All around her, kids… er… well, youngsters in their late teens or early twenties, seemed to be having a very good time. This was their place, their area of joy, their way of celebrating. A celebrating that seemed youthful and exuberant. Well… she was young too, young at heart at least. With a brave ‘I AM having a good time’ smile, she tossed her drink back and looked around. The world seemed slightly better. She smiled slightly at the young man at the next table. He grinned back in general joviality. She saw a glint in his eyes, a suggestion. And then, there was the barman, smiling at her, see her for what she was. Attractive, svelte, and young yet at heart.

Young men like mature women, she told herself, as her friend and her partner returned to the table. Some animated conversation later, she whispered to her friend, “Come on yaar. What are kids these days coming too??!!! That young man at the next table actually propositioned me!”

Her friend opened her eyes wide and looked at the young man at the next table with a slightly shocked expression. He, in the way of the young in pack mode, grinned back at her, lifting his glass in some kind of a toast. Her friend shook her head slightly, and looked at her partner. It was true he was a few years younger to her, she had not cared to ask how many. Yet, to have a kid as young as this proposition to a forty-something…

The music got better and the couple at the table jigged to the dance floor, holding hands. Left alone again, an empty glass in hand, she stood up, and wriggled through the crowd, closer to the bar counter. If she could, she would snag a bar stool. And begin a love affair. With the smiling barman.

Tinker, tailor…

2009-03-28T13:27:00.000-07:00

Tinker, Tailor,
Soldier, Sailor,
Rich Man, Poor Man,
Beggar Man, Thief.

Fixer, fawner,
Financier, cheater,
Scamster, manager,
Banker, Adman.

Wannabe, socialite,
Model, beauty-queen,
Bimbo, bimbette,
Gigolo, Rj.

Dj, Vj,
Smartass, PR,
Journo, Marketer,
Brand Manager, Travel Agent.

Politico, Judge
Sweeper, Socialite,
Policeman, fruit-seller,
Murderer, mafia…

Feel free to add on guys!

Lift

2009-03-28T12:59:00.000-07:00

7am. She stood at the bus stop. She was on time as always. She tried to be composed and blasé, but could not resist peering down the road. The office-going crowd was yet to come. This was the best time to get a bus, and get a seat as well. It was a small matter that she would reach half an hour earlier than she needed to get there.

A man standing next to her asked for the time. 7:05 she replied crisply, not wanting to make conversation. Her heart began to start a steady drum… almost time. He would be punctual as well, as always. Anticipation made her palms clammy. She adjusted her dupatta and stood under the shade of the shelter, to avoid the rays of the morning sun that suddenly shot up to illuminate her face.

Smiling to herself she thought, he cannot miss me today. The orange and yellow salwar that she wore, seemed to catch the rays of the sun. Yesterday, he had been half a minute early. But then, he had been on the phone and had stopped for about a minute a little before the bus stop, so that she could see him; and she had waited patiently for the car to crawl up to stop right before where she had been standing. The half a smile, the quirked brow and the cheery good morning never failed to raise her spirits. “Want a lift?” he would ask, laughter in his voice. “Oh,” she would reply, “Which way are you going?”

“The way you are,” he would reply, now laughing openly. She would take a quick look around and hop into the passenger seat of his maroon Santro, and the long road to her office never seemed long enough.
Their conversation during the drive would be about this and that, a bit of flirting, some confessions, and then, office. She would get off with a casual wave, a wave so casual that the onlooker would not know how important this lift was to her, how it made her day, how it made her look forward to another day…

Today, she stood, her orange-yellow salwar making her a bright spot in the bus stop, as several of her route buses stopped, took on passengers and moved on. She was almost rooted to the spot, her now anxious face turned in the direction his car would come. 7.45 passed, then 8… Her lower lip trembled, but she controlled the thought that engendered the tremble as well as the tremble itself, covering up by mopping her face with the end of her dupatta.

Someone asked her the time, again that morning. She looked at the display on her mobile. 8.15! And suddenly, there his car was, rounding the curve in the road at the distance, briskly driving towards the bus stop, towards her. He must have a reason for being late she thought. The maroon Santro did not stop. Instead it drove past at a good speed. He was at the wheel, an animated very pretty woman beside him, making conversation, laughing… He did not turn to look in the direction of the bus stop at all.

How long she stood rooted at the spot, she did not know. Then suddenly, a familiar car came to a smooth halt in front of her. “What are you doing here still?” he asked, getting out of the grey Ford Ikon, his brow creased in concern, “Hasn’t your bus come as yet? Aren’t you very late?”

Seeing her unresponsive face, he put his hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. Her face turned red and she mumbled something. Turning her around gently he said, “Come, let’s go home. You seem unwell. Rest at home. Perhaps, I will take it off as well. Isn’t it quite some time since we spent time together at home without the kids?”

Nodding, and fixing a slight smile to her face, she got into their car.

Death

2009-03-27T08:57:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, Death was an expected and planned for event. Our ancients said, that preparing for death is a part and parcel of life’s duties and prepare they did, by retiring into lives of meditation. Did she even think she would die that fateful day? She did not. But looking down from above, seeing the life go by, her empty slot gaping raw, she could not think. What would happen to her children? Her pet parrot and the cat? One moment, there she was leaning over the parapet wall of the apartment building where they lived, to try grab a shirt that had escaped the confining clip to the washing line… and the next, here she was.

Disoriented, confused, she floated above for a few moments, to see her body where it lay. She looked peaceful, asleep but in an odd position, the arms twisted beneath the body. Peaceful! – a smile crossed briefly as she wondered what ‘peace’ meant. Then, the crowd came down, then the family, her husband… It was a heart-wrenching scene, and as she wept herself, she wondered how she could break free.

Breaking free had not been an option in life. How could it be in death? Her sobs subsiding, she weighed her options. Should she go down below and check out what was happening? Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the sun, she focussed – ah! Her parents!

She swallowed as she imagined their grief. She lowered herself to get closer to the scene and saw husband and daughter, grief-stricken. This was not how she had wanted to go. So much of unfinished business. She mulled over her situation sitting on the parapet.

Fifteen days later, the daughter in the apartment below sat writing out her homework. She had resumed school and had a lot to catch up with. The daughter was hungry, and automatically called out for, out of sheer force of habit, “Amma! I am…” Her voice trailed away.

But suddenly, she sat up, her eyes glancing about as if to seek someone. A soft breath on her cheek. A sudden touch on her hair. And the smell of mother.

The seed

2009-03-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

Sowing the thought is the first thing. He pondered and decided that was a good way to begin. The seed would sprout and some day, the fruit would be his. Smiling to himself, he drove to work.

He whispered sweet nothings into her ear. How beautiful she always looked, how wonderfully intelligent she was and how she was indeed one in a million.
The first time he said it to her, she looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes… and laughed out aloud. All she would say was how corny he sounded, like the hero out of a teenage romance.

He laughed as well, and the twinkle in his eyes was a bit wicked. That, was the first seeding. He was not in any hurry for he like her company, her mood swings and her sense of humour. Besides, the best thing was that she was married and hence, out of bounds technically, for a single swinger like him.

Of course, she did not notice, absorbed as she was in the party and the rest of the people around them. Soon, the people swallowed her and she was gone. But he did not worry too much, she would be back, at another party, another place and he would then, sow a few more thoughts.

It did happen like he had calculated, only she got a bit wary. She asked him questions, told him not to speak that way, but of course, he sounded besotted and completely sincere. That worried her a bit at first but then she got used to his proliferating sweet nothings that came at her like they were flies. She batted them away sometimes, but soon, she was looking at him with new eyes. Possibilities, albeit new to her mind, began to sprout. She looked at him like she had not seen him before and he noticed, smiling behind his hand. A little strategic withdrawal was in order.

Thus, he played her, his own little game until he figured he could sow a lot more thought. He would send her little suggestive email forwards, that were fun. She could not object to them and if she did, he would of course, be indignant and say that she was a prudish, outdated thing. She did not react. So he were gently enquired is his mails were intrusive. No, no, not at all she replied politely.
The mails got more suggestive. Persuasive. Then he asked, do you see my emails at all? Of course I do was her reply. He smiled when he heard her speak. There was plenty of time provided one of them did not die along the way. It was a good thought.

Hmmm… he said, one day to her, don’t you think you should spice up your life a bit? Surprise was in her voice when she answered, why, why do you think so? He played her fast and lose and suggested a little fling. She laughed and replied can’t you show a little more imagination? He drooped a bit and talked about how repressive society was. She changed the subject.

But the seed was sown and he knew there would be more to come. Then there would be the day, when he would get to sample the ripened fruit. He wondered if his fascination would last long. But that did not worry him. The process of getting there was sweet.

Idiots are God’s Own People

2009-03-26T10:57:00.000-07:00

Idiots are God’s Own People,
He lovingly nurtures them and ensures they proliferate
Populating the Earth with more of their kind.
Ensuring that they get their way
They live their life with minimum fuss
Expectations, or disturbances.
And the few painful intelligent
Are batted aside if ever their paths cross.

Idiots find their way to heaven,
A heaven of their own making,
For wherever they go, it will be heaven.
But for the rest, with a spark of intelligence,
Heaven is certainly out of bounds,
Peopled by idiots.
So they are doomed to find Hell
Wherever they go.

Yearning

2009-03-26T06:55:00.001-07:00

A longing for something strikes
Restless and wanting
One waits, for the something to arrive.

The wait has begun, and suddenly all is tense.
Will it appear, what is nebulous?
There is no word for it, just a feeling,
A wanting, a yearning.

Nothing then satisfies,
All else is black and white,
But that something
That tantalises from afar, being just out of reach,
Out of sight, but not out of mind.

The yearning then becomes a state of living.
Something that is there, yet without your touch.
That something not too far, yet near.
Your fingers itch to clutch, to grab.
Yet, you wait, patiently…
For life, has its ways of teaching you to wait.
To keep you constant, in wanting.

Unconditional love

2009-03-26T05:17:00.000-07:00

Simba loves me. Unconditionally. His lovely brown liquid eyes follow me wherever I go. I call him ‘boing boing’ dog because every time he looks at me, I see a burst of pink hearts floating up towards me. I am sure if he had a guitar and a floppy hat, he would do the serenading thingie as well.

Nose a few inches away, Simba is my shadow, my one other self. He is soft, has fluffy golden hair and is the complete stress-buster, rolled into a butterball of a golden retriever. And he wants nothing but my company. No demands, no heavy stuff. Just a state of being, being with you.

Simba has developed an infection in his ears. On to Ark(the vet clinic) we went. Simba fluttered around a bit(new place), looked at me with a question in his eyes, allowed the doctor to poke through different parts of him(including a thermometer in his rectum); all with a patience, not a bark to be heard.

After, he rode in the front seat of the car sitting on a towel, looking regal and glowing, leaving plenty of his long golden hair behind, on the dashboard and the floor. Back home, he revived sufficiently to take a long drink of tap water and flop down… looking as I moved about keeping things back in their place. His liquid brown eyes melting as they followed my movements, ready to move himself when I did.

Coming home

2009-03-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

The day is late. The dark is silent. The smallest noises magnified. I read, the page turns, rustling.
The eyes are slits. The dark pupils glitter as they watch me read. More pages turn. More things happen. Within those pages of course. It’s still. Life seems not to move, except in the pages of the book. Is there no life outside it? Seems like not.
When the day is but a beginning, a middle and the end, what is real about it? It’s like a structured story, a plan with people in it. The people are random, but predictable, have nothing new to say.
Suddenly a surprise. One person talks about karma, the womb, rebirth and reaping the rewards. I think, I listen, then once again, the barometer dips. It’s nothing. It’s a read idea – translated, it means a surface scratching. Like a kitten sharpening her claws on a hall chair.
I return to pages, this time, to another book. The pages rustle, I turn, I move with it. There is Time there, moving within those pages, moving, happening, feeling, living. Then outside, the air seems stuffy and still, like a vaccum-packed, sealed pack of chips. The morning arrives, the packet opens, the chips come out, are eaten, the pack is thrown away. Another day ends.
I come home in the mind. The beginning, the middle and the end are over. Life begins again. The pages rustle. There is music, there is life, and Time moves.

My mother

2009-03-25T09:15:00.001-07:00

I look at me in that mirror
That’s the person who was
At 20, I am the person
Who became me as I am today.

I suddenly see me in the mirror
40 does not seem an age.
Or is it? It has never felt that way
Age in the mind, age in the body,
When did that happen
Not to me, yet
But today I look close,
Is the skin looking different?
Is that age?

Or, is it a mindshift
Somewhere in my mind
Have I let my ‘youngness’ go,
Stopped being 20.
Have I become my mother?