“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And then, it gave her a bit of a high when she bumped into the now ‘fading’ Diva, a bit outdated in her loud dull pink lipstick, and what would now be slightly ‘tarty’ evening wear.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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Disconnect
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.
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.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Takeover
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.
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.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Life is a joke
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.
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…
…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!
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
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.
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
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?
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?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Emperor’s New Clothes
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?
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?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Artificial people, in an artificial world*
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Lesser men*
(*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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Inside your head
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.
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
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.
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
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 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
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.
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
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.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The True Reality Show
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.
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
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?
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?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Love affair
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.
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…
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!
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
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.
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.
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