Oxymoron's

Lie.

2012-02-02T04:21:00.000-08:00

Go on then, strike a chord that you think would twist and turn the grass blades of arid fields in betraying winters. Go on; teach them how to cross deserts sans camels on the prowl and dive in the lonely dunes that perfected the mirage of oases. They won’t question today, they won’t tell you to vanish from the face of the earth, wondering and measuring such historically heavy terms like exploitation or manipulation. Go on then, go on, lie.

For lies, are beautiful things. They are powerful words that make you happy or break you down. They are like little pieces of fiction that often leave facts behind, feeling lonely and inferior. Go on, say that you have not thought about your grandmother’s cow and felt hungry, and you have not wanted to strangulate your four year old cousin when he randomly came and tore your Asterix. Go on, tell them your writings have no relation with real life, and then tell them that some of them, especially the ones where you have written about how lonely you are, in fact, do have some. Tell them all sorts of lies. Lie about how they look, lie about why you didn’t keep in touch, your education, money and relationships. Lie about love. Go on, tell them you will love them forever. Tell them once you leave you would continue to love them. Lie, and be lied to. Every time they say you were missed, and every time they tell you a certain beautiful song reminds them of you. And then lie back. Tell them you will love them forever.

Tell them, that you never ate chalk and hated the smell of her sweat. Tell them Barbie dolls disgust you and you hated Backstreet Boys when you were in school. Go on; nod your head in agreement as you listen to Friedman talk about the Middle East. Don’t you remember the time when they published a poem of yours while at school? Remind them. Go on. Lie about things that people expect you to lie about. Lie about things that they do not. Tell them that you used to rub the dust off the statue of Henry Louis Vivian Derozio every evening as you went past it, for you loved his poems. Tell them you love how they look in the mornings, and tell them you learnt swimming in three days flat not abusing your instructor thinking he wanted to kill you. Lie about places you want to visit. Lie about how you love Africa as you hide your honeymoon tickets for Naples in your back pocket. Lie about drinking milk, homework, sex, birth control pills, abortion, and feeding mangoes to a giraffe in a zoo. How it was India versus the West Indies Test series that you watched through the night, and how you played with water for hours behind the closed bathroom door.

Ask the winds around you, they will say that lies are lighter to carry. Drop little pieces of lies in water and watch them flow past the stones so easily, for water would tell them that they are malleable. Look at your guitar once in a while and sigh, take it outside, break and smash it, throw it into the sea, and then come back and say how you loved playing it. Tell them how you were never bullied in school, and tell them how vulnerable you can be. Lie about cocaine on the rooftops of old buildings in the early autumn air. Tell some you took it, tell others you didn’t. Lie about happiness, lie about sorrow. Go on, tell them you will love them forever.

Truth would one day, come in death. Till then go on and lie. Tell them that love is forever.

Delhi

2011-11-02T11:24:00.000-07:00

White

There is something about dust that often makes me wonder, when it blows, does it try to conceal certain acts by making us shut our eyes? And when we open them, things become hazy. You simply can’t get past that certain point without shutting your eyes again. I think dust helps to give cover to certain demons that quickly hide in some lonely and silent corners of a city. Delhi has a lot of dust in it. It’s as if Jackson Pollock is standing somewhere making it his canvas, and decides to sand paint rather than sprinkle colours from a can. Hence the demons slip in and often write their horrid stories in the city. If one day the dust decides to settle, it would perhaps keep the demons at bay. And dust makes white look a bit grey. Ask those pillars at Connaught Place, and the structures that are held by them. From afar, the dust makes them grey, but they aren't. They are white. Pristine white. If you happen to be there and look at an Elizabethan structure that feels grey, go closer and check again. See the white, they reflect the sun in a way nothing does. They dazzle your eyes, and then as you get used to them after a point, they scream at you with their whiteness. If you do not like white, look away. Look towards the footpaths or a park in the middle. But then you are better than that. After all, you have gotten out with a backpack and a camera that challenges you with its limited battery life. Stop behaving like a tourist, become a traveller. And then, look again. Look at the black iron grills that protect the windows of those white structures. Look at the pillars that stand like Atlas perhaps sheltering demons as the dust settles down. There is a certain mischief in that white. There is a certain mischief, in any white. That threat to become dirty so easily, that fear of giving away anything secretive, or the joy of getting the license to making it dirty. Also, that desire to paint something else on it. It’s like a blank page, saying come and write what you want to. Those white structures all over Delhi, give a sense of a pleasant incompleteness. “Come back soon, I can be a different colour next time. I can be different, next time.” Like how the Red Fort was white once. No one imagines it white now. Ask the Brits, they know how to change the colours of history.

Red

Red was the colour of tiny lanes that meandered in the laps of fairytales. Each one of those lanes storing a million stories of things that happened. Perhaps two centuries ago, a disgruntled boy lost a bet and gave away his favourite pony and cried at a corner of one of those lanes. At a certain turn, there was a door with a huge lock protecting a red house. There were marble stairs that lead to the door, marble which was fading slowly. They probably stored banters about the craziness of a king who kept changing the kingdom’s capital. Red was also the colour of women’s cholis, or even the shining embroidery on the borders of their burkas, as they made a ringing sound getting out for dinner on a Saturday evening. Red was the colour of freshly served chicken tandoori and the sound of crisp onion rings as you stood in a crowded lane, staring at a sombre man selling attar. The naan khatais served for you to bite on and fall in love with had a burnt red hue on them. Red was what the face of the Pathan at a restaurant became when one asked him what would he have if he had brought his family to that place. Red was also what the sun was when dawn cracked in the autumn mornings. The bells of certain cycle rickshaws were painted red. A Sardarji cleaning the roads in front of his holy place was wearing a smile in his face, and a bright red turban. And if red is the colour of love, then I think I saw a couple stealing away certain moments in the darkness of the India Gate which otherwise disappointed a lot of romantics by failing to light up that evening.

Black

Coming from Calcutta, I am used to the semi-hard magnetic paper tickets that you insert and take out in the metro gates. The coin shaped tickets that were given at the Delhi metro were new for me. And they were black with the structure of Qutab Minar etched on one side. There were a few of them in other colours as well, but I got all blacks. And I loved them. They reminded me of the Mother Dairy coins that were given to us when we were young, and we were supposed to insert them in the machine for the milk to fall into the container. The coins were black, and so was Gurgaon after evening due to power cuts. A cancelled international concert, and the wrath of the people, a very disgruntled radio jockey and a hurt Delhi-ite complaining about the cliché of misbehaved people being used as an excuse to hide inefficiency of the administration were all black. Black was the colour of the expressway at night as one sped against the early winter winds to reach a certain place on time. Black were the moods of all those people who told me they hated Delhi, and missed their homes. The yellow balloon with Appu Ghar written on it that flew high up had a black layer of dust. Hopefully people still visit it. I did long back, and have cherished it ever since. But that’s nostalgia, that’s blue.

Blue

Delhi was my gateway to the mountains when I was young. It was where I halted either very happy with the thought of all the places that I will be visiting, or crestfallen at the end of the vacation as we went back. It used to be always about bus stands and train stations, and stealing away a day to do a lot of touristy things. Visit the Lotus Temple, quickly pretend to know and understand things at the Jantar Mantar, or listen to the same story of Nehru at the Red Fort making his ‘at the stroke of midnight’ speech. Delhi was always a place where you did a lot of things that you were supposed to do, before the real fun started. As I grew up, Delhi changed for me, albeit from distance. Through the pages of history books, I discovered a Delhi that I began to love. I remembered the places I had been to as a kid and tried to relive them through the stories of those history books. Delhi was about kings and monarchs, of pigeons and wholesale shops, Delhi was about politics and old lanes and houses, was about delightful chaos and heartbreaking street food. About sounds, sights and whiffs of everything that had a drop of oldness in it. I find blue in nostalgia. And so half of Delhi was blue for me. A very sneak peak of an express train at Old Delhi station was blue, as were the sights and sounds of Kareems. One look at the Qutab Minar reminded of the times when I held dad’s hand and took steps towards it, thinking and believing that it was the tallest structure in the world. Believing that somehow, if I could go on top of it, I could see my house. Janpath and India Gate were also blue, as was the primary colour of the F1 team that won the first Indian GP. The cleanliness of New Delhi had a bluish hue in them, so did the Red Fort hiding behind buses and SUVs in mad traffic. The wall of one of the ancient houses that hid itself deep inside the inconspicuous praanthewali gali was electric blue. It made a valiant attempt to coat the age of the bricks that formed its foundation. The lungis worn by the rikshawwalas were mostly blue, as were the million chappals that happened to trade Chandni Chawk. I met people who longed for what Delhi used to be, who hated the rapid and scary urbanisation and the heartless acts of hooliganism that have become synonymous to the city, and I see them in blue. Blue was the colour of my mood as I revisited my almost forgotten memories of the city. It was the colour of the horizon that beckoned me as I drove through the roads that connected an India that I have loved.

Blue was the cleric I saw on the steps of the Jama Masjid one evening. The largest mosque of the country was starkly empty, its silhouette bordered with tiny lights. I saw him sit and stare at the sky, quietly smoking a cigarette, bringing in the night.

Of sad poems

2011-10-08T06:54:00.000-07:00

It’s very easy, if you think about it, to sit next to a forlorn window, look around and think about the things that bother you and start writing your feelings in some sort of dark metaphors and call it poetry. Play a sad song with it, a lot of instruments, saxophones and even bagpipes, and looking out, if you see that at the far end of the uncharacteristic azure of sky, there is a hint of grey, you might even wish for a drizzle to come, which would go perfectly with those impassioned and heart wrenching expressions that you write about. Sadness puts you in a kind of a stupor, makes you quiet, and helps you come up with beautiful metaphors and you realise, that putting down your sorrow on paper, might not be the toughest thing under the sun.

Sadness makes you a poet. Sadness also makes you grow up, in a way that you would probably not fathom. You grow up to be someone who you would have never predicted. When you were young, and there was the whole world out there to be explored, an entire path of mistakes to be made, you would have always thought how you would be once you would grow up. Kind probably, or extremely strict, you would be the one to bridge the gap between the revolting teenagers and reticent adults, you would never desert your parents, and would always love with all your heart. You would have probably thought, that you would never make the same mistakes your parents made, that when you would grow up, you would be something that probably would be a little different from what you were then, but in spirit you would be the same, much evolved, but not much removed. And then you actually grow up. You make mistakes, and you go through to all those emotions which you had always thought as things that happened to someone else. You float in the tides of happiness and seldom see that you might be leaving your trusted land. You become a whole new person, and do not even realise it.

All your insecurities would be questioned in that voyage, all your weaknesses, known and unknown would appear from the depths of certain unknown place and laugh at your face. You would find yourself in a very strange place then, a place you never even thought about, your nightmares never seemed to have the imagination to sketch the landscape of this place. And all you would feel then, is as if somehow your heart has become a philanthropic porter at a busy terminus and someone has put a lot of weight on it. Stomach would churn, tear glands would tease shamelessly and you would probably see a very large cloud hovering like a speech bubble showing you nothing. And you would say hello to sorrow, to being truly sad. The sad that grownups talk about, the sad that makes Tagore write Ki Pai Ni, or Emily Dickinson write I Held a Jewel. And you would realise, that writing something sad is not the toughest thing in the world.

I have found out, heard and read at great many places, about people writing about sorrow. Letters, poems, emails, I have even seen a few extremely organised women write something like ‘Sigh’ in cursive on their sticky note and carefully paste it at their work stations. Whatever the mode is, form is, I have noticed that all you have to do to write poetry, even if you aren’t really a very good poet, is describe sadness. I give you my word, that whatever you write, it will end up being if not intense, but at least slightly poetic. Someone once emailed me talking about his frustration in the field of academics. He was ranting mostly, and he said, “it’s like at the end of it all, I can’t help but often wonder, is there a point to all this?” Sorrow is like the capital city of the beautiful country of rhetoric. When your loved one suddenly decides that you aren’t really good enough for him or her, and gives you a very sad but understanding smile, and hugs you tightly and leaves, and you ask yourself “why?” all you have to do is describe the entire thing at a later time (depending up on how much deep in shit you are) like a second rate reporter and read, you shall see, poetry has been created.

But there is nothing poetic about sorrow. Every time I am truly sad, the feeling is not something I can describe as being as beautiful as poetry. Far from it, it has often felt like someone squeezing my intestines till he makes them talk. It’s like all my sense organs are going on a large scale strike, which, with time, would turn into some kind of a masochistic demonstration where all of them would collectively make you cringe in pain. A pain that you will not be able to describe, or pin point. A pain for which medical treatment would either seem ridiculously pointless, or seriously pretentious. Tears would flow sometimes, in secrecy or otherwise, for the frustration and pain to come out into the open; liberation in salty liquid that the poets would later romanticise as something heartbreakingly beautiful. But when we cry, there is nothing poetic about it. There is nothing poetic about drowning head inside the pillow and screaming oneself hoarse, reluctantly conscious about avoiding social embarrassments. There is nothing poetic about missing someone. It is an empty feeling, a hollow feeling where you lie to yourself that your mind is unable to think of anything. For in your head, your mind is playing a 72mm reel of the person or the thing that you are missing, throwing memories at you as if they were some cursed spells. And then you would perhaps know, that there is nothing poetic about sorrow.

Yes, sometimes when we feel such emptiness, the sudden lowering of an overcast sky makes us feel emptier; when we are alone, a certain tune dressed in lonely words often lends its empty hand of silent companionship. A few stanzas touch a few chords, and a few stories tell us that we aren’t the only ones who have gone through this misery. And then when we put those very feelings, those dark, empty, lonely, painful, cringing feelings in a frame, we realise, that writing something sad is not the toughest thing in the world.

But then, there is nothing poetic about sorrow.

To Bandra, with jealousy

2011-09-06T05:46:00.000-07:00

If you spend a week in Bombay, anywhere in Bombay that is, it would help you make at least one absolute statement in life. That life is tough. You arrive here with a bag full of memories of tiny roads meandering under the shade of trees drooping from either sides, of cycling to school and running away for a quiet afternoon on the roofs of your pretty houses, often getting disturbed by the noise made by a few rickshaws as you listen to your dad complain about how your town has changed, and then you smile to yourself, thinking that you have to live in Bombay now. Yes you live in Bombay now, you think a 400 square feet flat with a room and a hall with suspicious green flooring is an absolute steal. You think as long as you spend less than five grand a month for your daily transport you are living in a perfect area. You walk by in the morning staring intently at a Gulmohar tree and write poetry about how beautiful mornings are, and then suddenly, like the batmobile tearing through the silence of Gotham city in the middle of the night, comes the pest control, blowing pesticide and smoking the entire place up, and you rejoice. For now you imagine that the morning turned prettier as the Gulmohar is enveloped by a fog. Yes you are in Bombay now, while you are asleep in the middle of the night, desperately trying to push away the approaching dawn when you have to get up and rush through the crowded streets to the crowded platforms so that you are lucky enough to get at least 4 inch space in a crowded train right outside the entrance of the cabin, and suddenly feel a drop of water fall silently on your cheek, rolling down like a tear that lost its way, it’s not a sad dream. You wake up and see that like in the room high above on a pole where Cacophonix used to practice and make it rain indoors, the rain outside has graciously decided to remind you how wet it is through the ceiling of your beloved home. When you wake up and take your mattress and shift to another room and go back to sleep without uttering a single syllable of protest or disgust, you know you are in Bombay now.

And if you happen to stay in this very wonderful and glamorous place in the western suburbs called Bandra, well, you do all that, but just pay double. You see like every beautiful thing in life, Bandra comes at a price. For Bandra is a beautiful place. Hilly roads twisting and turning like a small Sicilian town where you would see Caucasians cycling to market place, delightful little cafeterias and bakeries so that you are never given the impression that you are too far away from Europe. Yes Europe, you seat next to this place called French Loaf and eat pastry and soft bun, and look at a lovely little Volkswagen Beetle go past followed by a teenager on a skate board. That’s Bandra. Delightfully international. Admit that this is India, anything international is supposed to be delightful, but Bandra is like an example to that sentence. You have bakeries called Sante, and a day in the week, where you have a ‘farmers’ market’! Bandra does its bit to make Bombay truly cosmopolitan. There is the annual Bandra Fair, its very own Mardi Gras, and on certain lazy Sundays, there are a few wine tasting events as well, where you can see women in floral one piece dresses (or whatever it’s call, excuse my fashion sense) and men with hats discussing, well, art. So you see, to be a part of this, you need to pay up. Bombay is expensive, but Bandra, is fashionably expensive. If you hear someone say “oh I pay 200 bucks for a veg thali from the local eatery, but then it’s Bandra,” with a very nonchalantly proud shoulder shrug, don’t be surprised. Be jealous, but not surprised. You don’t stay in Bandra, you won’t know what it is to be a part of it. You don’t get to quietly walk down Carter Road and witness a rock show to ‘celebrate Bandra’, you don’t get to intellectualise the abstract art exhibition with a theme to fight pollution opposite Joggers’ Park and witness the crimson dusk in the midst of walkers, joggers and expensive breeds of dogs with their masters wearing gloves and carrying newspapers to diligently clean their poop every time they defecate. So be jealous. If one fine day, you see that there is mushroom growing from your mat under the basin, do not be afraid, it’s but a small price to pay, because once you get out of that, you are probably 10 minutes away from a pretty little cafe, or five away from the beach.

You see in Bandra, houses have character. They are not going to let you take them for granted. I read somewhere that Afghans used to take pride in the fact that even though they were to live in an arid land with absolutely nothing to take pleasure from, harsh winters, burning summers, no water and only stones for miles, they loved their motherland enough to not desert it. They could have easily moved to the prosperous lands of Iran or even crossed the Indus to come to India, but they didn’t, for their love for their own land was strong enough for them to withstand the difficulties. You see Bandra houses give you the mettle, the character of an Afghan. You might forget that at some place, somewhere not that far away, there is a phenomenon where sunlight may enter your house, that it is not a miracle of some sorts. You might forget, that there are neighbours, when they open their doors, their homes won’t stink of something that can be anything from a rat to a titanium; and you most definitely might forget that end of a rainy season doesn’t necessary mean that your house would become a botanical garden of some sorts, but even if you do remember, like the Afghans, you would continue to live. Not necessarily, unlike the Afghans, because you actually love it, but because you won’t have a choice. Moving away from Bandra has its advantages, and a lot actually do, but then, if you don’t stay in Bandra, you don’t stay in Bandra. Somewhere, somehow, some way, something will certainly itch. So next time you see your friend who is living in Bandra, observe him closely. You will see intensity, there will be pride, trying to blanket a not so thin layer of strife and pain, giving his face a very deep and complex countenance. I call it the Bandra look, try it, it’s very sexy.

In my short stint with the queen of suburbs (seven months to be precise), I have grown a lot. Well, may be not a lot, but grown all the same. Next time I rant about discomfort, I would think twice. Next time I look at the sky as it bursts open and think that rains are romantic, I would think more than twice. And the next time I visit a pretty little bakery or a cafe or even a culturally active promenade, I would always think of her.

For now, it’s so long Bandra. Thank you for the memories, good and bad. If I had a god, I would have kept you in my prayers. You are no Khyber Pass, but you gave me the confidence to face one.

Turn

2011-08-03T23:08:00.000-07:00

If you could just turn,

May be walk up to the windows,

The ones in the east,

And pull the curtains away,

You would see that sunlight seeps through the pores of cloud,

And softly touches the dampened floor.

You might feel it too,

Rubbing against your hand,

Like a drop of honey on guarded chocolate.

Then make your way across the rooms,

In tip toes,

You can wake him up then,

Perhaps to his disappointment.

Sleep clutching on to his eyelids,

Making him blink ferociously,

The sunlight mild enough to not disturb,

It was just you,

And sleep wouldn’t go.

He would dump himself back,

Or probably wake up for he loves you,

But it wouldn’t matter.

For you would have seen certain things,

Certain other things,

Certain other sleepless things.

You would have seen a moth struggling with a bulb,

Lit still in early morning,

Ignored by a careless security guard,

Question the brightness of the sun.

If you could just turn,

You would see that the kitchen window was left open,

And it embraced the midnight storm,

Spilling vessels and what’s in them,

As the contents fell softly on a sack of rice.

You would have to keep the window open now,

So that sunrays can fight the moisture on the brownish granite,

As you quietly pick the coffee beans, fallen carelessly on the floor.

Someone would have knocked on the door,

Tapped it slightly, responsibly,

And you would find no one through the magic eye.

Partially open the door,

To get a smell of the ink they use in a printing press,

As news would be bundled on cheap paper.

Your hands would smell of coffee by now,

Maybe even a brownish hue on brown.

You would smell your palm and wish,

You would wish for certain things to come.

Newspaper would be carefully kept beside the bed,

Something for him to be pretentious about,

Something for him to start off a conversation,

That would do enough to curtail your anger,

But not involve you too much,

For he must be needing to flip through the pages,

Mental notes for his social discussions.

But then if you could just turn,

You would see a yellow light,

A yellow dot like a lit up hut in the midst of a darkened wheat field,

Summoning you from a pitch black music player.

You would find your feet taking you there,

And then find your finger press a circular button,

And darkness would come to life.

“Take a sad song and make it better”,

It would say, and you would hum.

A slight drizzle would come in spatters,

Against the glass pane of French windows,

The ones in the west.

You would look beyond,

Somewhere in a remote village,

It is probably raining,

Washing away the mud that layered the freshly laid roofs,

Drenching the children and their uncovered books,

Running back from the dismissed class of a quasi classroom,

Under the shade of an Asoka tree.

The drizzle would turn heavier,

Striking against the glass in a non rhythm,

Like ruthless mercenaries firing pearls from a distance,

And you would find your way through poetry,

Through words and lyrics strung together to win hearts and minds,

Through screams of joy and mud stained school shorts,

Through lovers under yellow umbrellas across the greying beaches,

Through sandy feet and inebriated embraces,

And dislike rain.

But then if you could just turn,

And rush softly back to the east,

You would see that a few rays in the distance,

A few honeyed rays from a misanthropic sun,

Make their way to the moist earth,

As if to shower some warmth to the souls that would wash away.

A few butterflies would find enough time to manage some ration,

A few crows would finally change trees,

As the sky from the west would thunder aloud,

And the rays would dissolve like the end of a movie.

And you might want to shut the window again,

Still warm from the morning sun.

The song would end, with a soft siren from the coffee machine,

Sounds of his reckless movements in the kitchen,

A spoon falling on porcelain, followed by a few curse words,

And you would smile.

Ma, revisited.

2011-07-03T10:55:00.000-07:00

For me, as someone who grew up in the 90s, Raveena Tandon’s wet pelvic thrusts to the beats of tip tip barse paani in that dingy cave was perhaps the first taste of sensuality. Not sexuality mind you, for that can come in a very well written raunchy porno where the story and the build up make the ultimate act sexier than it is; but this is deeper than that. It is sexuality with a certain restrain that makes you fall in love. You don’t need to know the story, and you really don’t care about what she plans to do. You see her move, and you just know, that this woman, has the power to dig trenches inside your brain and live there through a hundred Holocausts. I for one, was and am in love with Raveena Tandon in that yellow sari for those few minutes watching her seduce her man; completely ignorant of the fact that she would become some sort of a motif when it comes to sensuous rain dances in Hindi cinema.

So it was a bit sad when I watched Bhuddha Hoga Tera Baap and found out that she has made her big ass come back as a bimbo who is smitten by Amitabh Bachchan who really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her. But she doesn’t care, she goes on playing the middle aged slut with a pretty neat body and tries to seduce him like those women who become irritating, nagging and incorrigible, not knowing what the man wants. I am sorry, but she is way better than that. If her role had a significant part to play in the storyline I would have understood, but then, I am probably being juvenile and mixing my personal feelings.

But this isn’t about that, it’s not even about an actor like Makrand Deshpande in a role that could have very easily been played by rejected Bhojpuri actors turned to unemployed mimics in the streets of Bhopal. It’s about something else. It’s about something that I have experienced before, but not in this way. It’s about watching my mom, along with a few more unknown middle aged women in the theatre, watching the big screen with stars in their eyes.

I knew that this film was a tribute to Amitabh Bachchan and his pulp cinema of 70s and 80s. I also knew that whatever he did, he was a rage amongst the Indian youth. And though I have mocked and ridiculed his histrionics in those completely brainless films, never for one moment did I not have fun watching them. Of course, now we enjoy them as films that aren’t supposed to be taken seriously, as India’s lovable kitsch films, as sources of popular culture reference for anthropologists trying to decode the pre liberalized India. But in those times, he meant much more to the Indian youth than what film stars of today mean to us. He gave them that perfect gateaway which wasn’t really too much away from reality. He was the rebel that every unemployed man wanted to become if reality had a sense of humour and allowed them to do so. He was more than a movie star, (and oh yes he was such a movie star!), he was a source of catharsis for middle and lower class India, that gave them the strength to face the reality once out of the cinema hall. There was less romance I thought, but more rage. There was less sex I thought, but more idol worship. Everything Amitabh Bachchan said or did in those films was larger than life, and it was the perfect way to instill some imagination in the dreamless eyes of people; imagination, which was not unabashed, but somehow grounded to reality.

And so as a tribute to him and his movies, watching BHTB would be like revisiting his mannerisms and confidence, which he showered on the less than ordinary and almost nondescript adversaries with a mix of wit. I knew Bachchan had a very strong female fan base, and my mom is definitely one of them. But what I didn’t know was that, he had the power to make them teenagers again. I wondered what women like my mom would be like when Bachchan used to kick those goons with his long legs so many years back. They must be fresh out of college then, getting stolen away by young men in bell bottom jeans and thick side locks. There would be Kishore Kumar, R.D. Burman and Bob Dylan, there would be educated naxalite movements and political emergencies, with a smattering of Eastwood and Redford westerns. And there would be Bachchan, rude, yet subtle, angry yet witty, condescending yet with a tone of modesty, a sort of rawness that has kept some space for hidden polish, standing in all his 6 feet 2 (or something like that) avatar, making the women go weak in their knees. Today, when he reminded the audience how the queue starts from where he stands, he probably wanted to collectively take all these women for a ride in the time machine. I know my mom took that ride with a delicious smile in her face.

“It’s him who is singing isn’t he,” she asked almost not wanting to hear any other answer but a yes.

“Yes, but the rap portion was by Abhishek Bachchan.”

“Which was that? The English portion? Where he keeps saying Go Meera Go?”

“Yes, there was a bit more but yes.”

“That was hardly anything. But mostly it was him right?”

At that very same moment, I thought about a few other women I know of, and I wondered how they would have reacted. I wouldn’t really bet against them reacting in any other way. But looking at my mother’s star struck and completely infatuated face, I sat back sipping my coke with a smile in mine. I realized, that beyond the expected mediocrity and a series of clichés, beyond the offensive casting of the heroine of my dreams and beyond the over the top bullshit inspired from playing-to-the-gallery genre of cinema, this film still manages to somehow rise above the average. No, not in the “so what it’s still a hit” kind of a way, but in a proper way, as a good film must be. For it would not only make the guys at the stalls throw coins at the single screen theatres, but it would also make a lot of women like my mom, become silently gushing teenagers. And for those who completely dislike these pretentious tributes to below average movies, they might just take a pinch of salt as they enter the theatre. It’s a perfect mothers’ day gift if there was one.

I for one am mighty happy. For I finally saw my star struck mom romance for two continuous hours. It was dreamy, fierce and short lived, like love stories should always be.

It was a room

2011-05-27T04:19:00.001-07:00

Yes it was. Not that you couldn’t have looked beyond the walls if you wanted to, but it was still a room. Not that sometimes there wasn’t any chance that you would spring out of your slumber a little earlier than you would have liked with a sudden burst of golden sunlight in an uncomfortable but beautiful morning hour, but it still was a room. Like the inside of a lonely sea shell, or the imaginary days and nights in the caves of unknown forests it made you feel safe within its boundaries. It gave you windows, like a sneak peak of what you were roomed against, saying that it wouldn’t hold you, that it wasn’t possessive about you, if you wished to leave, you leave. But then absolutes are for ignorant human beings. Human beings who stared at the stars and said, “See that’s Jupiter, it’s the brightest in the sky.” The room wasn’t that. So if you left, you came back again, when suddenly you felt that the predictable insides of your bounded world was somehow what you required at the end of a tiring, adventurous, even romantic day outside. Four corners, a ceiling and perhaps a furniture or two. They looked at you in a familiar way, and every now and then you would probably have a friend in the form of lizards and rodents, who got tired playing hide and seek with their own shadows. You would sometimes become wild at heart some day and hang a calendar, which told you stories of days gone by and gave you blank sheets of papers to write new ones for the days to come. Calendar was perhaps the wildest thing you would have ever done, giving yourself a sense of deadline, a feeling of mortality in things as you tried and kept a tag of hours and days and weeks and months that would eventually go by. Rest all were floating. Like the air escaping through the windows and getting inside to do a round of this small world where the horizon didn’t end in an arc. If those winds were people, they would have been naughty and curious boys and girls who always wanted to find out what was inside that dark fortress in the midst of lush green meadows. They would never want to stay there, but would like to see it, explore it for once, and rush out before the walls closed in. Floating beings inside a static fortress who never made any claims to stay. Or like how you heard people talk about their beliefs with passion. Beliefs that were results of suffering or celebration. Like when they believed in something with all their hearts and went against the world to stand by it, and when they loathed something even at the cost of being a cliché because they suffered when they weren’t supposed to. Out there into the open, every being somehow believed in something, and their beliefs changed with time, with age and with life. Everything inside the room, feelings, beliefs, passion, and even the stretch of the cobweb in a less than strategic position by a not so bright spider were all floating. There was music yes, trying as it always does, to put life in the lifeless, to inspire stereotyped phrases to writers who tried to describe it. There was music that changed according to moods, and then they changed according to seasons. There was music that even changed to play something that would dissolve perfectly in the dirt ridden calendar after you had forgotten to change the month for an incredibly long time. Music that played in your black cell phone, and made you wish for something more grand. Music never romanced the new you thought, it always suited perfectly with the old. Like gramophones and tape recorders. So you wished that you lived for a hundred more years with your black phone, by which time, this mode would have been old enough to be worthy of music. In that black phone you also spoke to people. Floating people. And there were a few neighbours, some were curious like the winds, and some nonchalant like the walls. You preferred the latter, for curiosity was an attribute that only suited children and winds. Sometimes, your foul mouthed neighbour who you always thought meant well would come and knock, saying your fucking garbage smelled like a monkey’s ass and you would have to get it out of this shit hole as soon as possible. But they were only few and far between, the neighbours were.

What were constant though, were you and the room. Now and then you would get out and wonder why you would get in again, and you would realise that you loved to be restricted. So what it surrounded you within the four walls, you still could look out of the window; so what the lizards ranted for the lack of food, you still let dust settle in to hide the graveness of the calendar; so what you couldn’t see the sky, you still knew that there were stars way brighter than Jupiter.

2 a.m.

2011-04-03T15:13:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the middle of these inconspicuously fast moving years, we see a lot of things that we remember and forget. The times when we didn’t have to wear underwear and the times when public embarrassments meant not being able to hold on to the extremely wild bowel movements. I know I am probably giving away secret facts about myself, but then as I said, those inconspicuously moving fast years, often ask our brain cells to take a breather and suddenly, those very things don’t matter to us anymore. In-house party jokes probably, or even first date conversation as a valiant attempt to make her laugh or smile. But that’s it. We move on, and make new memories. Over the years of course, embarrassments lower their standards to ridiculous levels, but then nobody said that growing up would be poetic and wonderful. But every now and then, we take a step or two back, and dwell on those millions of memories and smile to ourselves. We ramble on in front of others, even at the cost of some sudden leaks of suspicious facts, when everyone goes “what!!?? Really??” and a very ‘but then how does it matter’ look and smile with you. We all move ahead, for we don’t have a choice, but we just love to make the life that we have left behind, a part of the pages of our own fairytale. And fairytales are not always pretty. Some are prince charming, while some others are orcs. But for us, to live on in this world, in those moments of aloneness and blank stares at the sky or the computer screen, it is very important that nostalgia inks those pages with memories so we remember our own stories. Nostalgia is romantic; it is essential and beautiful.

I have this pair of extremely pretentious black rimmed spectacles. When I bought them, the first person who came to my mind was Woody Allen, and I got very happy. Some said they suit me perfectly, and some said I look like a dork, while my closest friends said that it doesn’t really matter because nothing much can be done or changed in a nondescript face like mine. So in the hindsight, it’s an advantage. Then I saw Amitabh Bachchan wear those glasses, and there went the exclusivity. It was followed by a few particularly buff men in malls probably looking for heavy bracelets and zoozoo t shirts. My wonderful bubble of impersonating an elite and intelligent man finally burst with a very mild pop when Ritesh Deshmukh started wearing them probably for a Sajid Khan film. They weren’t even pretentious anymore. But by then, I got attached to them. They reminded me of Dadu’s specs. How he used to carefully put them back in the case before going to bed every night and how he used to take them out right after he brushed and shaved. I think nostalgia saved those specs from getting replaced with normal ones. Like broken bats under the bed, little woolen socks in mothers’ cupboards, or rusted guitars in the cobweb ridden attics, those specs will now brace themselves for a very long life.

Nostalgia gives courage to be unabashed. When I started this blog, I often used to wonder what would inspire me to write and keep writing. As I started writing, I realized that I don’t have much to say, other than harp about snippets from the life that I have left behind. Sure I pondered about writing things that are less personal, but then at that time, I used to think that politics always had a context to history of that nation, and people truly fell in love only once. It was a long time ago. It was a world of wonderful three dimensions through a one dimensional point of view. And today as I look thorough my posts, from the first one to the last, I can see myself grow. From being in love and then out of it, to having a pretty awesome job to a very indifferent one, to certain phases of anger and joy, breaking away and curling up, this blog tells me a lot of stories. Stories that would have otherwise stayed at the back of my mind, coming in parts as momentary attacks of a revolting past. So I am glad I have kept on writing. Through turmoil and anger, sadness and joy, and lazy worthless afternoons and sleepless nights. Irregularly, erratically, but with honesty, I have somehow managed to keep writing. I am glad I never worried about the literary quality of what I write; glad that the nightmarish grammar didn’t deter me and neither did the dyslexic spellings. I never thought twice before using expletives and never stopped myself from crying while I wrote something sad. Today, I need this blog of mine, to make sure that I don’t forget the memories.

I want to live my life in such a way so that I can trip on nostalgia in the future. Thirty or forty years from now, if I am still alive and kicking (however weakly), I want to look back at my life as an extremely long movie. I want to watch it in sepia, except the parts when spring comes and everything is a smiling green. I want each of my memories to not lose out a second of its print. I want to laugh looking back at the first time I shat in my pants, or scored a goal or made love. I probably wouldn’t want to relive them, but watch them as an audience, and say that it was an interesting life. Children would have grown up, volcanoes would have erupted, men would have romanced revolutions and poets would have written their Love Songs, and hopefully, I would be there in all of them, collecting memories for my nostalgia.

In the meanwhile something new is starting for me, and I can’t wait for it to grow old. Beautifully, like a Birmingham clock.

A tribute

2010-12-27T23:25:00.000-08:00

And to think, it all started when I was in school. Short pants on Fridays and reluctantly moving around as the so called ‘seniors’ but getting embarrassed by the pants that looked like they stopped half way for a coffee break, but then forgot about the journey; first Board exam results, at a time when there was no internet or cell phones for me, and adding to that, a dead telephone; then getting into a commerce college thinking that they gave major in Economics because the name clearly said ‘HR College of Commerce and Economics’ and studying Secretarial Practice for two years and learning the tricks of crediting and debiting while surreptitiously creating a convenient ‘Suspense’ account; then ultimately having had enough of the pseudo education that they call the ‘Commerce Stream’ and getting out and shifting to arts; for a change encountering certain ‘real’ things in life; like real knowledge, real lack of knowledge, real flattery and real criticism; And also, real friends; some of them are still there, some of them think that they are there, for some of them I think that they are there, and a few others had a reality check; there were phases of absolute self importance when I thought that I have certain something in me that in modern terminology might be risked to be called something like talent; and then there were phases of absolute logic striking absolutely, and asking me to wake up with a particularly honey bathed smile; so I woke up and looked into the dictionary for yet another time when I was mocked by my impoverished vocabulary and came across this word called ‘disillusionment’; what a mindboggling and awesome word; it is that perfect word that would give a very tragic, deep and classy tone to immaturity and overconfidence, and also, to a certain extent, failure; so unabashed usage of my favourite word started, and sure enough, I was ‘disillusioned’ about the education system, a certain girl and then of course, a lot of girls, college, justice, weather, and eventually, life; moving to Calcutta and then understanding the meaning of being alone in a city in a not so romantic kind of way; one fine December night decided that in the core of my heart, hidden under layers and layers of I don’t know what, is a fresh mind of a writer; and so I started this blog, and called it, well, ‘Disillusionment’; then Calcutta smiled at me, I smiled back; fell in love, wandered, wondered, climbed up, crawled down, leapfrogged, and quite a few handful of floodlit football matches at Salt Lake stadium and dew stained mornings at Eden Gardens, a million mosquito bites and a few more unknown volleyball tournaments and a one whole Statesman House later, decided to leave Calcutta; too much I guess isn’t too good; Bombay, L&T, completely sane workplace with extremely sane people resulting in completely insane behaviour and erratic drinking sessions; 9 to 5 and all that, but a touch of home and calmness; not too calm for too long, just sudden bursts; a very unconventional way of mending and breaking hearts and finding humour in one’s self interest; so Disillusionment became Oxymoron’s and some fifteen explanations for the conspicuous apostrophe; sudden attack from the changing world and a few promising to be promising football matches later a little surge of permanence; then some more surges of permanence, and then a complete coup; a few fights and laughs and then entering the glittering world of delightful unfitness; finally making valiant attempts to declare war on the cellulite before they finally threaten to make peace; while garnering some celluloid dreams just for the sake of impossible romance.

And to think, it all started when I was in school.

As I bid adieus to the first decade of the last millennium I would ever witness, I would like to say thanks, for giving, taking, pampering, smothering, applauding and kicking my ass in a way that I would never forget. It was always going to be a definitive decade, I am just glad that it didn’t turn out to be a definitively mundane one. It was married to change, and it was hell bent on showing me the world through a convex lens. So I could watch it differently, so I could think, and so I could make mistakes. It saw me through the consciously taken catastrophic decisions, and the unconscious falling into place of certain delightfully right ones, saw me through some promising things that could have happened, but didn’t, probably with reasons or without, and through some unexpected and undeserving instances of fortune. It was just the right measure of imperfection. And I could ask for nothing more.

And yeah, it also gave Italy a World Cup.

So long then.. and a Happy New Decade.

Suddenly, looking around

2010-12-08T02:50:00.000-08:00

As you make your way across the pebbles of a dry road that mounts and meanders like your lover’s mind, someone who you know comes and whispers---- you walk slowly nowadays. Is it the road; you wonder. Or the pebbles that break your pace? You walk fast. You always have. But what happened? Somewhere down the line did the pebbles grow bigger? Or the road steeper?

Suddenly you enter you room and start objectifying it. Instead of being a part of it, you start looking at it. You see it as your ‘young’ room. The room that witnessed a many of firsts. The first time you woke up embarrassed in the middle of the night, the first time you secretly hid the broken pieces of a vase and got away with it, the first time you put up a poster of Valderama and felt proud of it even if most didn’t know who he was, the first time you watched pornography on the brand new computer which has now become faded, but proudly so. This was the room that knew all your secrets. Like how you didn’t understand English songs, but felt intimidated when your school friends used to harp about them. This was the room that knew that the first thing you liked about your first crush was actually in your head, and you would never be sure if she was the same girl in real or not, and you didn’t want to. And now you see it as a room that saw all that. Now it becomes the room when you were young.

The leaves still fall from the bending trees in the dust stained roads of big cities the same way they had ten years ago. Cars honk, probably a bit more loudly, for they have gotten a little bigger. Children still run for their school buses and some parents still chase them with their cars and bikes. The Italian salon, which was starting off across the street probably has managed to get a 200 square feet room with a television, while some others have conspicuously vanished. Certain teachers have retired though, some new teachers in the old schools walk around queerly in the same way as the old teachers did. Some old schools have a new coat of paint on them, but they would probably have the same scratches on the old desks. Streets tell the same stories and shops probably remain same, a thin line of silvery hair peeps out from the same shopkeepers but you don’t recognise.

And then a day comes when someone comes and tells you that you walk slowly. On the same streets across the same shops and their keepers. The leaves that fall stare at you and as ever, stay fallen. And then you wonder, that the world often changes with a lot of pomp and show, but only when you change, do you realise, that the world that you think have been changing all along, must have changed a bit less than you have. And now you are old, but not that old. You just didn’t realise.

You didn’t realise when you got used to the thickening whites of your side locks. Didn’t realise when memories of school went through a heavy shortlisting in your mind’s bank and you started remembering only a handful from everything. How suddenly elders don’t get surprised anymore to see you going to office in formals and how avoiding responsibilities isn’t cute anymore. You didn’t realise that you probably tire out a bit too often, or your electrician is no more someone whom you can call “uncle” anymore. When while addressing you, a telemarketer uses Mr. followed by your surname and your parents don’t tease you about it anymore. And your parents? I don’t know, they don’t change.

They remain the same for they were always a mixture of childlike playfulness and ancient rigidity that both disgusted and enthralled you at different points of time. You remember the time when your mother became apprehensive about you spending nights out with friends, and the time when your father used to hold your hands to cross streets. In some years probably, you would do the same. On the same streets. Probably there will be a metro somewhere whizzing past above you. But I guess your father's hand would feel the same.

It’s not yet time to grow old though. But somehow, you know that the train that’s supposed to take you there is right on time. But then it was always moving, since the time you came here. You just didn’t realise.

You do now. So walk faster.

Future, or something like that

2010-10-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

Life is strange. First of all, it doesn’t stay forever, even though most of the time, it makes you feel like as if it would. But we know that don’t we? We know of it and we accept it and we move ahead. Moving ahead is universal. Even people who are desperately and shamelessly clutching on to the past are moving ahead in time, without even realising. And soon, what they clutch on to become quite far away from them.

Like some people like to hold on to past love. May be because what they had when they had it was something that they think they would never have again. Or most of the times they find that they are unable to find something worth enough to make them forget about the past. So they hold on to it. Eventually realizing that whatever they are holding on to, have left them a long time ago. They are merely holding on to their shadows. Think about it before judging others, just how many of us are deluded. Because most of us are. We delude ourselves into believing something worthwhile, like we are going to be happy. No, am not saying that we aren’t. Of course happiness comes and goes, and that’s a part of life and all that. But we delude ourselves into thinking that life is that piece of jazz that halts once in a while to take a breather, before the music starts again. Even if it’s quite the other way round.

Like some people hold on to failures. Using them as an excuse to fail in life. Of course they don’t want to fail in life. But if they do, they delude themselves with their past failures. Failures become their armour to ward off their own expectations. So the next time their dreams get shattered, they don’t have to come back to their rooms, close the door, switch off lights and bury their faces in a damp ridden pillow and cry out in utter disdain. Their past failures have already done it for them. They are just following their own legacies. We often don’t think about it, but if we look around, we would find that failure has a legacy that success would die for. Only that nobody sings of them. Like all those kings who have lost in wars.

Like some people hold on to memories. Like they are a movie that you watch, and wish that you were a part of that imaginary world where there is always a happily ever after. Memories that come in little or big packages that had once shown them how wonderful life can be. Some memories can of course be re visited, but the once we hold on to, are the ones that we are never going to get back. Remember the first time your granddad held your finger to walk you across the garden? Or the first time you tasted chocolate? Unknown brown thing that others said tasted really great, but you had no idea. And you suspiciously took a bite and you weren’t the same anymore. For more reasons than one. For ever since then, you would never know the joy of knowing chocolate for the first time. Now that’s a memory worth holding on to.

And similarly, we hold on to a lot of things while unknowingly moving on to a future with a very humourless destination. Some try and find humour in death, many even succeed to get a laugh out of it, you know, get somberly funny. But the point before they actually die, is a point when they face the fact, and how funny that point would be, I wouldn’t know. I would of course, as we all know, find out. But not right now. Right now, I am thinking about making stories and visiting places and one day, do something that would make me independent of conformity. Right now am thinking of letting go of the past, as wonderful it might be, and take my battering ram and ravage the mighty gates of the unknown future. Certain things that I am clutching on to, am thinking they might leave my clutches and either take a shape that would suit my partially adventurous future, or they would just dissolve in the October sun for they are after all, shadows. The real things have gone a long time ago. Childhood, people, places. I am thinking of doing things that would make me smile at the end of the day, not proud mind you, for that would be ambitious, just smile, and that would eventually, someday, be my abandoned pride’s reason for resurrection.

And while thinking of all that, I lie in bed with a slipped disc. Which, by the way, as the noble doctor enunciated, is a technically wrong term.

Nothing slips, he said, things just swell or become soft.

Touché.

Footsteps

2010-08-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

Certain animals squeaking from under the termite infested half broken wooden plank, would not get any disgust in return.
A fountain pen would slowly roll down the slanted writing desk, and hit the ground.
Some ink would spread across the whitish floor,
Like carelessly spread water colour.
A ceiling fan would be imprisoned by valiant cobwebs,
And the whites would turn grey.
Reds would turn brown,
Yellows amber.
A key would leave its lock forever,
As locks would try and sway with winds.
Layers of sand and dust,
And forewarnings from iron oxide.
A chair would lose its warmth,
Pampering emptiness for a change.
Mosquitoes would leave,
Through windows left purposely open for some uncertain reasons.
Papers would go wild in liberty,
Brushing off a sulking paper-weight,
Doors would close and become uptight,
And dust would make love to music on the surface of cruelly abandoned CDs.
The chair cushion would come out of its depression,
And certain sounds and smells, would somehow escape….
They would follow the footsteps that left,
To make memories of yesterday.

And you would half-turn to see what you left,
Long and smile..

But wouldn’t turn back again.

Feminaticism

2010-07-29T01:27:00.000-07:00

I don’t generally adhere to criticizing someone else's thoughts when they diligently decide to articulate them on print. Some of them inspire, while most somehow manage to be labeled as analyzing and perceptive individuals who have made it a point to carry the gauntlet of western intelligensia. And though most of their articles, I admit, grab my attention till the first or sometimes the second paragraph before I quietly move on to the sections that comment on the garb on Paris Hilton, it’s the dream of every writer to be a part of that elitist community.

But sometimes, even a mundane mind can’t help but resort to hollow shouts against certain so called commentators of popular culture. What’s more, they show their vanity by stressing on their over-the-top belief system and try to incorporate that system on every wordy essay they decide to ejaculate in the process of their intellectual masturbation. Like for instance, I happened to come across this particular article. And needless to say, the wonderful woman considers herself, and am sure quite proudly, as a feminist. And true to her clan, she also proves to the world, how anal and uptight the community can be.

I don’t know, whether it’s their inherent insecurity or their everlasting desire to connect everything with one single thought process, but when I read something like this in one of the most prestigious publications of the world, I can’t help but snort.

“The director Christopher Nolan features heroes grieving their wives' tragic demise in a good number of his films: Memento, The Prestige and Inception. But he's not alone: Hollywood films contain more dead wives than Bluebeard's basement."

I am sure Ms. Gregory had a nice day before writing this. Walking down the wet stony London lanes lazily avoiding a drive to feel the wind slap her face. And then quietly typing the words on her laptop with a smirk on her face thinking that she has successfully done what feminists of the 21st century have been mentally conditioned to do --- Find out any single pin hole of an opportunity where the subject in question, even remotely signifies objectification of the female species.

Imagine a man writes a story about dreams and the prospect of stealing them, of manipulating them, of being a slave to them and trying to create a time line between the complex structures of dream and reality. Where buildings and townships go upside down, where mirrors face each other in an attempt to visually represent the concept of infinity, and then imagine a woman or a man (lest I objectify) sitting through all this, and thinking “why did he make the wife die and show the man growing emotionally”. It takes talent, to reach such levels of myopia.

The problem is, when these people watch anything that gives them the right to analyse or judge, they can’t decide which role they should take. For if they watch a film from the point of a normal viewer, they would start feeling a little run-of-the-mill I guess. “It’s a fantastic film. And so says everybody. But what about feminism?” And it gets ridiculous at such humongous levels that the ridicule ceases to invite a chuckle anymore. For am sure they would watch Kill Bill, which is perhaps the exact opposite situation where a woman is shown struggling through her emotions after the loss (in some way) of her husband, and come up with something like “Oh, Tarentino is trying to use his films to show women as a part of violent fantasia.” And perhaps some of them, who haven’t yet reached the levels of bullshit as the others, would probably ask their children to not watch it because of the violence and gore, while they scratch their heads to find an “insult to feminism” angle to it.

And it’s not like they don’t know what they are doing.

“I don't want to sound like I'm down on any film or filmmaker in particular, just this godawful trope. Inception is an intelligent, thoughtful film that self-reflexively challenges ideas about narrative. But sometimes it seems like enjoying popular culture and being a feminist seem mutually exclusive. I don't want to have to turn my feminism off in the theatre just so I'm not niggled by the fact that….”

So it is a switch right? And every time she sits down to watch a movie with her preconceived notion worn loosely on her sleeve, rest assured it’s “turned on.” And then of course she shows off her ability to see both sides and talks of the mutual exclusivity. Well, if it is, then I don’t know what the point of the article is in the first place. And if it is as she says “sometimes” then those “sometimes” come a little too often for comfort.

If anyone thinks that finding such convoluted points in a movie that took ten years of imagination, and hard work that these pseudo idealistic uptight pieces of pop culture analysts can not even dream about, is intelligent writing, then I am happy being a daft prick. For they will sit and read Lord of The Rings or watch Jerry McGuire, and just before they are going to gasp in wonder, they would stop and start objectifying anything and everything because they are that damn passionate about thrusting their so called thought process, just to show the world that they are different.

But then, how would one truly expect them to appreciate something like Inception. After all it’s about dreams.

Of whiffs and winds

2010-07-13T00:22:00.000-07:00

If someone were to put Bangalore in poetry, he or she would do it during the afternoon. Afternoons are sleepy, and in certain ways, they are also very quiet. Quiet in the sense that they never really embrace you with loud claims of sunset (or sunbreak, a word I heard recently and just got stuck) or sunrise. They don't even incite you to come out of the cool shelters of your home listening to the consistent sound of your ceiling fan. Afternoons, very silently, inconspicuously, and mildly, put you to sleep. Or make you sleepy. Or sometimes, even keep you awake. But whatever they do, they do very silently. And I think; when afternoons are being so afternoony with you, and you can’t find the drive to do absolutely anything, and you are just happy, or even numb, and content to ease away, write about Bangalore. You would know why Bangalore is the perfect reply to the torturous pampering of afternoons.

Okay, so when you don’t really know shit about the language, and the text looks like well, let’s just say well rounded structures that might just be suggestive to the ignorant, then you can’t help but act like a tourist. You would go and look for people who know Hindi (which isn’t a problem in Bangalore), you will probably have a list of places to visit. May be walk across the lanes. But in case you have with you someone, who is not only from that city, but also loves it the way a city should be loved, (you know, having the ability to talk passionately even about the moss stained walls of a public service bathroom), then, in case of Bangalore, what you get to witness, is a fairytale. So then, you get to overhear the auto guy bitch about the sudden strike. Or then you get to see a shopkeeper look at you, and your prettiness dressed in a skirt and immediately make a mental note before talking in a strange version of accented Hindi (which is apparently local Urdu, go figure). Your prettiness, (ok, let’s just say Her Prettiness) takes offence and snaps back in fluent (I think) Kannada to surprise the misjudging man. Happiness cries a faint “pop” and he carries on with the transaction. I don’t know about you, but I am from Calcutta, and I know how heartbreakingly awesome it is.

Shadows bathe the pathways that hush them as little and big cars stroll lazily. A few stranded pedestrians return the nonchalance of the rejecting auto riders with indifference, which vainly tries to disguise the disdain. A single sunbeam escapes the darkish clouds that envelop the city, and falls gently on an iron pillar at a junction. And just as one leaves the conversations and warmth of the carelessly placed chairs and tables of a coffee shop, a sudden surge of gusty wind escorts him to the smiling tar of the sleepy streets. If the ridiculous one way streets irritate the daily commuters, I am pretty sure that the new ones would be delighted, simply because they give them an excuse to see some more streets. And then there will be quaint paintings of Indian villages and jungles giving a glimpse of the basic sameness of imagination, irrespective of a city or village.

It’s not like I haven’t seen wet roads go and vanish into a very close horizon with trees at either side bending down to form a tunnel in green, trust me, Bombay has them in galore. But for some reason, it’s just prettier in Bangalore. Probably because unlike in Bombay, one knows that wherever the road ends, it wont lead to a starkly contrasting supposedly big street with potholes and bullying buses, but another green tunnel. Potholes would be there, but they wouldn’t threaten, cars would be there, some of them would be as rash, but somehow, they would be different. It’s not far from reality, it’s the same things that one gets to see anywhere in this country, but the sameness somehow feels different. Comfortingly different.

Bangalore is a rock city. No, I don’t mean that everyone here swears by G’n’R and philosophically articulates the other side of the moon. What I mean is, the ‘coolness’ here is ingrained, and not adapted. It’s a place where you wouldn’t be surprised if an odd Barista starts serving you beer. The cruel bitch of weather (from an outsider’s point of view) allows coffee shops to be coffee shops--- a large umbrella and chairs and tables at the side of a not so busy street. Stone castled pubs which play U2 in a way that the stone absorbs just the right amount of music because well, they enjoy it too you know. Hell, there are coffee shops with posters of jazz artists and it fits in so perfectly that you start smiling. So when the waiter comes at around 10:30 in the night and diligently announces that it’s time to take the last order, you take a moment to comprehend exactly what is going on. For the concept of time constraint, looks so redundant in Bangalore.

A three and a half day trip to a city, can do little to make you know it. But some cities are nice enough to give you a leash. So I still don’t know shit about the city. But the little that I know, I shall become shamelessly pretentious and say that Bangalore is about afternoons (and coffee spoons), about sleepy roads with names like Rest House, or the smell of beer mingled with the sound of Hard Day’s Night, it’s about embarrassingly early curfew timings or even finding a kindred dreamer who perhaps strayed a little, it’s about carefully cleaned houses with cream coloured balconies, or nostalgic roads getting dressed in rubble of a promising metro construction. It's about red and brown mixing into each other in wet and heavy soil and fervent conversations between Eucalyptuses and Gulmohars. Or cool winds slapping you as you get out of a claustrophobic flight, and streets dedicated to loafers. Or a very old two storied house filled with old books in fading yellows and bindings reminding of granddad, nurtured by an ancient man in suit who makes you an “old friend” after fifteen minutes of Ruskin Bond and R. L. Stevenson.

It is perhaps, about a song waiting to be sung by Ray Charles. I don’t know. Probably.

In times of football

2010-06-24T23:45:00.000-07:00

Being born in a country which swears by a sport that you aren’t necessarily fond of, with time, you learn to filter the general excitement that surrounds you. But what is difficult is, trying to share the passion about another sport that most people around you don’t care about. I remember going to school all excited one day, after Italy won a very difficult match against Holland, and started to initiate the discussion about how they held off the mighty Dutch attack with just 10 men, and all I got in return was:

“Are the Dutch same as Netherlands?”

“The Netherlands. Yes.”

“Ah..”

And they moved on. I used to often feel quite sad with the lack of interest shown towards the beautiful game. And thought that it would be nice to be at a place where people would stay awake at night to watch World Cup matches or Champions’ League finals and exult or sigh after every match.

That was then.

With a more Asia centric broadcast and programming (as against a myopic India centric one) of Star Sports and ESPN, over the last decade, the Premier League has changed the scenario in India. No, it hasn’t made India change sides from the willow to football, but it has instead, given rise to certain kinds of people, groups rather. They know about football, and they also know that it’s a sport. But their sense of belonging differs. And some of them amuse me, some frustrate me and some even make me heave a sigh of relief that I found a kindred soul. Call me obnoxious, but the last kind, I have to admit, is not in abundance.

This post is dedicated to all those people, who live in the West (barring Goa), North West, North, Central and the South (barring Kerala) of India. Who after a nice cup of lassi/chhaas/juice/tea/filter coffee, have finally woken up, and decided, “Yes.. I will watch ‘FIFA’ from today, even though I don’t like it.” By “FIFA”, they all mean the World Cup. It’s like saying, “the next ICC is in India.” Anyway, if you are one of them, here are a few easy ways by following which, you can prove yourself that so what you love the willow, you are cool enough to know football as well. Those who use ‘soccer’ and are confused what is the right term to use, I would suggest use football, because we love to be Brit, and it’s a Brit game. And don’t judge me, I say what I see.

Know the famous names:
The Times of India throws them galore. Even if you fleetingly leaf through the paper while looking for the stock page, you will come across Ronaldo, Messi, Beckham and Maradona. Don’t believe me? Do it once. So after you have known the names, and the countries they represent, all you have to do is see the match schedule. On the day of the match, say “Ronaldo might just do it for Portugal today.” Your job is done. Before the discussion gets a bit, erm, technical, like if a wise crack says “but Portugal has a weak third half, don’t you think?” quietly sneak out or talk about the sensex. Also, please try and know at least which names are playing, and which names aren’t. A colleague of my Dad once asked him during the ’98 World Cup, “Shilton scored?” a. Shilton was a goalkeeper. b. He retired two world cups ago. So you need to know that Maradona is old, and he wouldn’t play.

Redefine the concept of ‘supporting a team’:
“Who are you supporting this time?” (I don’t get the “this time” concept here. Because you support only one team, irrespective of whatever the time is, but hey, this is India.)

“I am supporting Spain, Argentina, Brazil and Germany.”

So basically you give away a probable semi final line up. You see, we don’t get the difference between ‘supporting a team’ and ‘thinking who is going to win the WC’. We “support” the strongest team. And just to avoid loose ends, we also support the second and third strongest teams as well. And when one of them does win (what a surprise!) then you can have your cricket face glow with insouciant pride and have an I Told You So moment.

When in doubt, support Brazil:
A time will come when Israeli kids would play monopoly in a tiny hut in the heart of the Gaza Strip with his Palestinian best friend, and in that same year, India will qualify for the World Cup. But even when she does, Bengal will support Brazil. And with good reason. They win. I mean really, five times already, and they look good to win another five as well. So no matter whatever they do in the streets of Rio, one thing is for certain, that Brazilians can play football. So do what Bengal does. Support Brazil. Blindly. They will give you enough excuses to party. And always remember, when you support Brazil, you like the “artistry” and see football as a dance form. Also, you absolutely, wholeheartedly and without any reservations HATE the Europeans. Because they are too “tactical,” and their style is “unattractive and bland” and they play football with their “heads and not their hearts” (of course, certain South Americans play with their hands, but that's a different story). Say it in a pub when everyone is pissed drunk, and even the Chinese are looking like Brazilians to your eyes, and see how you pick up chicks. At least in Calcutta.

Know where to stop:
Don’t forget that in reality, you don’t really give a rat’s ass about the game. So the façade would have to end one day. And a day after the final match is done, and you have had your I Told You So moment, stop talking about it. And if anyone else talks, immediately go back to your strong territory.

“This time I thought the WC was very defence oriented, bad for the game”
“Hmm.. HOW CAN BCCI NOT SEND THE TEAM FOR ASIAN GAMES!!!!”

Closure. India has moved on.

The rest would go back to being the underdogs. Quietly await the premiership, serie a and la liga to begin. And even then, eternal football fans would face the wrath of the lately wise ones.

“Who do you support man?”
“Chelsea.”
“Oh you are a glory hunter”
“I have supported Chelsea since the Ranieri and Zola days.”
“Yeah right. Try supporting poor old Southampton for a change. Show some balls.”
“%^#&#%#&#”

It’s so hard to make them understand, that we existed before ESPN.

Of mountains

2010-06-17T03:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched a mountain? I am sure you have. That’s all you can do when you find yourself in front of them anyway. Watch them. Disgraceful things. Mountains are. They remain silent in the midst of everything that goes on, and they show no hope of telling people that they just might come alive. And then when you whine at them, they retort with a landslide, or an avalanche. As if coming alive for them is to destroy, and staying silent, well, is to do nothing. And what’s more, they take men. They don’t return them either. And if you go looking for them through the blizzards and snowstorms, they might take you as well. It’s almost unforgiving. Unforgiving to the point that it doesn’t listen to you, and doesn’t tell you anything. It stays there. Still. As they say, like a mountain. Sometimes it might just smile. You know. Like when the sun shines on the snow and parts of rocks come out in between white, you might just get a feeling that it’s smiling a bit. Or sometimes when the coolness of the breeze soothes you, a sudden gentle slap that caresses your hair, and you suddenly think everything bad is not that bad if you look at it from a certain point. But then that’s only for the mornings when clouds give you a miss, or evenings when the days delight you enough to wish it went a little bit longer. But most days, mountains are so silent. I think they are so because they wait for something. Mountains always give me the feeling that they are waiting for something. Something to happen to them. Something inevitable, but delayed. Painfully, mercilessly and obscenely delayed. I don’t know what it is. But I think when anything waits for eternity, most things become quiet. There was this old watchman in my school, who was given an extension. He used to wait for his daughter to take him home, and in the meanwhile, needed the job to support himself. He became awfully quiet. My dog, used to wait for us to come back home from Bombay, and towards the end of her life, she became so quiet that people couldn’t believe that Jack still lived. Ever noticed how birds become a bit quieter by the end of summer? I think they do. There is something about waiting. It’s a kind of a situation that has based it’s foundation on hope, but takes all its support from hopelessness. And yet, it can’t cut away from its foundation. And some times, things change while they wait. People change. For people aren’t mountains. They die. Dogs die. Mine did. And in the midst of all that waiting, they realize that they aren’t standing on the foundation anymore. They just thought that they did. And one day comes, when they stop waiting. Some move on. Some die. And some die to move on. And as they move on, they change. But more often than not, they tend to wait for something else.

But mountains don’t die. Neither can they move on. They are this gigantic, beautiful, snow covered, part green and part grey structures of disgrace, which somehow have come to an understanding that they would wait forever. And so they don’t change.

I guess you tend to destroy, when you don’t change.

While you were sleeping

2010-06-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

Sweetness stuck to the pores of your home, as an awkward drip sunlit the rusted iron grills. Mild yellow poured from the honeyed clouds and wings fluttered restlessly before resting on the pores, in tired silence. And the sky turned amber as your complex eyes caught a lazy breath. Wings drooped as darkness drowned the yellow of your world, as it waved a little. Evening came with sounds of footsteps across the safe universe. As an oil stained cloth suddenly burst into raging flames, in the same yellow.

And the flame caressed your home.

You saw wings fluttering restlessly, flaming, raging, and falling. And burnt in the midst of smell and smoke, as evening engulfed your home.

In yellow.

In the basement

2010-05-18T06:21:00.000-07:00

Somewhere down the brick lane, some corners were cut
Some wine spilt, some ice melt, and a door, suddenly shut.

Behind that door was a basement, led by spiralled stairs,
A flickering bulb flickered its last, and darkness seeped through layers.

The cobwebbed cellar, and iron rods, it shadowed here and there,
A broken bike, and a handless doll, there was darkness everywhere.

A spider crawled towards its eggs, as the lizard looked for flies,
But providence gave them wings to fly, and darkness gave them guise.

Other than that there was not much sound, unless silence cried,
Or a spiteful lizard, made a victory call, as a careless fly died.

In that darkness, hunched a figure, kneeling down in fear,
Dusty clothes, woolen rags, and perhaps a drop of tear.

Moist eyes looked everywhere, for just a dim of light,
They found a few rays of hope, but they weren’t really bright.

A thin ray of harmless light, in an ocean of somber black,
Felt like falling down a stony cliff, and watching a chute unpacked.

The figure crawled toward the light, to see if he could see,
And the mellow light met his moist eyes, but let the eyelids be.

“Why don’t you drown this darkness? Why don’t you scream and shine?”
The dissolving ray whispered, “But darkness is a friend of mine.”

The figure came back and slouched again, and waited for another day,
For a stronger ray of light to come, to give him a stronger way.

The lizard took a breather at last, as a bottle of wine rolled,
The cobweb shivered a little, as some wind escaped a hole.

And through that hole some ants came out, as the evening said its prayers,
Somewhere in the basement, led by spiralled stairs.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

2010-05-07T23:12:00.000-07:00

As the sun gently pecked on a golden horizon, almost half of an otherwise sufficiently nonchalant city, burst into action. The queues at different gates of the stadium started to form with surprising discipline to begin with. In about one hour though, the straight line gradually transformed itself into a mushroom and at the end of waiting time, what was once supposed to be one single queue of well mannered people, soon started to look like the first few moments after the school gate opens to distribute food at a flood affected village of Orissa. The point of seat numbers on tickets was trampled by the sheer number of enthusiasts, as someone, who came for the first time, went up to his allotted seat, and innocently asked the person who was sitting there to move. The person looked back at him as if he was the incarnation of an extinct species, and started laughing. A few others who overheard the revolting spectator, also laughed. The spectator said sorry, and stood looking at the ground, only every now and then, he couldn’t help himself from looking at what he thought was his rightful seat for which he paid a grand.

A few yards from that disgruntled spectator, the bowler got ready to take his run up. Eyes narrowing down on the batsman. Line and length more important than the pace, his coach said. But the people like pace. Just concentrate on the eyes of the batsman. Well, it’s a bit difficult, what with the helmet, and then a bandanna underneath it, outside of course, there’s an arm guard, leading to the gloves, and the pads of this one he thought were particularly broader than usual. Two oxygen cylinders would have completed the picture, he thought. Anyway, focus on the stumps then, hit the deck, at the correct pace, and that would be all. And he started on his stride, when suddenly a thin drop of cold wetness, gently landed on his forehead. Half way down his run-up drops turned into a heavy drizzle and by the time he reached the umpire’s fast blurring vision, he had to stop lest he slipped in his follow through.

A few yards away from the disgruntled bowler, some eight overworked groundsmen started their warm-up before they could rush to draw the extremely huge sheet to cover the pitch. While another one looked at the forlorn machine that those gora commentators, who they see getting out of the nearby club completely sloshed every night, call “super soaker”. All it soaked though, he thought, was his patience as the torrential rainfall in India would find it highly insulting to be taken down by a humble automobile with an oversized sponge attached to it. The rain drenched the ground and the people, as the players went back to their dressing rooms to do whatever they did in the dressing rooms after a washed out match. And after about half an hour, people rushed out in search of buses, taxis and drivers.

Quite a few yards away from the disgruntled stadium, two umpires sat over two pints of beer, and spoke like sailors at a harbor inn. Excerpts from the conversation, that lost track of subject after the fifth, or was it the sixth bottle:

Umpire 1: It’s a strange country mate. They aren’t really doing well on the field, yet look at the enthusiasm.

Umpire 2: I heard they are so in love with cricket that they don’t really know other sports exist.

Umpire 1: That’s not true. I hear they have a football team. It has improved its ranking from 157 to 155 or something.

Umpire 2: Right.

Umpire 1: And they have that girl who tries to play tennis. Mirza something.

Umpire 2: Yeah, I saw her at Wimbledon this year. Some tennis!.......

At the end of the 4th drink:

Umpire 1: Why are the bowlers here appeal so funny?

Umpire 2: What do you mean?

Umpire 1: Like why do they keep saying ‘houaaasssee that’ to howzzat? I hope they know that it’s at the end of the day, English.

Umpire 1: Who cares? At least they have started paying us in double figures. Isn’t that smooth?

Umpire 2: Yes. But what’s happening to the game itself? Test is not cool. So let’s start the One Dayers. Which, aren’t cool either, so let’s start twenty20, and now, they are running out of options because they can probably make two more versions in ten10 and five5. After that it would probably become ridiculous.

Umpire 1: Good for us mate. We have to stand for a lesser time. Can rush back home and check out the rugby scores.

Umpire 2: It’s amazing how alcohol makes us philosophers.

Right at this point, the fifth bottle came in.

Quite a few more yards away from that disgruntled second umpire, a boy kept trying to strike up a conversation with his father, who tried to immerse himself in a newspaper. His questions were gathering his father’s anger cells into a circular mass that could have blown any time. “But I still didn’t get why did they put jersey numbers on them dad,” he asked. His father was beginning to feel a little proud of himself when he thought he came up with a relatively intelligent answer saying it was for identification. But then he couldn’t tell his son the jersey number of Ricky Ponting and thus, his invented reason didn’t really hold meat.

“Sometimes, there are certain things that aren’t supposed to have answers”

“Like God?”

“Like God.”

A few minutes of silence followed, and the father crossed his fingers risking a paper cut, thinking that should do the trick. The inexplicability of the concept of divinity is perhaps the best thing to happen to parents for tackling questioning children anyway. And after some five minutes of very satisfying silence, the father finally breathed easy, and concentrated on the lead story that talked about certain team being sold to certain bidders for some certain sum of money which was already fixed. Understanding the illegality of administration has become more complex than understanding the game itself nowadays, he thought.

“Why are they trying to look like football, when they are in fact cricket?” And thus the blissful silence was broken.

“I don’t know. Probably to make it more exciting.”

“Does that mean that by itself it’s not exciting enough?”

Right at that point, the pain in the backside of a boy was given a very stern order to go back to his bed. Following which, the father folded the newspaper, and kept it aside. Irritated by the fact that he was having a little difficulty understanding the game he loved so much. But then, times were changing.

A few yards away from that disgruntled father, a boy sat on the soft cushion of his bed. He was thinking, as he so often did, about his faith in this game that he thought he would love. For he knew that when there is so much love given to a game, the game after all, wouldn’t be left with any other choice but to give that love back. But what about the news reports? What about the unconvincing answers of his impatient father? Must be faff, must be impatience. Or whatever, he didn’t care. He loved Sachin Tendulkar, and he never cheated. He gave a slight tap on his football that sleepily rolled away under the bed. Looked at Sachin’s poster as he did every night, and quietly put his thoughts to sleep.

And Sachin smiled from the overexposed photograph.

Night

2010-04-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

As he left her side, and walked through a very narrow road that bordered the disheveled house, a dog chased its own shadow under the lights of dimming street lamps toppling garbage kept carefully in little bins.

A few bats woke up from their slumber but kept hanging from the murmuring trees, deciding to call it their lazy night. A few taxis drove past with passengers who had silent conversations with the drivers, in beer stained breaths. A cat across the alley purred in discontentment; disturbed by the noise made by the dog chasing its own shadow.

A writer across the street suddenly found an ordinary direction to give his ordinary story a conclusion that he had been looking for. Downstairs in that same house, a few mice waited patiently before they entered the room, alarmed only by the consistent sound of the keys getting punched to type out ordinary words.

Right behind one of the toppled garbage bins, at a crossing where the street lamp failed to glow, an old sedan lay parked rusted with old leather seats. Inside, the smell of the leather had mixed with that of sweat as a drunkard made love to a fervent prostitute.

In the second bedroom of the house behind that dark corner, a boy counted his seven hundred and forty eighth unicorn, while playing hide and seek with sleep. The pages of a comic strip fluttered every now and then even as a light breeze brought with it, a mishmash of a million smells of the city.

And she retuned to her room and slept, closing the door behind her. Putting an extra lock at the entrance fearing that the dog would enter her solitary house.

While chasing its own shadow.

Evening

2010-02-25T01:00:00.000-08:00

As anger sets across the horizon, eyes staring towards it await for a lull to come. And then wind sweeps the golden wheat fields, drying the fluttering clothes on the rooftops, ruffling the coconut tree across a vast green pond at the back end of a forgotten stained yellow house. And right after the wind hits the valiant red bricks of stubbornness, lull sets in.

Have you ever experienced lull? Ask the other side of that red brick wall, it will tell you what that is. Like a dilapidated boat upturned in the middle of a graying ocean, disturbed only by the floating ore that keeps knocking at its metal because of a forceful ripple. Like an eagle returning to its nest to find that her eggs have hatched, as the fish she hunted slips out of her beak as she gapes in surprise. Like a child sleeping at the end of a war, confusing exhaustion with relief and a tiny piece of concrete falls down at the corner of a ravished room trying desperately to look like a shelter.

Have you seen a rusted bench in an arid park?

Have you seen an arid park?

Have you seen a dump of plastic ready to be burned down near a town municipality?

Or a forgotten cheap cap that fell out of a boy’s head while he played cricket on the beach?

Have you seen someone turn back to go home at an airport departure area?

Or a lock that stay dangling in the gate of a house where no one’s going to come back to?

Have you seen second hand furniture across the footpath placed on top of one another? Or aside? Or alone?

Or a railway track covered with granite in the middle of the day in a remote village, with no train in sight?

Have you ever imagined the other side of a full moon?

That’s lull.

Sepia

2010-02-15T22:29:00.000-08:00

Take some rust, iron, and a lot of old wood, and leave them like that. A few clean black streets and a lot of not so clean ones. Some half informed judgments from a few outsiders, and a drunken inn infested by rats that whisper to each other on beer stained table cloths. Slapping air from the shores of an ancient river, and a stranger in the city soaking in its concrete, moss and dirt,in a hazily remembered bottle green saree.

Enough has been written here about Calcutta. So here this time, are some of the attempts to capture it through the lens of a camera, which I am warming up to. Gradually. But I am.

So there.

Welcome mediocrity

2010-01-27T21:15:00.000-08:00

There is an inherent spirit that defines nostalgia. It takes us to certain experiences that are etched in our minds in a way that they would never be diluted by the passing of time.

This is going to be a relatively shorter post. Because I don’t really have much to say on this subject. But the little that I have to say, I shan’t be subtle and poetic.

For all those who have grown up on Doordarshan with shows like Nukkad, Chunauti, Humlog and Byomkesh Bakshi, know that once upon a time, Indian television gave us something to think about. And for all those, who used to wake up early in the morning every Sunday to watch Mahabharata, were treated to one delectable exhibition of the art of moving pictures after another. And then Louis Banks gifted us with Mile Sur Mera Tumhara. And every time we listen to it or watch it on You Tube, we realize what a video that serves its purpose exactly is like. For India is an amazing country. And it takes the coming together of amazing people to exemplify the brilliance of this nation. So when we talk about national integration, I for one, got its first taste through that video. Yes, I heard Tamil, Kannada and Malayalam for the first time. Even if they all sounded the same at that time, I was flabbergasted by the plurality. I watched in wonder when people from places I have never been to, came out talking about my nation. And I was overwhelmed to realize that this country was as much theirs as it was mine. From the mahuts of Kerela to the common farmer of Assam, from the brand new Calcutta Metro to the sunny beaches of Goa, the song connected each and every heart in this country. There were 14 languages, but they all integrated into one. There were a million people, who sang the same song. And all across the nation, stood up and bowed to Doordarshan. Because Mile Sur did for India what This Land is Your Land… did for the USA. And we are forever indebted.

And then, we evolved, and the Indian film industry decided to make a new version of it. And the rest as they say, is bullshit in the name of history.

All the languages and cultures that were included in this fucked up video, should feel insulted. This country DOESN’T belong to the Bachchan family. AND, Bollywood DOESN’T unite this country. Neither does the Tamil film industry or other such farcical pieces of shit who proclaim themselves to be great enough to become the representative of their age old cultural heritage. They could have done without including the Jorasako house in the video, because Tagore doesn’t deserve this. By excluding languages, personalities and cultures, this second version of something that was our very own, is insulting, and disintegrating. If you want to make a Mile Sur for the stall audience who throw 1 rupee coins watching Amitabh Bachchan or some overweight fat ass South hero on screen, then yes, this Mile Sur is for them. But DON’T tell me it’s about India. And it pains, it pains that it was released on the Republic Day.

From the hoarse sounding Bachchan who for the sake of originality in art form needs to shut the fuck up and retire, to a topless bundle of steroids trying to portray that he gives a fuck about the deaf mute, to a pseudo intellectual Aamir Khan trying to sing it like Aati Kya Khandala, to a disappointingly heartless SRK doing a DDLJ in the name of patriotism, it’s a slap in the face of every Indian. And I am not even talking about the plastic south heroes, the beard of Prosenjit and Aishwarya Rai and her puppet. All I can say is fuck you. Fuck you for ruining the experience of Mile Sur for us.

And I am glad that personalities like Sachin Tendulkar, Vishwanathan Anand, Kamal Hasan, Dhanraj Pillai, Manna Dey or Abdul Kalam were missing. They don’t deserve to be insulted by being a part of this blasphemy. And since they are making it in parts (!), who knows, they all might be fitted in its part 4 or part 5. And then they will say it's a tribute to national integration.

I am ashamed.

Delayed, notwithstanding…

2010-01-19T01:35:00.000-08:00

Somewhere down the meandering red-pebbled alley, some seventy eight odd rabbit-jumps away from a half broken milestone, under the indisciplined roots of a stubborn banyan tree, there was a silent cracking sound.

A few birds chirped welcoming the setting sun, and ants rushed towards their holes. And all things did what all things do under the blanket of a mild evening as the dust, as it did on any other day, settled on the reddish earth. And a few disgruntled leaves fell quietly on the moist ground with all their yellow.

And no one heard the silent cracking sound.

It probably was an odd old weakening branch attached to a majestic strong one that quietly broke itself from its fragile connection.

Or it could have been an acorn stolen by a sneaky crow out of the castle of an oak tree but accidently dropped in mid flight, as it smashed against a thinking stone and broke into pieces.

Or perhaps a school boy in mud ridden uniform and a half torn book who just read out Eliot to nothingness and stumbled on a tiny stick trying to find a time for a hundred indecisions.

Probably a few miles away in some discreet hut of a few feeble souls, a brownish cloth was violently stripped off an old wooden table, as a checkered vase with stale water met its crashing demise.

And no one heard the silent cracking sound.

A cracking sound that was bounced off a lot of filtering ears. One that didn’t really rise above the shouts of caution or care, but fell just short.

Fell short of the chirps of quarrelling sparrows, or branching out of branches, short of the screams out of a demanding screamer, or the needless adjectives of an overawed poet, fell short of all the noises that didn’t. And perhaps the faintness of it gave others the luxury of ignorance.

To all such cracking sounds across this unkindly kind world, a little delayed wish for a wonderful New Year.

You, are unheard of.

Jack

2010-01-05T09:42:00.000-08:00

Quick steps.

Almost sounding like very thin droplets of water quietly falling on the window sill. Spread around the entire stretch of the stone cold floor making sure that every corner gets to know about the four nimble paws that surveyed the house. And then, suddenly, breaking the uneasy silence of a cold wintery night, which almost awaited for something to happen, she plunged ahead like lightening towards the collapsible gate which made way to the main entrance. Her howl would perhaps inspire Jack London to take up the pen again, even as the visitor at the gate froze in stunned silence. And then just before reaching the collapsible gate, she came to an abrupt halt, and skidded a little further. And she stopped. Waiting for a pre-teen boy to run behind her and reach the exact place. And then, seeing the boy go towards the gate, courage sprung in the hounding beast, and she jumped towards the main gate, careful though, that she didn’t go past the boy. And only when she tactically made the visitor know that she wasn’t scared to tear him to pieces, did she stop barking and looked at the boy with a gaze that asked for secrecy.

Running around the house after realizing that under the table is not as inconspicuous a place as she thought it would be, and that the only thing that could perhaps outdo these cruel humans was speed, she would stop only when breath begged for its quiet exit from her raging lungs. Then, the chain would be carefully put around its neck and tied to the tube pump, as she stood still in silent protests and a new found hatred for some distinct moments of helplessness. And then, she would look at wilderness as the foam of shampoo would drench her fur in white and brown. Wilderness that perhaps gave her imagination a dream of how to break that shackle and run away to another corner of the house that was her world. A world that she made her own, and taught the rest, how it should be ruled.

Absolute disregard for milk, and fierce concentration while trying to break a bone of a roasted lamb. Sleeping only when the lady of the house would tuck her in, otherwise not sleeping at all, and an inherent allergy towards seeing the boy sound asleep beyond 8 a.m. Shouted at the parent for shouting at the boy, and shouted at the boy for crying like a baby, basically, scolded everyone she loved. Howled at anyone she didn’t know. And was secretly scared of everyone she howled at. Ran to hide under the bed every Diwali and came out only when the first lights of the morning-after seeped through a smoggy night sky. When taken to an enclosed urban flat, she didn’t care for the walls, or even the unknown streets infested with animals and footsteps she didn’t know. And she ran away till she was found again, and forced them to take her back to her kingdom.

And then she was imprisoned one day. In one tiny room and the boy didn’t know what she did. She must have barked a lot, and tried to run around that tiny room a lot. She must have struggled for breath and looked out of the window like the pelican before rains. He didn’t know. For he wasn’t there. He didn’t know, because he was somewhere else. He didn’t know, because she perhaps didn’t howl loud enough. Climbing in the taxi so that it couldn’t take a handful of people she thought to be her own and leave, and biting the end of the trousers so that they couldn’t pull out, nothing really helped, as her kingdom crumbled. And in her disillusionment, she didn’t realize when she had started moving towards a closure with companionship.

And one day, in the midst of nakedness, as his flourishing fur in white and brown was shaved off from her thinning skin, she perhaps smiled a little as she went. And then the gate opened without the howl or a plunge like Dino. No more spine chilling howls out of nowhere in the middle of the night. And no more remnants of a lazy shedding in the most inappropriate places. Some echoes perhaps. And a lot of stillness.

The gate isn’t there anymore. So isn’t her kingdom. And with everything gone, perhaps so isn’t the boy.

He wasn’t there anyway. So it doesn’t matter.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2009-12-23T22:10:00.000-08:00

Mistaking salt as snow,

And cardboards to be a sled,

Over the slums they go,

Smoking all the way…

Weird creatures dance,

In all the shapes and size,

And the spirits take a backseat here,

Even if cocain costs are high….

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

All the girls are getting high, while the guys are all away…

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

And Guys didn’t love the topless bar,

As they turned out to be gay….

A day or two ago,

Or may be it was five,

What difference does it make,

Once we inhale that pipe…

The horse was mean and black,

But it could as well be a swine,

And soon Alice gave in,

And drank with it some wine.

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

All the girls are getting high, while the guys are all away…

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

And Guys didn’t love the topless bar,

As they turned out to be gay….

It oinked or maybe neighed,
But Alice didn’t mind,
She had a lovely time on it,
And she was feeling fine….

As the morning sun arose,

The guys and girls awoke,

They saw what they did last night,

And the stray dogs found it gross.

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

All the girls are getting high, while the guys are all away…

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way,

And Guys didn’t love the topless bar,

As they turned out to be gay.

One fine day

2009-12-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

Sun shone from the depths of the brownish ocean,

And the ships lowered their masts amidst the far stretch of a salt desert.

Some birds rushed back in idle urgency, to their burrows across a stony hill,

And the camels in the North Pole raced against their shadows.

The pirate sang his last lullaby to put his dreams to sleep for a night,

And little houses on the Zaire basin ignited their snow covered chimneys.

Pieces of crisp paper boats sailed across the sandy oceans,

And planets showed Trojans the way to Athens.

The river met the mountain with thunderous rage,

And writers painted canvasses with words.

Some girls stole lemons from an orange tree,

And a few boys played golf in pouring rain.

The coniferous trees migrated to the equator,

Welcomed with open arms by flamingos across the Nile.

And as the winds from the South, melted the ice of Thar,

For one day, on a lazy December afternoon,

The Earth took a sudden coffee break.

:)

Momentary lapses of reason

2009-11-25T03:28:00.000-08:00

Right now, at this moment, I want to lie in bed with the fan speed at 4 and put a blanket on and watch TV in reduced volume high enough to get the feeling that something is going on and low enough to not comprehend the speech till I doze off to my imagination starved wonderland. Wake up when dusk breaths its last with the sky partially crimson yet the room, dark, and watch a British costume drama with lots of forests, knights, bows, arrows, horses and a manor playing silently on the screen. Continue watching the film from the middle not caring what exactly the story is and quietly observing the landscapes that keep changing almost like a slide show of moving paintings till I doze off yet again.

Right now, at this moment, I want the sky to be bark-ish brown with a branch of a mango tree stooping and entering my room till where the bed is and I want to wake up suddenly after a leaf from that branch quietly falls on my right eye and I bang my head against that same branch and abuse it for its intrusion. Then get up and drink a glass of water that would have an earthy smell and climb into that branch and down to the tree and out of the house with the room locked from outside. Take a cycle and paddle down the slope to nowhere till it rains.

Right now, I want to watch the El Classico with a group of drunkards and roast duck in orange sauce and a lump of steak with honey and discuss the Catalan culture with someone who has been there and re-establish my ignorance to myself and get dumbfounded by the other person’s knowledge but feel strangely happy about it. Right now I want to see Ronaldinho do a back flip and smell an old yellowing page from a forgotten novel as it falls on me like mistletoes fell on the lazy druids of Corsica.

Right now, I want to be extremely something that I cannot explain in words and don’t want anyone to show off their vocabulary by giving me one. I want to listen to the Beatles and fall asleep in the middle of Hey Jude and wake up with the taste of stale beer in my mouth and smelling of melting cheese from somewhere across the kitchen. Right now I want to sit in an attic with Moheener in my ears and witness a ferocious fight of kites, and take sides and watch street kids with logs run after the defeated one as it carelessly floats and gets stuck to a deserted palm tree.

Right now, at this moment, I want to be here. In MY world. Or a world, that I can call mine.

Untold

2009-11-13T01:55:00.000-08:00

Blank pages.

Something written probably, for you and me to see.
But nothing comes out.

Nothing tears through the emptiness of white, and takes shape of words.
Yet, something’s written probably.

Certain stories that linger inside a much clouded head,
Certain snippets from the past, making a valiant effort to be forgotten,
Some spices must be hovering around trying to complete a secret recipe,
A few songs that happen to cross by,
Shadow of a steeple from a marooned church that must have etched its place in the mind,
Few messages, in some broken bottles,
Few places probably.
Explored, unexplored, explored but unexplored,
Something’s written.

Certain senses that suffered from loss,
Surprisingly bright mornings,
In the midst of sleepily sleep deprived grey ones,
Books to be read,
Films to be watched,
Books half read,
Films, well, to be watched,
Certain nights where reality dressed up as dreams,
Certain nights of otherwise,
Something must have been written.

Few confident steps,
Hidden behind a million stumbling ones,
Stories that came out of a mirror’s reflection,
Those were read only recently,
Read and smiled at,
Pleasantly surprised at,
A little coyness,
Sometimes.

A little embarrassment,
Rage, angst and all that,
Making way for conversations,
Sometimes.
Breaking away without sneering,
And holding hands.

Some coffee shops probably,
Some lamp posts,
Door hinges,
And postcards,
Here and there,
Scrambled.
Maybe a poem on poetry,
Or disgruntlement,
Few battering of eyelids.

And a certain smile,
Probably.

So there....

2009-11-06T22:15:00.000-08:00

Let’s go and buy land in the moon.

On Stupid. Not in. And you are crazy. We have bigger problems to deal with.

Like what?

Let’s not get into the details.

Right. Let’s go and buy land in the moon.

Really now.

I think it’s a good enough decision.

And how the hell are you going to get there?

We shall do something. But land is cheap now. So first let’s buy.

And what about our earthly problems.

They can be looked after later. They are too, erm, mundane.

Earthly?

Yes.

We don’t have the money.

How much is it for?

I don’t know. Its moon, prices should be high.

Why are we sounding like really stupid 6 year olds?

Because we are talking of buying land on moon, in an evening which has got nothing to do with alcohol.

Hmm.

Any further discussion on the issue is only going to make it more stupid.

Why did you bring it up in the first place?

I brought it up?

Of course.

You did.

Nope.

Damn. I wish we were chatting online. We could just scroll up and see who brought it up.

Wait. I can do that.

Do what?

Copy paste.

Copy paste spoken conversation?

Yes. Everything is possible in this blog silly.

Oh. Ok.

“Let’s go and buy land in the moon.
On stupid. Not in. You are crazy. We have bigger problems to deal with.
Like what?
Let’s not get into the details.
Right. Let’s go and buy land in the moon.
Really now.”

See? You did.

How do you know? There’s no “A says…” or “B says…”

That’s fine. But you can see the tone of the speech. Its very you.

Well, it can as well be you.

Wait. Have we lost track of who is saying what and who should stand what ground?

You haven’t, the writer has.

We have a writer?

Of course we have a writer. We always have a writer.

So let’s just ask him.

You think if he knew, then he would indulge in this inexorable ranting in the name of writing in the first place?

Inexorable?

Yeah. Hope I got the context right.

Why is writing so tough these days?

Philosophy or rhetoric?

Frustration.

Ah, philosophy.

No seriously. Why does it have to be like this?

You can’t expect much from a piece that starts with buying land on the moon.

Did you say ‘piece’?

Once upon a time it would have been cheesy. Now it’s practical.

Oh yes. Practical is the word.

Are we going in a loop?

I think we are.

Self conversation is overrated.

I thought we were two.

Let’s just ask the writer.

Why are you so hell bent on starting a conversation with someone with no imagination?

Well, am talking to you.

I think he isn’t thinking anymore.

He never did.

Oh I think he did. He just used his apparent inability to think as an excuse for mediocrity.

Most of them do that.

Yes they do.

It hurts me to be the creation of someone who isn’t different from the rest.

I guess we are too ordinary for the moon.

Probably.

That came after a long pause.

Yeah. Guess he was thinking what to write.

Great. Now he is thinking for bad writing.

Yeah, and he came up with ‘probably’.

Look, if we are giving so much trouble, then why doesn’t he end this.

I think he isn’t finding a good enough line to conclude.

Or he is just in love with what he writes.

That’s scary.

Great. Now that we have gotten out of the loop, we are obsessing about him.

That’s all we do right?

What?

Either talk about something that does not have any conclusion. Or talk about people who are unknowingly unfortunate.

We should break out of this.

Yes. Talk about the world outside.

Yeah.

Hmm.

Do you think we will find a real estate agent for moon?

An astronaut and a broker? Tough.

(Author decides to stop)

Imperfect

2009-10-23T22:02:00.000-07:00

I have had my days of foolish happiness when I have smiled seeing a stump of a tree standing forgotten at a dirty corner of a busy Bombay street. I have had days when I found sorrow in a balloon let loose along the sea beach cheered by the laughter of pretty children. I have pretended to understand Divine Comedy among a group of people who have pretended the same and I have refused to admit that I have read and loved The Interpreter of Maladies. There have been days when I have been woken up in the morning by a dog that hated to see me sleep, woke up getting incessantly licked on the face and started smiling when I should have been angry. There have been days when unripe mangoes have fallen after Kalbaishakhi on the dalan of my house moments before a downpour that left with the smell of wet soil, have been days when I have jumped into a pond and got scared by the infinite green of its depth, and tried writing a poem on it, and failed. I have been drawn to the monotony of Tagore’s tunes in the early mornings and made him synonymous to that time, smiled to myself thinking of the times I used to scorn those very tunes, for the same monotony. I have listened to Amma reciting Beerpurush with fire in her eyes, and imagined myself drenched in blood saving mom from a group of dacoits on our way to Jhargram. I went up to the terrace and read and reread Sukumar Ray and have been enlightened. I shouted Lokkhoner Shoktishel out of my closed room and played every character all by myself and fell in love with Ravana. I have questioned all the questions that arose in my mind and have been satisfied. And let down. I have realized that I am a Brahmin and I have been happy and ashamed about the realization for reasons that are somehow lost in a scary maze. I have been ashamed of my happiness. I have been arguably insensitive and have proudly defended my sensitivity, shamelessly. I have contradicted, and I have prayed to a god I don’t believe in. I have been jealous and have desired things for which I didn’t mind sacrificing dreams. There have been times when I saw thick clouds blanketing a village somewhere down in the valley and I have felt like a star in the sky, have been times when I have failed to comprehend the easily comprehendible, and have found the difficult things, difficult. There have been times when I looked at Mona Lisa and found it to be overrated and times when I have tried reading the Mein Kampf. I have wished and tried and wished to sketch. I have strummed the guitar chords and lost track of time, and eventually, as life caught on, lost tack of the guitar itself. I have called myself a writer; the same way sometimes I thought I could be a thinker. And laughed. I have loved. I have lost. And I have loved again, with the fear of losing. I have been angry with my parents. And there have been times when I looked at them and have been angry with myself. I have been happy with my parents. And a bit of me have withered away with a thought of mornings and nights in a world without them. As I have seen a bunch of children sun burnt and tarnished, in a dusty sand stoned village in some hated part of this loved world, vying passionately for a deflated bladder of a cheaply made ball, shouting out in exhilaration each time they scored, I have lived football. I have rolled up car windows to eunuchs on disgustingly immobile traffics, and I have run races across the dry sands of an over crowded beach. I have found myself lost amidst the mountains and have been rejected by a place that I had loved. I have missed autumns and dreamt of waking up to snowfalls in the mornings. I have loved. Madly. And I have hoped. Desperately. I have looked at my life and I have looked ahead. Discerning sometimes, and sometimes with fire in my eyes.

Like Amma reciting Beerpurush.

Inside

2009-10-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

A little trickery that flirts with the mind every now and then tries its best to cloud the smile that somehow manages to expose itself with innocence. A little consciousness that gives a false impression of being perceptive, always tries to decipher the mind of the other, often negating the mind inside. A little mind that makes some fallen attempts at being reasonable, and romances the idea of everything that is anything but reason. A little reason, that pushes to clearly distinguish between the correct and the incorrect, and the incorrect, that is correct. A little romance, that flatters with the blessing of imagination, and threatens to inject courage that bursts out from the depths of cowardly acceptance, in the excuse of peace. A little peace that shows itself like Venus, pretending to tease the hopeless eyes to wait for it with hope. A little deceit, that guises itself in the form of love and trust and compromise, to prevent love, trust and compromise. A little happiness that competes with its littleness somehow realizes its own preciousness, showing itself for a little bit. A little anxiety, that wants to break free like a little child’s fierce desire to rule the world as he wears a hood and shouts out from the top of a hill. A little love, which threatens a little hatred which in turn threatens love in a mostly losing battle. A little others, who torture and disgrace and understand and embrace. A little others, that bring everything outside, releasing the swelling coat of privacy guarding the restless world under it.

And a little heart. Breaks and mends.

Inglorious Bastards

2009-09-07T04:12:00.000-07:00

I will perhaps never know what it feels like to take a sharp corner at 350 km/hr. But I have seen men who have done it, and I know, that it is something that cannot be described without actually being there. Of course, journalists over the years have romanticized the feelings in different features with stylized graphics, and brought out the poetry of speed, but I dare not do so. For I think there is something more than just adrenalin when these cars race against each other, there is a sense of pushing mind and body to an extent that would perhaps make one a different individual. And I think purely at a personal level, F1 or any other form of motor racing, is more about winning battles with oneself, rather than, or before, winning it against someone else. But this isn’t a post that’s going to romanticize the high octane world of motor racing. I shall leave that to Andy Goodwin when Renault edges past BMW at the back end of Monaco. This, is a little less romantic.

I remember some eight years ago, when Michael Schumacher just realized his abnormally unfair potential and was slowly making his presence felt in the circuit, the only man who dared to give him some kind of a sense that this isn’t as ridiculous as Michael was making it out to be, was a Fin gentleman in his late 30s. Mika Hakkinen was bringing tears in the eyes of faithfuls who just weren’t ready for the surge of Ferrari, with his resilience. And in one of those valiant races, he managed to take a clear lead, much ahead of Michael’s steed in red. In the middle of the craze for Ferrari, the few who secretly loved McLaren but dared not to open their mouths, were doing a somersault waiting for the race to end and shout out to vent their pent up frustration.

And then it happened. Last lap, Michael was some 30 seconds behind Mika, and everything was ending like a fairytale. He could even see the chequered flag, when suddenly, the Williams fuel tank got a nasty sense of humour, and decided, that the old war horse, should stop. Literally. And there it was, some 30 odd yards from the finish line, the white machine came to an abrupt halt as the world watched in bewilderment.

Just as we started abusing luck and other such things, we saw the man get out and try and push it with a mocking smile on his face. However impossible the situation was, it was evident that if he could, he would. And then as he strolled across towards the pit lane even as Michael zoomed past him to yet another victory, crowd clapped for the man who walked, in the fastest sport of the world. And as we witness events like these, we realize that there are certain experiences which go beyond winning a race, experiences that might make you struggle miserably and almost cruelly, yet make you a winner in a way, only sports can.

So when Mr. M. S. Gill dismissed Formula 1 as being a technology based entertainment and that it’s “not a sport”, he ceased to be amusing for saying something ludicrous. Daftness of this stupendous level isn’t funny anymore. It’s insulting, ignorant, convenient, myopic and everything else that exemplify how things can be so simply insulted if they are controlled by moronic assholes.

What does Mr. Gill mean by ‘sport’? Something that requires physical fitness? Something that has a winner or a loser? Something that invites a passionate fan following? Something athletic? I really don’t think so. Then how the fuck is golf a sport? Or chess for that matter? They in no way adhere to all the above conditions. I will tell you what sport according to Gill is:

• Something that doesn’t question the efficacy of the Indian sports ministry, at least not more than the already existing questions.
• Something for which you don’t need to build infrastructure from scratch, and even if the corporate bodies give money to build, you will still need to get your ass moving and do some serious construction and administration work.
• And something that doesn’t need to be maintained in a way that there are absolutely no loopholes as that would come under the international scanner every year.

And I can go on, but you get the gist. And what happens when something like this unexpectedly becomes a little big and actually penetrates the rigid minds of Indians who think that cricket is a truly international sport and actually start liking it? What happens when this thing, which is not sport according to the Indian ministry, gains in popularity, so much so, that it captures the attention of the press, corporate world and sponsors? Because then, they wont have any excuse such as “lack of funds/ poor outlay to infrastructure/ no governing body / no press interest” and other such bullshit, based on which they can just dismiss the attention as a phase. Because when things start happening, they realize that the things, have actually started happening, which in their world, is like Dhoni playing the NFL. But then, politicians, after all, are intelligent men. So they resort to that one single excuse that can make any Indian’s heart melt like ice cream during the camel races of Afghanistan.

Poverty.

Let’s give it a socialist hue. Lets say that in India, where such and such percentage of people survive under the poverty line, we can’t afford to encourage things like F1 which needs investment of millions of pounds. And we will heave a sigh and revel at the shamelessness of these creatures. And like with so many zillion things that we have encountered in this wonderful country of ours, we will accept, and move on. But then, he gets cocky, and says it’s not a sport. And I say fuck you.

Don’t dismiss something that takes years of dedication and love to even try to be realized by calling them entertainment. Every time those drivers take the wheel they don’t know whether they will survive by the end of the race, every time they take a cut, they rely on more than just their adrenalin, they rely on training, reflex, sharpness and pure bravery. So don’t you sit on your ass on that government office mahogany chair of yours and nonchalantly watch a game which is played by 11 nations in the world and is fast losing its own identity because it has no backbone and call it your “religion” and dismiss this other group of professionals as rich money spending entertainers. Admit that you are too lazy to do anything about it and too much of a chicken to come under the world spot light. We shall accept. But don’t justify your daftness just because you get revenues out of a daft game.

If you are so concerned about the “upliftment” of rural sports, then give us a detailed progress report on athletics, tell us what are you doing about the talented pool of female boxers in India, tell us, you thick skinned corrupt social virus of a mongrel, what have you done about the languishing kabaddi and kho kho scene. Where is all the money going from Fifa’s Goal initiatives, why does a Somdev Devvarman have to go to USA to get himself trained well enough to give a good enough fight in the international circuit? Why does a Saina Nehwal have to depend on private funded coaching institutes to get trained with virtually no help from the holier than thou government?

For all the larynx bursting screams that we make for the overhyped pieces of shit like Sania Mirza, or for that matter the game of cricket as a whole, India really has produced only one truly international sportsman. For me, Vishwanathan Anand is the only real face of Indian sport, because people know him beyond the subcontinent, and beyond countries which were the struggling colonies of the British rule. If you walk the streets of Budapest or Helsinki, people will know Anand. Not Harbhajan Singh.

So before you become conveniently philosophical and get the balls to declare something as sport and not sport, realize that F1 is still one of the most watched “sporting” events in the world. Realize that numerous people give their blood and sweat behind every race and every practice. Realize, that they look death right at its face to conquer it with a discipline that your farting digestive system so sorely lacks. Realize that men have given their lives in the quest to conquer speed, but left footsteps for others to follow.

First understand what sport is all about. Probably then you will know what it is to insult someone else’s passion.

Till then, just concentrate on how to extract money from BCCI and AIFF, because really, that’s what is going to uplift sports and sporting activities in India.

Best wishes.

Happily never after

2009-08-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

I think we are wonderful. We make rules and then throw it out into the open to see who follows them and who doesn’t. Following which, we judge each group differently. So for some, the ones who follow rules are disciplined and cultured people, while for others, they are boring and bland. Similarly, the ones who don’t can be rustic and loud, or can be cool and unconventional. But when it comes to certain important junctures of life, we become strikingly similar. At least most of us do. With a background story that comprises a lot of my girl pals who are about to get hitched, not to mention a very close and sweet cousin sister, I got an opportunity to know us, as in men, and what according to them, is perfect. It really feels nice, that most people in this world are good human beings.

So this post is going to be very generalized and prejudiced. But I assure you, it’s going to cover the larger section in general.

1. The safest bet

Profile: I am a very simple person with a strong sense of culture and conviction. I did my XYZ from (read really cool university) and then my ZYX (read an even cooler university). I believe in hard work and the importance of education in ones life. I love music of all forms and I think it has the power to heal anything. I also love to read, especially suspense and adventure. Recently, I have been reading a lot of non fiction like the World is Flat. I think books can be the best companions in times of loneliness or even on a nice rainy day. I love to travel and explore new places and new cultures. I think it is important to have a sense of humour as it makes the toughest times seem less strenuous. I am not such a party person and I prefer spending my weekends doing simple things like a walk across the beach or stay at home and listen to Dillon (sic). I also love Kishore Kumar and other old Hindi film songs. I am not a very strictly religious person but I do have faith in a higher being. I love playing cricket with friends and also take a keen interest in tennis. I think sports is very important for personal health and hygiene.

I am looking for a girl who will match my thought process and can hold interesting conversations. She should be the perfect mix of tradition and modernity and should, like me, understand the importance of education. She should support me in all my endeavors as I would in hers. She should have a matured mind and would be able to help me decide on any major step that I take in life. I want her to be a companion who would make life easier and fulfilling.

2. The romantic homeboy

Profile: Ever since I was young I have dreamt of having the perfect woman with whom I can share my life and have a happy existence. I have seen my parents so happy with each other and always wished that someday, I can find someone who would have that great an understanding with me. I am (same qualification as above, and probably same university, if not same batch) and now I am working with this manufacturing conglomerate because I want to contribute towards the prosperity and growth of the nation. I want to stay in India because I believe the culture we have here, is incomparable and I want my children (two boys and a girl) to grow up in this culture. I am a devout follower of Baba Sankitanand (link given with a small picture at the end of the profile) and I believe in his ideologies of simple living and renouncement of materialistic pleasure. I am a person with simple means. As long as I have my spectacles, I do not require lenses. I love watching old Hindi movies and sometimes like some Hollywood action also.

I am looking for a girl who would be just like my mother. She has been the epitome of a perfect woman for me and I believe my life partner should possess all those qualities. She should be educated and homely. She can order as well as cook, she should be simple, but understand the complex, she should be modest, and also should be knowledgeable enough to be able to take part in any conversations. Most of all, she should love me with all her heart, just the way I would love her.

3. The non believer

Profile: I am a very unconventional person who never believed in the norms laid down to be followed. I have questioned the rules and I don’t believe in living an ordinary life. I don’t believe in the system of education, as it institutionalizes everything. I don’t believe in God because there is no proof of his existence. I don’t believe in the establishment as its rules restrict ones imagination. i didn’t even believe in the concept of marriage, but I thought I shouldn’t be judgmental and give it a go. I am a photographer and have done quite well for myself. This I took up to challenge my parents who doubted my ability. I have never learnt to lose, and if I set my goals on something, NOTHING, can stop me. I love gothic and underground music, and am trying to make my own band. I play the electric guitar and in the look out for a percussionist. I don’t believe in cinema as it pastes a dialectic view of reality, and neither do I read because popular culture is a hogwash that has been painted very efficiently by media. Living with me will be like taking a different look at life itself. But if you don’t understand me, I will understand, because most people don’t.

My girl will be liberated, mentally and physically. I love piercings as I think masochism as a way of expressing the feelings of your heart is the most romantic thing, for I associate pain with romance. I do not believe in procreation and thus she should be ready to live her entire life with me, taking firm beliefs, reasoning, and radicalism as companions. I am also a hedonist and believe in indulging myself in whichever way. My partner should have the mind to understand the importance of that. I give total independence to anyone who is associated with me and I expect the same in return. I just have one pre condition, that she should be respectful to my mother. For whatever I am (or not), it is because of her.

I believe in that.

4. The Loser

Profile: I know writing down my own profile with a hope that someone would read it and find it interesting and etch some ideas about how I can be and decide to meet me seems a bit out of the ordinary, but that’s the way the system goes, and we are but products of systems. So if the reader thinks that I am self-advertising and giving the characteristics of some childhood hero rather than myself, I completely understand. To be very honest, I have always wanted to be like the person in that Robbie Williams song Come Undone (link given). A mixture of contradictions, but alas, what I come out is a very bland and simple guy. I DID do my graduation, and even went on to do a masters (I don’t want to lose the flow by naming the courses, plus this site is awesome, they gave that section separately so kindly check), but I really didn’t shatter the world with my academic chutzpah. I tried my hand at the guitar, but left it half way, mainly because I wanted to be the cool one in college, and I sing like Cacofonix (link given). But I do read. And listen to music, and hell, watch movies. My favorites are given in the appropriate sections, so I won’t include them here; anyway this site looks like another Facebook minus the subtlety in expressing the ultimate aim. I am mighty judgmental, and sometimes lazy, but I am not all that bad. I mean I love sports, and all other things a normal guy does, and I also give respect to my seniors and all that. And yes, even I am rooted to my ground, only sometimes; under the influence of alcohol (yes I drink and am proud of it) I do become a dreamer, but nothing out of ordinary. In fact, I think I am a bit too rooted, so much so that sometimes I don’t even move. But I am not irresponsible and do believe in the concept of continuous flow of income, hence do my work sincerely.

I really don’t have much preference on the kind of girl I want. Don’t get me wrong, I am not desperate, well, may be a little bit I am but nothing overt. But I cant really list down qualities of a person that are sure to tickle my senses and more. I do believe that it would probably happen looking at the unexpected attributes rather than the expected utopian qualities. So anyone who thinks that this person is worth taking a dekko, is welcome. But yes, again, I am a pretentious Indian male. So I AM shallow. So I do believe in the concept of beauty. This I say in spite of knowing that I am no Brando. This is where I take advantage of my gender and nationality, while I do that with all my shame.

So I guess I will see you soon.... or not

__________________________________________________________________

P.S.: Didn’t know he was such a favourite. And since it has been asked, here we go. What can I say, August is a giving month:

5. The NRI

Profile: I am currently working as an investment banker at New York City, New York. I have survived the recession and I am very happy to say that right now, I have a stable footing. Ever since I have come here, I have missed my country, with all my heart and soul. I try and be as close to India as possible, in every chance I get, because her culture in ingrained in me. I do intend to return to my roots as that is where I belong, but right now, I want to make a place for myself in the world, as that is very important for all of us. Owing to the really grueling schedule, I will unfortunately not have much time to spend in India. But I believe that if I am lucky enough to meet the perfect match, I will recognize her in two days flat. I like Indian food, Indian music, and the way Indians carry themselves. I am a big fan of Bollywood, and that is just one of the thousand things that I miss. I am a much grounded person, and I feel it is very important to take success with humility.

My partner, like me, should also be grounded. She should be there with me in all my turmoil and good times as I would be with her. It would be really nice if she wants to study in the US as then, she can also make a career for herself and chase her dreams. She should share my passion of upholding the tradition and culture of our country and should be a humble mix of humility and modesty. She should find joy in the simple things of life rather than the extravagant. She should remind me of everything that is related to India, so that she makes our house, a home away from home. I value the worth of financial and mental freedom, and would be happy to provide her with all the support, in case she decides to pursue her studies in the US. I hope she becomes the missing piece of my life, that would finally complete it and make it a happy one.

Dumb

2009-07-30T22:37:00.000-07:00

People talk

Less mind more mock.

Flattery received,

And flattered deceived.

Words take shape,

In shapelessness.

Smiles fade,

And eyes red.

Teases thrown,

With a flattering tone.

Ignorance,

And false pretence.

Making traps,

And etching gaps.

Humour fails,

And laughter stains.

A twisted pun,

And a smirk begun.

Stories of past,

That threatened trust.

But smiles still graced,

With ignorance.

And they laughed,

For the less evolved.

Went back home,

And felt alone.

Losing grace....

In ignorance.

Drink milk everyday

2009-07-29T02:35:00.000-07:00

Ok, this I have to share. I just heard that milk in Malaysia is called “susu”.

Have fun substituting the words now. :)

Comments (if they come) will not be modified.... So what the hell....

A comet, blazing across the evening sky….

2009-07-15T01:08:00.000-07:00

Grey. Pointed in the front like a potential weapon, and a heel that was there but yet. No laces, and with every step, the rear end of the feet (heels and all) would rise up a little bit before falling back in place. Black socks, purposely worn to get a contrasting effect- my first (and possible the only) thought dedicated to fashion, and a strange kind of surreal confidence. The floor beckoned, and a leg slowly rose to touch the feet softly, and then caressed the remaining on the way back, resulting in a lot of swooshing sounds and even a bit of a stumble. Ending with me getting two steps back, and looking at others with eyes hungry for some kind of star struck appreciation. What I got back most of the time was however, some grunts and laughs, or some very caring demonstrations of doing it the correct way, which suspiciously looked more or less the same as mine.

But that really wasn’t the point.

I grew up in a very laid back and under evolved suburban town outskirts of Calcutta. Tiny shops used to boast of items that gave their easily sated customers a glimpse of apparently what was going on outside their cocooned world. What was genuine and what fake, never really mattered, and neither did the names and brands. It was mostly the way they looked. And we used to go to the shops and ask for things like “the jeans that stick to your legs,” or that “tee shirt that doesn’t have a collar”. But those particular shoes that I saw this man wearing on television from the corner of my room hiding behind the curtain was something that was new. I didn’t know how to describe, or articulate, or even show them an example for it would be just foolish to expect people who thought the latest brand of Kohlapuri chappals could give perfect competition to Jimmy Choo (not that they would know who or what that is) to wear what I was looking for. So with bated breath I accompanied my mother to one of those tiny shops. I kept looking at the display, rows of bling, and then rows of understated leather (or not), and then some more rows of a bit of both. I realized I would be disappointed.

Not losing hope, I started describing the shoe, making signs in the air, drawing and redrawing, touching feet and making postures, not caring about the expression on my mom’s face, that was perhaps debating whether or not her son had a hidden talent that should be stayed hidden. And then, breaking the monotony of a boy trying hard to probably bring his shop down, he nonchalantly asked, “Jackshon juto?” I kept staring at him with gratitude that could result in idol worship, and muttered “ya”.

And I knew then, what Michael Jackson was all about.

From the cities shadowed by the sky scrapers that converse with clouds, to a war ridden town enveloped with a brownish haze and destroyed buildings, I have seen people dance to the music (whether brilliant or not) of Michael. I have seen women in shorts and women in burkas breaking into tears with passion that told me about the basic sameness of human emotions. It was strange really, as far as I am concerned, that he was perhaps the only person I can declare without any doubt, who everyone knew of. The ones who didn’t get the meaning of his songs, knew him because of his moves, and the ones who didn’t have access to television to know about “break dancing” knew him, because, well, he was too big to stay unknown.

I was never really an ardent fan of him, but I realized that he has perhaps played a much bigger part in my life than I thought he did. From writing songs that inspired children, to taking the human side of Africa to the world, from being an enigma to the press and public to getting accused of molesting the same children he inspired, Michael was an indispensible part of the popular culture of last three decades.

No I didn’t get freaked out when I saw him holding his child out of the window, and no, I didn’t believe when he was accused of whatever he was accused of. I don’t know the reason why. I didn’t want to give a logical explanation even if there were any. I just didn’t. This is what probably being a phenomenon is all about. You create an impression on all, fans, or otherwise, and ingrain in them, a sort of trust that is taken for granted. Let them read the newspapers, let them follow CNN cameras into his house, it wont matter, let them watch him do that tip toe with legs bent right after the end of a song, and they would know, that Michael belonged to the stage. This is probably warped at different levels, scarily naive even, that someone would have the power to hypnotize people without eye contact, but then, not everyone can actually do that, and therefore every once in a while, you feel lucky that you were born at a time when you did see someone who could.

I remember him for my first pair of shoes that I felt like flaunting, I remember him for him being the idea of “English music” for an entire town which didn’t even have access to television, remember him for all the strange rumors like him getting compared to anyone who danced well, like when I heard that apparently Prabhu Deva challenged Michael for a dance duel, but Michael said he wasn’t well, and I loved every bit of it. I remember him after watching an Iranian girl coming all the way to London to shake hands with him, and I remember him for making Marlon Brando make an appearance in a very shitty album of his towards the end. More than anything else, I remember Michael for being Michael. Someone whom we knew, and someone whom we didn’t.

So today at this juncture, I look back at my life and all those moments when he appeared, and I figure that I never really was a fan of his, I wouldn’t really want his music to give me solace when I am sad or joy when I am not, but he will always figure in my play lists. He will be someone whom I will always look at, and think to myself, what it would be like, to be Michael Jackson.

After all, he went back home to Neverland.

Mantralaya, Mumbai, 2009

2009-07-07T01:57:00.000-07:00

"We have to change with times.
Whole world is changing. In India also
We are keeping up. Our progress is progressing.
Old values are going, new values are coming.
Everything is happening with leaps and bounds."

Nissim Ezekiel

Incomplete

2009-06-25T01:59:00.000-07:00

Today I thought of all those that fell short of completion. Those that had their foundations laid, and then suddenly left unattended, to move on to something else, something less ambitious, or even more inviting. Those that flattered to deceive, and promised to break. Some stood on firm grounds, promising to flourish in completion, while others shook in self doubt, breathing sighs of respite for the carelessness of their creator. They haven’t ceased to exist though, remaining as random could-have-beens.

Today I think of them, with a firm mind. With an angry mind. Anger that failed to explain itself, and firmness that resurfaced out of a struggle to find its existence in an otherwise doubt-ridden world. Today I try and take the romance out of romantic, and make prose out of poetry. And wonder why some things are left unsaid, incomplete, like a song that had no lyrics, like monsoon without a downpour, like mystery without an end.

Like Frost without words.

Math. Or not.

2009-06-06T00:21:00.000-07:00

When you grow up alone with very few friends to hang out with, you learn to do things that might not be conventionally normal. So you start talking to walls and trees and inject characters to them. And gradually, you become obsessive (a word that would probably hunt you down even later in life) and you start giving life to any random thing and what’s more, you start judging them. “That back door has such an attitude, I would never use that egotistical bastard,” the back door of course, with all its humble and protective wood, would stare at you blankly. But you wouldn’t care, give it a nice shrug and go all the way to the alluring front side. So yeah, you become a little off centre.

If you have been a single child with a family of three and have not done any of the above then I am sorry but you are tremendously boring. And don’t you judge me. So when it came to studies, it wasn’t any different. And this obsession of giving things characters took a gigantic proportion when I slowly started getting tortured, tormented, agonized and insulted by Mathematics. I wouldn’t say that I am autistic while it came to numbers, I mean I can add and subtract, multiply and divide, and hell, even do percentages (beat that eh!), but I wouldn’t really say that calculating the speed of a moving train as it passed a platform of certain length has ever really given me a creative high. But I often have introspected and wondered about numbers per se, and presumed which ones I like and ones I don’t. I was surprised to learn that I am not the only one demented enough to do or think in such a lunatic way, but I would understand if no one can relate to this. But kindly don’t bother to call for medical help, I assure you I am mentally as stable as the next person.

So here is my take on the first 9 numbers.

1 (one): For me it never made a difference. I mean it was the easiest of the numbers to add, subtract, multiply or divide, oh I LOVE multiplying numbers with 1! It’s like a reflection of human kind, and their resistance to change. Never really was 1st in anything, maximum there or thereabouts, so it didn’t really bother me so much. Harmless, simple and extremely likable. Later of course, I realized how vicious it can get, with its growing importance in the society. But still, I have always liked it.

2 (two): I like it. I think it’s the only egalitarian symbol in the world. It’s got a curve, and a corner, it’s a pair, it’s even, it’s small and it never takes the spotlight. It’s number two, important but not screaming, supporting but indispensible. It’s the number of days in a weekend. So yeah, I like two.

3 (three): Ever since I have come to associate and understand numbers, I don’t know why, I have hated this the most. Maybe it’s got something to do with the Hindu superstition of it being unlucky, or being a relative of the unlucky 13, or whatever, I have never liked it. It leaves someone alone, it alienates, and sort of becomes the first one to remind of trouble in a so far perfect world. I might have no real and definite reason for the hatred, but as a whole, three has never made me comfortable. Three for me is, just odd.

4 (four): Pretentious. It reminds me of all those people who have everything in life and are just perfect, and they KNOW that and make no bones about telling the world. It’s curt, with three geometric lines, with all the corners attached. No curves, no gaps, no loopholes. Its even, it’s the double of two, and it’s got everything going for itself. And I don’t know whether it’s noticeable, but the number doesn’t smile. I mean in a way none of the numbers smile for me, but four is like “I don’t want any nonsense.” Don’t really have anything against it, but so much vanity for such a small number, reminds me of South Bombay ICSE kids.

5 (five): I know it’s odd. But I absolutely love the number. I mean just look at it, fat, chubby, cute with a delightful curve. It reminds me of Obelix. Or all those jolly people who drink a lot of beer and help a lot of people, and never really bother to get anything which is complicated. It’s happy, and it doesn’t have issues. And perhaps the best part about it is, it’s a slightly higher number, which is also easy to calculate! I mean the only time I dared to show off my calculation skills was by doing subsequent squares of 5. Plus it is neutral. It’s like the Switzerland of number line. Four single digits on this side, four on the other. Now let me hear who complains! I love five.

6 (six): Among all the numbers, I think it’s the most effeminate. Don’t ask me why, I cannot answer. But I just think it suffers from an identity crisis. Plus the fact that it’s like two threes put together doesn’t help my cause to like it either. Wonder why the eunuchs are associated with this number, or may be that has got something to do with my thought process. But six is only good when it comes out as a result of the ball going out of a stadium, other than that, it’s just strange. Too many curves, and then all it takes for it to become another number is to just turn upside down. Anything that loses its identity so easily can and should never be trusted.

7 (seven): It gives me that “I am responsible wise old owl” kind of a feeling that pisses me off. Plus it was never a help while calculating. Some of us have this habit of putting a horizontal line across it, probably to make sure that it’s not been misread as something else, something what, I wouldn’t know though. But still, people can’t even decide what the proper way to write it down is. Other than that, haven’t really thought too much about it.

8 (eight): It’s amazing how the double of two fours can be a number with absolutely no corners. It’s as if four has grown older and wiser, and has shred off its pride and become more gentle and nice. It is the highest single digit even number, so powerful, yet it is a number which I think always smiles. So it’s like Albus Dumbledore, or Yoda. I like how all the curves are connected, like it is with four, yet not in that disgusting rigid way. I hope I can grow up to be 8 someday.

9 (nine): I know it’s two threes multiplied, but I think I have always been a bit lenient towards nine. Again, it loses its identity very easily like six, but it’s just one step away from 10, so it’s in a way the final hurdle. I would never forget the high I got when I came to know about the fact that how if one adds up each number in nine table, the end result comes to nine. (9x2= 18, 8+1=9 and so on). A number with so much entertaining capacity can’t really be dismissed as an upside down six. So I respect it.

Numbers can be fun.

Desultory

2009-05-27T04:35:00.000-07:00

Sound of the pen scribbling on paper

Rustling of leaves scream about a very wet wind,

Clouds in the horizon,

A hint of azure peep out before bidding farewell behind the mass of darkness,

Bits of disconnected papers fly with fearless aggression,

Ripples destroy ripples,

Hair goes berserk,

Rush to the roof to get the clothes back inside,

Uncontrolled,

Scramble,

A very faint smell of a familiar fragrance,

A fainter recollection of skin meeting skin,

Eyes, darker than the skies above,

Sweat, dries suddenly leaving remnants like an ancient river,

Letters, lost and found and lost,

Sighs of respite enmeshed with nostalgia,

Tremendous urge to play with words,

From the storehouse of a very ordinary vocabulary,

Yet play with words,

Long disjoint string of thoughts,

Call them poetry,

Look out,

A bent coconut tree,

Few swans,

Consistent commentary of the ceiling fan,

Eye lashes get heavier,

Nonsense,

Loving, pretty, wonderful,

Nonsense,

Soulful self soothing fantasies,

Some more scribbles on the paper,

Nonsense.

Me, again

2009-05-24T22:34:00.000-07:00

Those few moments before it rained,
Were never the same again,
Taking away the smiles and pain,
Created on a summer’s day.

Those few moments before it rained,
Washed the stories of before,
A few people, and an odd heartbreak,
And perhaps something little more.

To the bench warmers

2009-05-08T00:04:00.000-07:00

Sports can be cruel. In the sense that just when you think you have it all figured out, and you go running through the side lines like a bullet out of (now a little rusty) gun, receiving with élan, and passing with precision, and smiling like a fool, even planning to dare some stepovers and dummies, and trying to be modest reacting to the applause of the handful of grounds men who are the roaring spectators. And then, the very next moment, you get a very long ball, which is the perfect cross pass, and you are supposed to receive it as if you were born to receive crosses, and you miss the cue like a fool, and the beloved football that made your dreams jump up and down with acrobatic ecstasy, quietly passes through you and bounces lazily away and out of the pitch.

And then, madness starts.

Suddenly, each defender that comes by your way, big or small, seems like Achilles brandishing his cross bow, and you keep crashing against them. Almost as if you have forgotten what you are playing, making it look like a very confused rugby game. And then suddenly you see a group of people approaching the ground for the first time in their entire excel sheet filling lives, to witness the clash of the titans in the finale. And you pretend that you don’t give a shit.

Another pass you humbly present to the opposition, who by now think that you have a short term memory loss or something, and you avoid looking at the faces of your team members. You start thinking that it’s time to pull up socks and introspect. And then you realize that while doing that, you have already missed your marker, who went ahead and scored the goal that he might remember to tell his grandchild, and you shudder to imagine the role you would play in that story. So you give in, and when your captain asks you for a substitution, you quietly nod, and shake hands with the smirking substitute. You look at the brighter side, that at least you can introspect in peace, and your marker won’t even care. And you wish that the ground would just open up, and you would dive inside, and the ground would close again. So much for the brighter side.

And then you observe that your team is actually playing well. That they are scoring goals. And your fellow striker has that same familiar expression that you had till yesterday or even in the first part of that very day which, well, now seems like three and a half million epochs ago. The few people who you happen to encounter give you weird looks.

“I thought you were a big match player man.” “No problems dude, it happens.” “I think you are better off in the left side.” When all they wanted to say was perhaps something in the lines of “moronic creep, next time, how about some football for a change?”

But you win the match. And you jump and celebrate with your team mates, and you console yourself that everyone is entitled to one bad game. But something, some damn thing, itches. But then again, they always do.

But you also realize, that all those times you have shouted at people who are well, not that particularly good in sports, but still came religiously to the field to try their luck, may be for a perfect kick by default, or a well timed shot by mistake, just so they can have something to talk about, are so wonderful. For they could easily stay at home and done away with it, but they came, and they continue to come, to so many club grounds, and housing complexes and local paras, to get shouted at, or cold shouldered, only because they love to play. So even while forming a team, they are the last ones remaining, and the captains argue amongst themselves urging each others rival to take them, they would stand their ground, because they would still be a part of the team, and they would still try. And when sometimes, they do that very odd correct thing, and everyone dismisses them by declaring the incident as one off, they know that they have something that can make them smile for a long time.

It took me one bad game where I became one of them, to realize, that they perhaps love sports more than the so called “strong players” ever did.

Apologies, from the bottom my heart.

Afternoon

2009-04-23T03:18:00.000-07:00

The pristine screen that would otherwise, and ideally, be filled with screaming words of appreciation for people who didn’t deserve to be appreciated, or descriptions of things that have already been described, stared blankly in silent anticipation.

Haze

A very gentle haze clouded in and around the vicinity. Outside sun scorched to restrict souls within the premises. Eyelids battered with apprehension, lest they would suddenly stick, and haze would turn into a very bright light before falling into darkness. But they were but what they were. And they would batter, and they would stick. A sudden jerk every now and then, to bring back to awakening. And to see the blank screen fighting with patience.

A very faint cry from a nearly comatose conscience could be heard from some distant corner of an opaque mind. Something to do with the work in hand and the fulfillment of priorities. That message got lost somewhere in the middle of neck and the ears.

A message from Vodafone, reminding that 1.60 had been deducted from the pre paid account and some other words that would remind something else that wouldn’t really come to any use. But eyes opened anyway.

S: Erm…. Try making use of The Six Sigma Way. Might help.

N: Naw…. Me reading The Six Sigma Way?

S: I am sorry. That was horrible advice.

N: It’s (yawwwwwwnnnnnnn) ok.

S: Heard that sprinkling water helps.

N: Did that some 7 times. Now they think I have some other problem. Embarrassing.

S: Coffee.

N: Haven’t tried.

S: Try it. I mean what the hell right?

N: Hmm.

The CCD coffee machine in some way seems like something straight out of a sci-fi novel. You have espresso, cappuccino, latte, everything written, and all you have to do is press the button. The fact that in the machine, they all taste the same is completely irrelevant here, the idea is just, as some guys over here say, “too good”.

“Latte”

S: Try espresso, stronger.

N: But I like milk.

S: ……

N: Hmm.

Espresso.

I don’t know whether I missed the small details, but from the look of it, there was as much difference in the amount of milk and coffee as there is between, well, I don’t know, will get back to the metaphor when senses are awake.

A bitter taste with a very slight touch of milk. As the sugar melt, it kept getting sweeter. A little burnt tongue gave a spark of consciousness coupled with pain, before subsiding to numbness again.

Back to the desk.

S: Better?

N: Yes. I am wide awake.

S: Nice.

…..

Haze.

Only this time, the haze had a warm feel, and the mouth had a sweet taste.

Eyelids……..

S: Think you got a missed call.

N: You know I shouldn’t have had rice today.

S: Hmm.

N: ….

S: May be a letter talking about your lay off…..

N: Probably. At least that wouldn’t burn my tongue.

S: You laid the ground work pretty well. So all the best.

N: Shouldn’t have had rice today…….

The idea of caffeine, at a very personal level, I think is tremendously overrated.

Days of our lives

2009-04-15T05:49:00.000-07:00

The following post is very Bong. So non bongs might not be able to relate or even find any sense in it. But if you still want to go ahead because you have absolutely no work, then suit yourselves (my bit of wishful thinking). All English translations in the post are literal translations, and have not been translated to bring out the real sense of the bong phrase or dialogue. So if you can’t understand the translations as well, then it’s ok. So basically, you get the point, or the lack of it.

1. “Akta choto botol die dichhi, pocket a kore nie jaa, shujog pelei jol keheye nish”
(Am giving you a small bottle, put it in your jeans pocket, drink water whenever you can)

2. A vendor to the neighboring paan shop owner:

“Tomar to bhai bapar e alada, khali lakh diccho, aar laakh nichho”
(You pal are in a different league, you just give a lakh, and take a lakh)

3. An elderly man arguing with the coolie at the Howrah Station:

“Hum tumko jitna bola tha utna dega, usse jyada dega to mera naak kaat daalna”

4. A man tries to go to the other side of the metro queue.

The man: Dada ektu jaega deben? (Bro could you give me some space?)

The second man who is standing in the queue: Ektu kano dada, purotai nin(why just some bro, take the full thing)

5. An irked man standing in a particularly slow ticket counter:

Dada, chele ta boro hoe galo aktu dekhte dilen na?
(Dude, my son grew up and you didn’t let me witness the process!)

And another one in the same queue:

Dur bara, kotodin por dari ta katlam abar boro hoe galo
(What the fuck, shaved after so long and now it’s grown again)

6. An old man talking about the recession with tremendous passion and disappointment in his voice, to another who plays the silent listener. He talks about the consumerist attitude prevailing in the general inflated market and how everyone is eating a humble pie right now. And he goes on the same trip for about 15 minutes or so. And then turns to his listener, who probably is half asleep struggling to hold his walking stick. The former asks for a response, latter suddenly turns and says:

Ki bolbo aar, shob e maya!!!
(What can I say, everything is desire)

7. After two consecutive days of doing the night duty, a very exhausted Neel enters office with a hope that Falak would return from his suspicious hiatus and will give him a respite. Pratik da (the senior sub) looks at him with a very mind bogglingly irritating you-are-so-screwed-again smile.

Neel: No. This isn’t happening. I can’t do three nights in a row without a single leave. Don’t do this to me.
Pratik, still smiling: aare Neelu, kore fal, ki aache aar life a! (Arre Neelu, do it man, what is there in life!)
Neel: Life a onek kichu aache. (there’s a lot in life)
Pratik: Aare raag korish na. Falak er flu. Week ta mere de, ki aache aar life a! (Arre don’t get pissed, Falak has a flu. Beat up this week man. What is there in life!)
Neel sighs: Ki aar ache life a. (What is…..)

8. A pure breed Bengali family wandering in the Maidan area, and gets irked by litter all around. The man snorts:

Ei sala bangali gulo jekhanei jaabe shob jaega jonjal badhie chole ashbe (these bloody bongs, wherever they will go they will make a mess and come back)

He of course goes ahead and randomly throws the orange peel with seeds as if nothing has happened.

9. Two old men in a crowded local train, bang in the middle of afternoon start a fist fight. Yes, a fist-fight. People remind them of their age and stop the impending onslaught and lack of blood bath. And temperature comes down towards the normal side. When suddenly from a corner of the bogy, an unknown voice screams:

Dadu, eibar chot kore onno dadu ke akta chumu die din! (Granddad, now quickly give a smacking kiss to the other granddad) bogy bursts out with laughter, including the angry old men, never mind the cheapness of the humour.

Then there are the staple comments that exemplify the quintessential nature of the people here. Like the use of the word bara literally meaning a dick, as a punctuation mark in every sentence. So without exaggerating (for that is also one of our traits) we have something like ami bara oke nie bara ki korbo bara bujhte parchi na bara {I (punctuation) don’t know (punctuation) what (punctuation) should I (punctuation) do with him (punctuation)}.

And then the sentences that define our moods:

Nostalgia: Shedin ke aar ashbe? Deep deep sigh (will those days come back?) which of course isn’t a question, but another way of underlining the tragic fact that those days (whatever they were) will not come back.

Frustration: Oder dara sala kissu hobe nah (They are incapable of anything) somehow the translation sounds shamefully mild but you can better it.

Deep frustration: Sala oi harami banchodgulor dara kissu hobe na (Those sisterfucking bastards are incapable of anything)

Patriotic sorrow: Ei desh ta jole galo (this country has gone to the water)

Sudden affection to get sodden drunk: chol maal khete jai (lets go for some goods) So this 'maal' is the same as the hindi maal, like 'maal gadi'. The Bengali translation for alcoholic drink is of course, something called Modh but you can ask any Bong from Budapest to Bangladesh, they, for some strange reason, will always call it maal.

Happiness: arre naaaa!!! (arre no)

Extreme happiness: Is an emotion that is non existent in Bongs. You see we like to keep our feet on ground and remain pessimistic forever, so extreme happiness generally leads to anxiety.

And you get the drift. Or not.

And then there is music, which is a compilation of 15 years (from ’65 to ’80) of Kishore Kumar and R. D. Burman, taking the phrase “everlasting” to great new heights. So even after the renaissance of Bengali music post 90’s with rock, underground, punk even fusion of traditional with metal, all really nicely done, people shall wait when a very thin person wearing fluorescent full sleeve shirt with collar buttoned up and very tight trousers with a rose peeping from his chest pocket to come, and dramatically start “ye jo mohabbat haiiiii…..” House, my friends, would THEN be on fire.

And then the xenophobic slangs (no offence meant for the non bongs who would actually care to read this far. For if you do, you might as well be a bong)

Chhatu (Biharis)
Ure (Oryas)
Tetul- tamarind, you do the math (Tams)
Mero (Marwaris)
Etc.

And life goes on. The above is a sample view of the vocabulary and traits of all normal bread earning, government office going, Khadim’s footwear wearing, gobbling rice for breakfast lunch, supper and dinner, pretending to understand and love Tagore and Ray Bengalis in Calcutta. Then there is a very strong intellectual community as well. But they require another post that would start from the historic Coffee House and end on the Nandan steps. And I assure you, if you were disgusted, bored, couldn’t give rat’s ass, or amazed reading this, the other one would just double up the same emotion.

But we beg forgiveness. We are after all, a community of poets.

Dust

2009-03-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

A line for the scattered pieces of a once flourishing painting that flattered to deceive.

And then a line for all the tries of redemption often wondering whether or not all the sins were from one side.

A line for disgusting self pity and shrugging off people who actually cared.

A line for pretentious writing, and deleting creations of love.

A line for over the top expressions and acidic conversations that left some scars which were not so much painful, as they were ugly.

And then a line for frantic efforts to forget what should be forgotten and placing thoughts on a heap of quick sand.

A line, for the destruction of past, which had put smiles in faces, and then became perfect examples of emotional dialectics, shaking the foundation of beliefs and memories.

And finally, a line that would close the pages of a chapter that surprised till its last syllable, and store it in the rack called ancient history.

Derelicts

2009-03-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

Desolate are you? Angry? Tarnished between the mental trauma and that pressing need of civility? Juggling between the good and the bad and the proper and not so much? Convincing yourself against the feeling of betrayal? Holding on to the pragmatism that would help soothe the destroyed fantasy? Falling after tripping and pretending not to get hurt? Confused are you? Scared to reflect the mental state of affairs lest people tear you apart? Scared of people now? Those quixotic beliefs of unbounded possibilities groveling in the lowly dust as you stare blankly?

Apprehensive are you? Scared of confusing utopia with happiness? Pinching yourself to check your reality whether or not it has enmeshed with a simple wish that you thought wouldn’t come true? Unsettled with the progress of something that just emerged out of nowhere? Wondering how long would this be as real as it is now? Ecstatic sometimes? And then worried? Shaken and stirred by the difference of the present from the past?

Stoic are you? Pondering and scrambling for words that would make conversations for at least a certain stretch of time? Disrupted by the progress of something that forced your undaunted trust to bow down just a little bit? Guilty of thinking someone to be superhuman and realizing that there is no such thing? Wondering how to separate sympathy from correctness? Wondering how to make things the same without pretending? Realizing that pretence is nothing but a stubborn admission of discomfort, that is too scary to be accepted.

Confused are you? Ridden between a tinge of guilt and probably relief for something that came from out of the blue? Bewildered about the changing people who have always been the same? Changing are you? Changing for the better? Changing to be calm, to be silent, to be permanent? Scared were you? Of losing what you have come to own?

It’s ok then, you are only human.

A very short love story

2009-02-25T06:55:00.000-08:00

The sun was just about to peck the surface of the horizon, even as it spread out its reddish hue across the mild sky of an infant spring. Two boys were trying to make the most of a cycle, each taking turns in a desperate effort to ride it without tripping for at least a distance that would be covered for about a minute. Few more children, a little far away, were frantically swinging like pendulums gone crazy. A very mild but cool breeze slapped the faces and the leaves even as the birds returned to their abodes in the midst of pandemonium. A young man sat on a wooden seat in the middle of a park that smelled of wild flowers.

He sat and wondered, about the day that had gone past, and the days that are about to come. He wondered how quickly the day had gone by. A film, two boxes of overpriced popcorns, lunch at a help-yourself restaurant, strolling around across the city lake, and then finally sitting together on the very same seat he was sitting then. It had been the perfect day. It had been all that he had wanted under the circumstances. For from the next day, lives were going to be different. There was this important meeting with his uncle’s friend, who would help him get a visa for the United States. He wouldn’t like it if he knew that he was in love.

Then of course, the university where he was supposed to go for the interview. One of the most well known ones to study Theology in. Ever since he was 15, he was drawn to the nuances of religion. He, however, saw religion very differently. He never intended to follow, but understand, know the process of their evolution. For he realized that there was more violence in the name of religion, and love, jealousy, history and politics, everything somehow took a form that was so much alive than they were for any other cause. Religion enthralled him. And he wanted to know more. The evolution of churches, the history behind the Bible, the corruption, the sale of indemnities, and everything that had crept and created and perhaps marred the Christian catholic church.

He wanted to understand, as neutrally as possible, everything about the religion that his forefathers and his kin have come to adorn, practice and dedicate themselves to. Right from the Crusades and the Knights templar to the present conundrums of social stigma or traditional views. He was always drawn to the mechanisms of Christianity, although in a very different way.

And he loved his God.

He believed in His creation, the idea of faith. He used to sing along the hymns and cried when emotion overpowered his senses. The idea of Christ, calmed him. The crucifix ironically was a symbol of everything that was quiet, settled and peaceful. His God was the power behind his insatiable thirst to understand everything about his religion, and then perhaps become a scholar who would teach the idea of Christianity the way it should have been taught. But for that, he needed to get into the university. And for that, he needed to hide the most beautiful thing that he had ever experienced.

“Let’s flee to Oslo,” Damien used to tell him with a dreamy countenance. And he used to laugh out loud. From Cochin to Oslo, quite a voyage that would have been. With no money, and nothing to look forward to for a living. And most importantly, sacrificing the ambitions. He quietly followed the happenings of the United States. Massachusetts, a definite option, but not good enough for it was too far away from the university in Texas that he so badly wanted to study in. And then, there was his family. The entire “men and women are made by the Lord for a particular reason” issue though, wouldn’t create too much of a problem if at the end of the day one made a name for himself. True though, that he would have to leave his beloved mother forever, giving hatred in her heart. But he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

The hatred came in exchange of undaunted love. Hatred that spurted from the eyes of the people in front of whom he had grown up. “You come to your senses, or will be taken to an asylum, you sacrilegious piece of shit,” and his excited heart was instantly put to silence. Church became a little more distant, and so did his parents. His God perhaps, wanted to break free as well, but he didn’t want to let go of Him. Till one day he heard someone whispering during the Sunday mass, “this church is inhabited by sodomizing pigs.” He had turned to see his father’s tearful eyes, even as the whisperer left his father’s side.

It was different since then. His parents were never the same. Silent stares used to duel within the walls of a house that wanted to explode with vengeance, putting an end to the intolerable implosions. Every now and then, some scribbled words of threats and abuses on a paper wrapped on a stone would break the window pane and disrupt sleep in the middle of the night. But then there was something about Damien that made him defy everything. In the movie theatres they could conjure the courage to hold hands the way they wanted to. Other times, in the public, there was a sudden deliberate touch with his little finger on his arm, or a sudden brush of shoulders when the bus took a not-so-sharp-turn. They were their magical moments, in the midst of the world, which were only understood and cherished by each other. Once while at Damien’s home their physical proximity was paving the way for something deeper, he stopped Damien abruptly. He couldn’t give a reason to Damien. And he kept touching the crucifix hanging from his neck. Damien smiled, and left the room for a bottle of beer.

And then one day he saw his house burning. He rushed inside to find nothing. Just backdrafts of flames coming from all the corners of his beloved house. Everything he knew was burning, and he choked in the flames. Two pairs of hands brought him out and put a mask. And as he breathed profusely, he saw the silhouette of his mother jumping from the attic, like an enflamed effigy, crashing on the ground. He stood like a stone, as two firemen sprayed foam on her, extinguishing the raging flames, leaving a black lump smelling of burnt flesh. A lump, that used to be his mother.

The rest was a series of sporadic actions. A confession to his beloved priest followed by penance which was a form of retribution. Tears which flowed for reasons which fought amongst themselves, and solitude that attempted to comfort him, with silence. A decision to forgo the happiness that he fiercely tried to protect, and curses, that came from all the corners of his world. Till one night he broke down as his mother’s charred body haunted his troubled dreams, and he realized that he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror anymore. Suddenly, his love became guilt, and he became something that was as far away from his beloved God, as his mother was from him at that point of time. He started to hate himself, for being the way he was. He somehow found a reason for all the wrath that was thrown at him and wished he could burn along with his house and his mother that fateful day.

“I am sick,” he admitted to his father. Who for the first time in years, held out a hand of support, of faith, of hope. For he knew he was a good father. Good enough to forgive his child for the demise of his beloved wife. And from then on, he followed his instructions like a patient followed the physician’s. He, however, realized that his ‘sickness’ was incurable. But it could somehow, be kept under control. “Like cancer at its early stages” his father used to say.

In the end, all that was left was that afternoon. To pamper his sickness for the very last time.

“Why do we love our God, if our God doesn’t love us?” Damien asked as he stood to leave. “I don’t know. But I hope to find out now.”

And he saw his lover strolling away, drenching a few blades of grass with a few drops of suppressed tears.

Dusk fell.

___________________________________________________________________

P.S: Oslo as we know, is the capital of Norway, one of the first countries to legalize homosexuality, and Massachusetts, the first US state to legalize same sex marriages.

In defence of the lesser known

2009-02-05T21:09:00.000-08:00

Why wouldn’t people love movies? I seriously fail to understand. How else will they give their opinions about every aspect in every way and feel good about it? If you do not like movies then you must be crazy, for you are losing out on opining on something that you have not made, or dreamt of, but paid about 250 bucks to watch or straight up downloaded from the internet and seen it with your popcorns and overpriced and insipid cola drinks. Really, that’s all you have to do, and then you get to come out, and talk about the film. No wait, justify or annihilate the film. And isn’t that fun! Where else can you go against the vox papuli and become “different” in your opinion and show off your uniqueness in looking at a situation? So we have had, “Titanic, is after all, a typical boy meets girl love story, set against the lavish money spinning capacity of Hollywood and semi-realism, I seriously don’t understand what is the big deal about it.” Or, “Ocean’s movies? They are the same theory as Real Madrid buying David Beckham more to sell their t-shirts than to get a winger. Otherwise they are just another series of overrated heist films.” And it goes on. I doubt whether any other creative platform would give such a lot of people a chance to become so original and cynical at the same time, completely brushing off the effort of the makers or even the entertainment value of the product.

And when it comes to India, we are of course, inherently over the top. I do not really know how exactly an average Indian reacts to poverty. For I can’t decide whether they are overtly defensive, little ashamed, or just plain touchy. When Satyajit Ray’s films were creating waves in the international markets, some of the film stars turned MPs like Nargis objected that he was selling India’s poverty to the white world and in the process insulting the nation. It was just as objection, based on some very keen observation as a result of undaunted free time that she had, but it still wasn’t rage. Not from her, and not from some of the other established fronts. Not until Roland Joffe came up with a very in-your-face movie adaptation of the City of Joy and that finally pissed people off. And the entire trip of selling Indian poverty to the west followed. Completely undermining the vivid nature of the film, or the spirit of the people in general. And it is since then, more or less a tradition to create some kind of a protest every time a westerner comes here and makes a film about India. For let’s face it, beyond the Vedas and the Upanishads, the literature and the history, monuments and the brains, India is interwoven with poverty. They go hand in hand.

And thus came Slumdog Millionaire. Does it show the ugly nature of Bombay? Yes it does. Does it show the dirty slums in a very starkly realistic way? Absolutely. Does it portray that a large part of Bombay is full of beggars and street children subjected to exploitation and crime? Yes. Does it say that Bombay is all about poverty, slums, and adolescent crime? If one says yes, then either that person has not seen the film, or thinks Amitabh Bachchan or whoever said that and meant that is the Oracle. Or perhaps he is just a plain cynic who is so touchy about his own country that he has just blocked his mind and is marooned in an island of overreaction and amateurish synthetic beliefs. Slumdog is about a love story from a guy and a girl from the slums of Bombay, so yes, it has shown slums, it has shown the people and the strife in the slums, and it has shown everything that has to do with that part of the population that most of us who live the great Bombay Dream choose to ignore, or roll up our car windows to. Had this been made by an Indian, like Madhur Bhandarkar’s Traffic Signal, then there would have been a unanimous applause as a celebration of realistic cinema. But skin matters. And especially when it is India, it matters a whole damn lot.

But that’s not what has pissed me off. What actually eats my brain is the hype that came along with. So two street children run away from the tyrants of the big city and sell cheap stuff in the Indian trains and grow up to be in their pre-teens. They land up in Agra and suddenly they start speaking in English. Now, you might call me a cynic. That we can accept the fact that the characters of Schindler’s List spoke English instead of German or even something same happened in Joan of Arc, or Gandhi. But there is a difference. In Slumdog, there was absolutely no consistency as far as language was concerned. The kids were speaking in Hindi, and then suddenly as they grew up they started speaking in English, I mean at least keep one language as a constant. Because for me, as a viewer, I am following the lives of two slum kids living their rustic lives (the way it’s been shown by the director) and I get used to their way of life in the movie, and suddenly, without any rhyme or reason, the kid says, “Is this heaven?” I thought it was merely inconsistent and loose. However, if one can forgive these stuff, or some other facts like a blind beggar in the dirty subways of Bombay would understand from the feel of the paper (who probably hasn’t even 'felt' a rupee note) that it’s a dollar, and also understand who Benjamin Franklin is just by the description, and other minor and weird licenses like that, the film actually rocks. Rocks purely because of its entertainment value, the breathtaking photography and the performances. But that’s it, the film rocks. But is it a masterpiece? Did it deserve the Golden Globes and the Oscar nominations? Well.

I maintain that the film in no way tries to sell poverty to the western world. India is poor, and a film about modern India and the lives of the masses would have to cover the rags along with the riches, and if one is uncomfortable about the fact, then he or she is in denial and has turned a blind eye towards the true identity of the nation. I am however, inclined to think, that the western world, liked the fact that India has made a film about poverty. And perhaps that’s the reason it has accepted it with open arms. It has been the age old practice of the western world’s outlook towards the developing continents, to stereotype their natures and accept anything that justifies that image. So the Academy loved City of God, Blood Diamond, or even Lagaan. For South America is supposed to be about street fights, Africa is supposed to be about stealth, coups, refugees and corruption, or India is supposed to be about ignorance coming out into the light and fighting the rich and the privileged. They were all great films, but did the western world do justice to many other films from these places that spoke about something else? Maybe prosperity? Maybe a love story from Kenya? Or a period drama from Argentina? Or are we supposed to be so naïve to take for granted that they don’t make those films? If India can make films like Black, then rest assured, they make them as well.

So Slumdog makes a nice case for India, or at least the India they want to see or perceive. So they can afford to cut some slack and overlook the glitches. I love the fact that it put India on the map again, and this time, probably in the real sense of the term, and I also admit that Slumdog is India from heart and soul, and I complement Danny Boyle for being sensitive enough to understand the culture of something he probably would have had the hardest time relating to. But as far as the recognition from the west is concerned, I sincerely wish that they were as appreciative and applauding about some of the films as beautiful and honest as Slumdog, but talk about a different India, the same way. As the biggest international platform for the arts of music and motion pictures, Hollywood can do better than to stereotype the nations and increase the apathy. It is also their duty to inform the world about the versatile and varied facets of the little known countries that few know about. Or it would just go on to prove their insecurity.

Meanwhile, closer home, Slumdog is all over the place. Some people are filing a case against some of the cast for calling the slum dwellers “dogs”, while some others have started enquiring about the slum kids who acted in the movie and their adverse conditions to accuse the producers of exploitation. Last heard, a TV production company is planning to start a reality show based on the film where millionaires would do stuff in the slums, or something along the same ridiculous lines.

Movies are like religion. Misinterpreted and perhaps attract even bigger idiots.

Seriously.

Boy it’s been long!

2009-01-09T02:05:00.000-08:00

Four years!

The other day I was surfing aimlessly across the web world and suddenly it struck, that this depressing black thing with screaming white fonts (much to the dismay of K) has been rambling for four years now. Come to think of it, this is the longest relationship I have ever had, and it had to be. Anything animate would have stabbed me by now. And I thought that I never really bothered about writing about the blog itself, in all these years of crying, screaming, mocking, and remembering, and I am generally not the unjust types.

So here I am, with my short little long tribute to this probably indestructible bunch of facts and fiction, which I refer to as my punching bag. I realize that the tenure of its existence have perhaps been the most significant time of my life. For the last four years, things have changed so much that it’s almost as if I have changed planets. For in my one dimensional male mind, I think in the last four years, “growing up” happened, and I can somehow observe this in the course of the blog. I started this at a place which is going to be brought down to rubbles in a few months, on a Compaq laptop, which ironically, also lies in horrid condition under the bed. So one can say that it’s almost like one of those creatures that grow up destroying their origins of birth. OK, don’t snap, I have always been dramatic. But I have to admit, that it has grown. And in my cocooned world, I think I can afford to thump my chest like the African guerillas and be proud of this more or less insignificant accomplishment.

It was, of course, always black. And that wasn’t to prove the state of my mind, or the colour of my heart or skin. Just that when I started it, this was the best template blogspot had to offer. And it was named after one of my most used words “Disillusionment” with a quote from a Frost poem. The combination remains my favourite to this day. But as they say, human minds are never humble, and with times, I wanted to create my own description, and hence Drizzles came in (which, of course was liked by some really special people so I am not complaining, HA!) and finally, I found my soul mate in Oxymoron’s. The posts had more to do with reflections of my mind, which didn’t or don’t really follow any pattern. And I never really cared that I don’t have 100s of readers viewing my blog everyday. Not that I had any choice but to accept it, but the handful of commentors I have, keep me happy enough. For they are all interesting people. In fact, for an immodest and pompous, but ordinary writer like me, it wouldn’t have been, perhaps possible to continue for this long, had it not been for these few readers. So it’s time to salute all you people with oceanic patience to read through the ranting syllables, and sometimes, even going a step further to comment on them. Some of them actually took the pain to type something like “abstainedfromabstinence.blogspot.com” (my address before skywithoutclouds) to visit this rot. If I have forgotten someone that’s because I am growing old, and not because I don’t love you. So please don’t be melodramatic. I love everyone, even the spammers. So here goes:

UDG: Probably because he is my dad, he has been gracious enough to be the most consistent to comment. I have, of course, been requesting him to start a blog of his own, but no encouraging response has been received. He had a blog once, and he even had a post on Michael Schumacher, but very predictably, he lost track of the user name et al. Personally, I don’t think it would have made a difference even if he had remembered. But common dad, start a blog, surprise us.

K: The amount of pot shots we take on each other, anyone would think that we don’t have anything better to do. Well, we don’t have anything better to do. But there are some things that keep lonely bloggers like us going, and that is ourselves. But the handful who do visit my blog, take a look at his world without absolutes, trust me, the dude knows his stuff. Sometimes he might get on your nerves with some bullshit, but then, we all do that. You won’t find a more passionate writer in the blog world. Too bad he isn’t a drunkard like me.

Devlina: She is probably the least lazy of my friends, and makes it a point to comment. But if you really want to know how bitchy she can be, kindly visit this, and check out the comments.

Ginie/Silhouette: She is my favorite blogger as far as fiction is concerned. Only thing is, she has this OCD of creating and deleting or forgetting about blogs. Her latest blog is nothing but a product of her laziness, but hopefully she would go back to being the poetess she can be. Way to go Sin, wish I can write like you one day.

Bongbabe: Well, she comes once in a while, she even posts once in a while. But I think she keeps forgetting a lot, like she forgets to come, or to post. Probably the laziest blogger in the world who wants to write, and can write, but doesn’t write because “it’s too much work”.

Bharti: She was the second person after UDG to comment on my blog. So she is special. AND, she is special :). Wish she came more often though. But then again, of late, her busyness is understandable.

This & That: These two are truely out of the world. Probably in the literal sense. They are the youngest of them all, but I think they are brightest as well. They keep giving very subtle comments that sometimes I don’t understand but still pretend to do so in order to avoid the fact that they are way smarter than I am. Both of them have a lot to say, and I would ask everyone to watch out for them. Time would come when they would burst out, and then we wouldn’t be able to run for cover. Two most delightful packages of love, longing and company anyone could have hoped for. This is everything I wanted, and That’s the one to run away with. :)

Other than the above, there’s also Anjuri, a writer with a tremendous heart, and what passion! Rohan, who for some reason has stopped blogging, Parth, a brilliant poet, Tys, a tremendously funny (check out his latest post) seasoned and very popular blogger, Sonal, who forgot my blog exists, Sanjay an engineer with a creative mind who I hope has cut his hair, and I am sure there are some lurkers who let silence speak for them. In case there aren’t, what the hell, I am an optimist.

With that I end my self imposed acknowledgement speech, and blow the four outrageously loud candles for this blog.

Way to go ’moron! Happy Birthday.

Shiver me timbers!

2009-01-01T01:06:00.000-08:00

A very cold winter followed by a u-turn in the markets. Israel kept bombing Palestine with the excuse of raging war against the Hamas. Darfur, Afghanistan, Chechnya, etc. etc. remained the ideal tourist destinations, for the army. A black president in the United States, a dumb but hot governor from Alaska reinstated Africa as a country; George Bush continued to spread his love, culminating with a return gift from a friend of his from his favourite county in the form of size ten shoes. Lehman Brothers decided to come down to earth and say hello to the beggars, leading the way to some more high fliers giving the beggars a superiority complex but at the same time made them a bit worried about the possible space constraints in the streets. Russia attacked Georgia, and then went back to their daily chores and ice fishing. Ten brainwashed youth from a new country called “Stateless” that suspiciously looked like Pakistan felt nostalgic about the old west and started shooting people in Bombay without discriminating between the rich and the poor, the white, yellow, brown or black. India intimidated Pakistan, Pakistan squeaked, and then said they don’t give a rat’s ass and threatened to nuke India. Condoleezza said Pakistan should do stuff, and then she said India should see stuff, and went back to pack her bags from the white house before she got her share of return gifts from her two favourite countries. UK echoed whatever US said, even when Kobe Bryant admitted to have sex with prostitutes, Brown almost said the same thing but Beckham beat him to it. BCG, Accenture, and all the consultant firms started giving brilliant presentations justifying the recession and how “it ought to have happened” and missed out on the explanation that if it ought to have happened then why the fuck didn’t they warn anyone. France continued to be France, and Sarkozy remained, well, French. UPA kicked NDA’s ass, and then wondered what to do with the nation. NDA got their asses kicked but remained optimistic that they would also get a chance to wonder what to do with the nation sometime soon. Mamta Banerjee managed to drive Nano out of Bengal and was pleased to have ensured halting progress in Bengal. Modi cashed in and made up in economics what he somehow missed in politics, and rightfully gave the quote of the year, “Politics and Economics don’t match.” Tata’s wonderful year continued with the Taj bearing the brunt of the citizens of the new country Stateless. Last heard, Tata having nightmares of Pakistan bombing Jamshedpur and Mamta doing the Tango in an evening date at the Taj. A few more innocents gave lives, a few more children were left parentless, and thousands of blog posts, placards, posters, news articles, hysterical interviews in news channels by hysterical anchors, morchas, processions, and other democratic activities followed. Each was heartfelt, each touched a heart, and the blog posts, oh, they were so beautifully written. We realized there is a Chief Minister in our country whose name is actually Achutanandan, and he loves his dog. We also realized that Raj Thackeray would not be going to Patna or Lucknow in the next 20 years. And the way the world is going, there might BE no Patna or Lucknow in next 20 years. On second thoughts, Patna might be there, in fact, Patna might be the only thing that might be there. Indian Muslims got super pissed with Pakistan for poking their noses in the excuse of all kinds of bullshit and they went out of their way to denounce the attacks. Eid was barely celebrated, Christmas was barely sung, but Diwali, well, was as ostentatious as ever. People lost jobs, airlines had a different kind of crash, people actually cried after getting an “extended” leave, and then went back to work in a few days after their owners were given a spanking by the Samaritan government. Only to find out that they were being fired, this time on grounds of “inefficiency”. Oil prices rose, people stopped using cars, oil prices fell, people didn’t have the money to afford cars. Bombay, however, was like a huge mobile showroom for Sedans, as people stuck in traffics that could compete with ancient Lutetia, sighed and whispered “what recession??” India rose in the world of cricket, as Australia fell like Rome. The world of cricket shrunk further with Zimbabwe dropping the willow, and the players suddenly opting for retirement as they were “tired and wanted to spend time with their beloved family” and then joined million dollar T 2o league of impoverished India. Such was the brain drain and the stereotype of the excuse that even Shane Warne said that he wanted to spend time with his family. Which family was of course, left to the imagination. Kapil Dev’s Palmolive smile couldn’t do much for the rebel ICL, as it became more or less like AC Milan, an old age home. While IPL was “cheer led” like the Oktoberfest in Munchen. And then, Sourav Ganguly retired! Sourav Ganguly……. Retired!!!! The journalistic world of Calcutta lowered their flag and spent two days in mourning. They took some 876548 interviews of the revered cricketer and found out 876548 ways of asking the same questions to him- How do you feel? Would you like to say something to Kiran More? Would like to say something to Chappell, Dhoni and Vengsarkar? Dravid? Would you like to say something? Anything at all? Please say something!!! Please!!! ” And some of them committed suicide, quilting under the pressure of supporting a family, with absolutely no “exclusive” stories to write. Chelsea got Scolari, and Chelsea kept drawing games. Lewis Hamilton continued the black domination from politics to Formula One, actually, make it Formula One with politics. Michael Phelps raised the suspicion of the CIA as they feared he might be a mutant, and some rumors also floated that there was evidence of gills instead of lungs in his respiratory system, authorities of course denied the allegation. Christiano Ronaldo was offered to represent Portugal in the ‘platform diving’ category at the Olympics, but refused because he didn’t have anything to step over with for no reason. Rest of the football world went on, with Liverpool playing for Steven Gerard (sic), and doing quite well. Guy Ritchie made Rock-n-Rolla, and my friends almost had orgasms with the inherent sarcasm and style of the maker, and of scenes where we weren’t supposed to see the plot but enjoy the good looks of the actors, and etc. etc. Heath Ledger broke our hearts, and then, broke our hearts again. Aamir Khan made Memento, and called it Ghajini, and became bald with parting, and made all the ushers of the cinema halls across Bombay do the same. Aditya Chopra made Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, and then decided he needed a career change. Some other stuff happened, like Tamil tigers, Ulfa, Gorkha Land and shit like that, but since when did they become news? Oh, and yes, China, well, pretty much swept everything. Hearts with Zhang Ziyi, senses with Jacky Chan, India with economic growth, US with, well, just the presence, Olympics with gold (last heard there is a gold rush at the Manchuria province as the athletes dumped their medals over there, and they did so because, well, the government asked them to), and the poverty rate with the increased unemployment.

Fuck! What a year.

Personally, I lost my Dadu, and still find it hard to believe. Lost Amma, and MIG 4 has never been the same. But MIG 4 would anyway change forever. Managed to remain employed in these wonderful times of wandering around with nothing but the bio data reminiscing the times of a shining India. Managed to survive without getting blasted by RDXs in trains and buses and autos, or even over priced five star hotels. Made some new friends, some of them actually have the potential to endure me for a lifetime, and also managed to hold on to the old ones. Also lost some, I accused them and they accused me for the unfortunate disconnect. Forgot some birthdays, and fell in love with Kingfisher mild, much to the dismay of Absolute Vodka who right now is accusing me of infidelity. And….. oh never mind, some things should be kept secret.

Dreamt of football, sucked in grammar, hated vegetables, loved pornography, despised politicians, but loved politics, feasted on Asterix, frantically image searched Megan Fox, left a book half read, and sprained an ankle or two. But then, some things are eternal. Like Kate Winslet.

So considering that next year would bring in another frantic list of happenings, we welcome the new dawn. No wait. Let’s do it the Jack Sparrow way:

Ahoy me hearties! Abandon ship; drop every trifle that you possess, and jump aboard the new ship! Jump you scabrous mongrels, JUMP!!!!! Yes, you too, that man with those atrocious wooden legs, and the one at the back, drowning in that bottle of rum. Draw your swords, hail the anchor, we are on a voyage anew. Savvy?

And now….. bring on that horizon.

Happy New Year.

:)

____________________________________________________________

Some facts above are, well, not facts. Rest all are fiction.

And oh, Jack Sparrow didn’t say those words, I did, so it’s not a quote. He isn’t that unimaginative. Just tried to speak in his language that’s all. Don’t tell him though, I hate the world’s end.

Christmas, for me

2008-12-22T23:56:00.000-08:00

I was wondering what it is about Christmas that I like so much. For I am not a Christian, and I don’t even follow the festivals of my own religion, leave aside others. But then I realized, it’s because it is perhaps the most widely accepted fairytale that there is, and people actually enact it. There are reindeers, elves, snow, chimneys, mistletoe, gifts in socks, stars, music, sledges that fly, cottons used as the falling snow, and an immortal old man. I mean, how could we not like it? And add to that, the first five years of my wasted educational life, spent in a catholic school, where we were all made to feel like Jesuses or at least his fellow shepherds during this time of the year. During the celebrations, I used to see some guys dance up and down with joy while returning home for they landed up with a part in the enactment of the birth of the great one. It didn’t matter what role they landed up with. Like this friend I remember while in the second standard, who was fortunate enough to play one of the sheep.

“Hey Rajiv, congratulations!”

“Thanks (blush), I mean I didn’t expect it at all. I am so nervous, what if I goof up?”

“Oh common, if there was such a chance; they wouldn’t have given you a part.”

“(Blush) I know. I am so happy, I will be in that staged hey hut, get to see all of you guys. Mum wants to come inside and click a photo, but don’t know whether the authorities would permit (very worried and concerned look).”

“If not, give us the camera, one of us will click. After all, you are the only guy who gets to be inside the hey hut from our class.”

“(Strong blush)”

But honestly, it didn’t matter. It was like the ultimate thing to do, to be in one of those robes, while a girl would be holding a baby doll giving the world the first impression of what she would be like as a mother. As we grew up however, we realized that it wasn’t a cool thing anymore. And we also understood why all the seniors who would stand there as Joseph and his friends while we watched them starry eyed, would have this very snappy and embarrassed look in their faces.

But Christmas, as a whole, has some fun memories. Like once upon a long time ago, when this cracked voice had some tune in it, and was selected to be in the choir group. We used to be taken in this really archaic and Elizabethan building in the vicinity of our school for the practice. It used be really good fun for two reasons, one, it would give us an opportunity to bunk the Math class, and second, well, we loved the building.

The typical Palladian architecture would probably be brought down had the Calcutta municipality took their work more seriously, as it almost became a leaning structure by default. But we weren’t complaining. Spiral staircases, portraits of Henry VI, the Queen, Shakespeare, some gigantic cushions, and everything, that had anything to do with the yesteryear's England. But everything was rusted, or ridden with layers of dust that somehow acted as a cover for the shine within, and the spiders were already into their fourth or fifth stage of their evolution. It was, needless to say, deserted, and yet, each room gave signs of the existence of a rich English family some 100 years ago. We used to practice the hymns in the hall, that used to echo our voices and some of us used to shout a little bit more than what was needed, especially while singing the “Hallelujahs” with some extra a’s to bring about the echoing effect.

And then, there was the piano. Cobwebs perhaps were sketching their silent symphony, and dust brought some sort of equality as the keys forgot which one was black and which, white. Termites peeped from the cracks of the very expensive wood, as one of the legs was given support by a brick picked up from a construction site in the vicinity. One of us disrupted the perfect world of their coexistence by gently pressing on one of the sleeping keys. Nothing came out. Only a very rustic sound of the key being pressed, as the piano remained as still as death. But somehow, music was there in it. Somehow, it did manage to emit a sound that we couldn’t hear, but we were sure, that music, was there in it. We probably didn’t have the ears to hear it.

And then some more breaking rules and exploring brought us to a coffin. We did get scared, but a coffin in a dilapidated Elizabethan building seemed like the perfect fit, like without a coffin, the structure would be incomplete. We did get into a bit of trouble with the teachers when they found out we were trying to be Draculas waking up at night from inside the coffin, but again, it was fun. So as a whole, choir practice that lead to Christmas Day, was a lot of fun, and we missed that building after Christmas.

I always believed in Santa Clause. Even when I knew he didn’t exist, I believed in him. Simply because every time some teacher would come dressed as the old man, our eyes would light up, and we would scamper, fight, dodge, push and shrub each other to get that toffee that he would throw at all directions as if that’s all we needed to make our day. Chapels would look like churches, and there would be a tinge of red and green everywhere.

Christmas is much staler for me now. Perhaps a movie, or listening to the choir of the church just opposite my house and humming with the known tunes. If it was “jingles all the way” before, now, it’s just “Silent Night” with the holiness marred by alcohol. But then, for me Christmas was never for the grown ups. It was only about naughty boys and imaginative girls. About the belief that one day a train might take us to the North Pole amidst the strongest blizzards in the world, or our stockings would fill up the next morning, if not with something material, then with some wishes that would come true. It was always about somehow getting that person, who often came in our dreams, come underneath that mistletoe, and muster a peck on the cheek, or at least, on her hand, knowing that she couldn’t do anything about it, for it’s Christmas. Christmas is always about believing in the unbelievable. About a reindeer in the middle of Calcutta, about an elf in the bedroom, and believing, in everything that would put a smile on our faces.

For me, Christmas had nothing to do with religion, it was always a fairytale brought alive by dreaming children, dashing through the snow, laughing all the way.

Morbid?

2008-12-16T01:24:00.000-08:00

M: You know this fear of death in the movies is a very overrated concept. Death isn’t that scary.

N: Err…. Personally I am shit scared of death.

M: What’s there to get scared? I mean it is so wonderful. You see a very bright light and you move towards it.

N: You gotta be kidding me!

M: What? You don’t believe? Google it. See the accounts of people who have seen it but have come back.

N: You mean the people who have come back from dead?

M: Yes.

N: Listen, I know it’s afternoon and if we were in Corsica, it would have been siesta time. But we are just opposite the Trident, and being sleepy or dreamy isn’t really a very good idea.

M: You don’t believe me?

N: You are telling me that if you die you see lights, and there are people who have come back from being dead after seeing that light, like the movie Ghost or something. Right?

M: Yes. You don’t believe me?

N: I don’t even know where to start!

M: Why don’t you believe me?

N: Because, it is scientifically impossible. Your cells die, your heart stops, and you cease to exist. That’s it. Period.

M: You know science cannot explain everything. Science will tell you things based on the senses. That you can see, touch, smell of feel. But not everything we can sense. We see colours, but we can’t see all the colours. We can’t see the infra red or the ultra violet rays. We can’t hear the ultrasonic sounds. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

N: Yes, but science has proved their existence.

M: So just because science didn’t prove something doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It can also depict the limitation of science. That’s the worst part about it. Science somehow limits your imagination to facts and proofs. There’s a sense of beauty in believing something wholeheartedly that has not been proved.

N: So what happens when you see this “light”?

M: Well, they say that you can see all that have already gone there.

N: Like the dead?

M: Yes.

N: So I can see Hitler?

M: Don’t think so. You can see people you know. Like your relatives and all.

N: And all who are dead go there?

M: Except the ones who commit suicides or murders. Because they hamper the natural system of death.

N: So if everyone goes there, then that must be one crowded place.

M: No, that’s the best part about it. There’s no space constraint.

N: Wow! So it’s better to go there when we are young isn’t it? Who would go there in an old wrinkled form.

M: It doesn’t matter. See, this body is where you are. But this body is not you. People often think that they are their bodies, but it’s not true.

N: So we go their shapeless?

M: I don’t know how we go there. But it’s not with our body that’s for sure.

N: Then we wont have eyes.

M: Nah.

N: Then how would we see and know that the people who are waiting for us are our relatives and not WW1 veterans?

M: You don’t always see with your eyes.

N: So these dudes, how come they come back?

M: If it’s not their time they come back. They don’t go the full distance. But if you see them, they are very happy-go-lucky. For they don’t have the fear of death anymore. They know that such a beautiful thing awaits them.

N: P is very happy since the last few days. You think he has….

M: No. He is just happy because he received his LTA.

N: I am hungry.

M: You just missed your lunch time.

N: …….

M: …….

N: You aren’t really serious when you say that all this exists, are you?

M: I heard they had black forest for dessert today.

N: Shit, I love black forest.

M: Most do.

The above conversation was between me and my senior colleague Marianne. I still don’t know whether she was serious or not. You might find it really out of place, but the conversation did end on that note.

The black forest, by the way, was not missed, as I managed to hog the last piece.

It was as nice as death.

Questions

2008-12-02T02:20:00.000-08:00

Who am I? Am I a Hindu? A Muslim? Christian? A Jew?

Who am I? Am I a Brahmin? Or a Shia? A Protestant? Or a Mahayana? Where do I come from? Am I an Aryan? A Dravidian? Negroid? Caucasian? Where did I exist? Would I become a slave? Or would I be the one who would whip the slaves? Would I be the conqueror, or would I be the conquered? Who am I?

Did I mourn the death of a five year old when she was raped by three Israeli soldiers? Did I cry for a little Jewish child, who lost his family on his third birthday to the bullets of some men whom he didn’t know? Would I ponder on where this civilization is heading? Should I listen to Pakistan? Should I listen to India? Should I cry for Bosnia? Should I rage with the Slavs? Who was right? Who was worse? Was I Hitler? Was I Stalin? Was I someone even more vicious? What is the essential meaning of a Mixed Economy? Is this Gandhi’s India? Or Bose’s? Is this an India at all? Is this the India that we read about in schools?

Whose war are we fighting? Whose death are we dying? Whose blood are we mopping off the floors? What is the difference between Bombay and a concentration camp? What are we supposed to do now? How are we supposed to be safe? What is freedom? What is liberty of thought? Am I from Bombay, or am I from Bihar? Am I North Eastern? Or am I a Chinese? Where would I run off to? Where would I stay? What is my home? And what is being away from it?

Am I a dreamer from North Korea? Am I a Marxist in Iran? Am I a tyrant? Am I a hedonist? Am I a woman under the veil of notions, in a very dilapidated rocky village? Am I love? Am I hatred? Am I indifference? Am I a terrorist? An extremist? A revolutionary? A child? Am I a question? Am I the debatable answer that had no basis? Am I religion? Am I blood? Am I blood in the name of religion? Am I God? Am I His non existence? Am I His nonchalance? Am I the bullet that would change the lives of a handful forever? Am I sorrow? Am I happiness? Am I exasperation?

Who am I?

The unknown continent

2008-11-25T00:14:00.000-08:00

A brownish haze rendered by a lot of dust which blew in virtually every corner of the small lanes, of very small but densely populated towns which are more like extended market places. Two storied houses, with small and mostly roundish windows, which showed a pair of watchful eyes, monitoring the happenings of a very pandemic surrounding. Few tall, well built and armed men in uniform patrolled lazily down the market place, even as some rusty sedans moved in and out of the crowded streets amidst a lot of noise. And a hint of music, which played in some corners under the shadows of gigantic trees.

Women moved like elephants, as if to order the world to halt, and watch them as they walked. Brightness, a lot of brightness in whatever they adorned. The geles on their braided heads gave away an electric sensation, and they were like a thousand Cleopatras coming out into the open, to prove the domination of beauty, over colour and shape, over everything else. A group of topless men, drenched in sweat, played on their djembes, with a vigor that defied the consciousness of ones surroundings. They kept looking at the surface of the drum, against which, their practiced palms struck, on different places, with different levels of thrusts, sometimes raging hard, sometimes, just a nimble touch, which flirted with the skin of the drum, bringing out a million beats. Their rhythms, some said, were the musical interpretations of the folklores that were meant to be understood by the natives. While the others, just reveled at the beats, almost ignorant of the stories each of the notes gave out. Their rhythms were like a plethora of emotions, which screamed in agony, or shouted with joy. They cried the pains of poverty sometimes, and smiled the pleasures of love. Their rhythm lived the lives of their creators, and they brought tears to the eyes of those faces, that communicated with those rhythms through silence.

Few shops here and there, that managed to gain a permanent status, displayed hoardings of Coca Cola, which successfully managed to draw the attention of some people who sipped on the canned soft drink. A house demolished during the last coup tried to hide its pathetic state behind a very faithful wall made of a thousand thin bricks. The wall now played the goal post of a very weak team of young boys, who played with a football that was about to give away, protruding a large part of an orange bladder. The tired wall was defended valiantly by the poor souls, but they seemed to falter as well. Small horse drawn carriages carried men and women in and out of the town, carrying vegetables and fruits which somehow managed to survive the wrath of an unforgiving azure sky. Right next to a very big poster, stuck on the walls of a mosque, shouting out the words “Racism is irresponsible”; a wedding ceremony took wings. The place looked like an oasis of colours in the midst of an eternity of aridity. There was green, yellow, blue, purple, and even startling white all over. And somehow, the darkness of the faces that adorned the costumes, looked more radiant than a star in the middle of nothingness. Two women started dancing Nmane to the eccentric beats of the drummers, and they got lost in the jungle of rhythms, oblivious of everything that had anything to do with reality.

And so went on their lives, along the rivers of Volta, and Congo, and the Nile. They smiled every time the monsoons began, they cried every time they saw their children crave for a morsel of bread, screaming hysterically enough to wake up the bats in a distant cave, before lying absolutely still. They ran each time a fleet of uniformed men barged into their towns that they have been very slowly building up over the last few years, and destroyed everything that they knew to be the foundation stones of civilization, and promised them prosperity. They floated with the floods, and they dried in the droughts, and they sat down in claustrophobic classrooms in the hope of enlightenment. They danced to the beats of passionate tunes, echoing in the far fetched jungles of innumerable stretches of land. They braved the animals in the dense evergreen forests, and cut woods in places where sunlight never reached the surface even during the middle of a long torrid summer, and they were swept away with the darkness of epidemics leaving the sides of children who cried the tears of insanity, and suffered from the inheritance of loss.

And yet they smiled, as survivors often do. They fell in love, and tried to create prosperity in the midst of poverty. They sang the songs of justice, they wrote lyrics of their forefathers, who killed mammoths with stones, they echoed the legacy of the origin of human civilization, in a prejudiced world that considered them as archaic. They laughed every time their children married, they laughed with the prosperity of harvest, and they laughed with the killing of a man-eating panther that stole more than their worldly possessions.

From the eternal deserts of Sahara, to the ancient pyramids of Giza, from the broken nose of the Sphinx, to the fertile valleys of Nile, from the elephants of Ivory Coast, to the warthogs of Tanzania, from the poverty of Zaire, to the prosperity of Johannesburg, from the Suez Canal, to the Cape of Good Hope, Africa defines everything that makes up the basis of our existence.

Africa is cruelty, Africa is kindness, Africa is seductive, and Africa is plain dangerous. It is the living proof of colonial exploitation, and it is also the example of preserving the cultures which have contributed to the building blocks of our existence. It is as torrid as the Sahara, and as freezing as Kilimanjaro, it is as treacherous as Amin, and as divine as Mandela. Africa is about humanity, Africa, is about Gandhi.

If one takes a closer look at the continent that was born free, one will see that Africa is beyond safaris, and wildlife, and adversity, and AIDS. For Africa, is also about its people. Of various cultures, of various countries, telling stories that are reflections of their own cultures, cultures that are carefully woven together, to thrive, and sometimes strive, under the shadows of this huge land, which perhaps still manages to hide a million untold stories that we would never understand.

Africa, is eternal.

Failed Poetry

2008-11-05T06:25:00.000-08:00

There was a poet, who couldn’t rhyme,
And his readers thought he was past his prime.
But he wondered why the words should match,
To free his thoughts from the rigid latch,
So he kept on writing as the words would come,
But it wasn’t poetry, to everyone.

So the poet thought may be he had failed,
To give a mast so his poems sailed,
As everything, he had once believed,
Questioned him, his reason to live,
And he set aside his paper and pen,
With a drop of tear and a little pain.

And the winter fell, the clouds cried,
Sun didn’t shine, and the rivers dried,
A million papers, from the poet’s shelf,
Flew a million miles and no one delved.
While the poet sat, thinking the days gone by,
And the willow drooped, the winter sighed.

Till one such morrow, a letter came,
From a little child who didn’t write her name,
Asking the poet why he didn’t write,
As his writings made her troubles right,
Without his words, nothing seemed the same,
Rainbows clouded, and the Christmas, lame.

And just like that, some more letters arrived,
In red, and blue, and green and white,
They filled up shelves that had gathered moss,
Made the willow smile, and the postman, cross,
And the children asked why the poet didn’t write,
For his writings solved their every plight.

This made the writer think again,
And realize all were not the same,
Every letter that he read aloud,
Cleared each and every somber cloud,
Till he finally left his den,
Opened the pad, and took up the pen.

For children never cared for rules,
Never cared what they learnt in schools,
They read his words, as they were meant to be,
That swept them away from reality,
And so the poet, wrote again,
With greater might, which no more feigned.

And the willow laughed, the winter went,
The river flowed, sun shone again,
The children dreamt through the poet’s words,
The papers filled and the masts lowered,
And he set sail, his poems’ chain,
That didn’t rhyme, but eased the pain.

:)

Conundrum

2008-11-01T07:41:00.001-07:00

Shoot!

No.... I am not shooting.... Not in this life....

I said SHOOT!!

No.... its not going to come back once I do

It’s come to your head, now shoot!

NO!

You are such a pussy!

No, I am sensible.

You are a pussy.

If I say it, it’s going to hurt the listener, and I don’t want that.

Then you are not being honest with the listener.

What’s that supposed to mean?

That means it’s come to you, so you think like that, so if you think like that that’s the way you feel. So not telling means you aren’t being honest.

I am not telling.

You are dishonest.

I can’t hurt a person just by saying something which I can control.

Control then. Control your thoughts. And tell them that you love them. Fucking hypocrite.

I LOVE THEM!

You hide your feelings.

That’s BECAUSE I love them!

You know you WANT to say it.

No.

SAY IT!

No!

SAY IT!!!!

And they shoot out of the mouth. Things which are wrapped with layers of guilt, and desperation. And they hurt its listener. Sometimes beyond repairs, and sometimes in a manner that might be forced to heal by the person who might be too weak to live without me, or sometimes, would make that person wake up and realize that I am after all not worth all the efforts, not worth all the love, not worth to be a part of a sacrosanct love story.

And words are but words, they express themselves as they are, and they say things which they represent. And words are but words, the ones that are supposed to heal, heals, and the ones that are supposed to hurt, hurts. And words, are but words, screaming their heartlessness out of their lifeless hearts, which can be beautified or destroyed by its creator, but never taken back. Like reflections of feelings in ecstatic or tormented human beings, in shapes which make a faint attempt to become decipherable.

And I don’t understand, the ordinariness, the simplicity, the lifelessness of words, shooting them as if they have a life of their own, that would make the receivers understand, that I didn’t mean while hurling those at them, that they don’t mean what they scream, that those words are nothing but very rough, and jagged version of my love, that desperately want to cling on to their oceanic hearts.

But words, are just words.

Me

2008-10-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

Lines which are like drumsticks beating on a pathetic piece of crumpled paper. Very ordinary personifications of anything stale. A desperate attempt to create poetry. Some words going crazy, with an effort to replace the inability to paint. Colours, splashed haphazardly all over, and some frantic attempts to entwine imagination with reality. An odd heartbreak, rants, a few smiles here and there, an embarrassed drop of tear, and a football. Life, promises, and alcohol, and a very quite celebration of everything that is ordinary.

A very happy Diwali to all my readers. Lurkers, haters, lovers and the indifferent.

You are always permitted to trespass.

:)

Beliefs

2008-10-27T05:11:00.000-07:00

Certain things in life are like pages from a book that you wrote yourself. And they help us form our own lessons. Some are ridiculously wrong, while some are so blatantly right. And we live by them. The wrong notions make us imperfect, and the right ones, well, enlightened. But at the end of the day, they complete us, they give us something to believe in. Here are some of mine:

• Feelings for each other are always unevenly distributed, in most relationships. The ones who have less are safe; the ones with abundance question the existence of feelings in the first place. And some of them become poets. Good or bad is beside the point.

• We are all jealous. But some of us are very good actors.

• The key to eternal happiness is having no expectations out of anyone. And since that’s impossible, so is the former.

• Morality is overrated. For in the end, moral or immoral, you are either getting decomposed or flying away in thin air, and if you are really that unfortunate, getting trapped in a claustrophobic urn. But then who cares?

• Everything under the sun is contradictory (and no I am not influenced by Marx). Hypocrisy is just a negative interpretation. So everyone is a hypocrite.

• People, who say they write, sing, paint, or sculpt for themselves, are lying. For if they were doing it for themselves, they wouldn’t have said that they do those things in the first place.

• God doesn’t exist, but the idea of his or her existence does. But it’s a wonderful thing, for an idea that influences the formation and destruction of so many civilizations, and probably forms the basis of history, only reflects the power of imagination.

• Cricket is not a sport. It is a way to signify the British colonies of the 18th and 19th centuries, and their eternal love for anything that is Elizabethan and passé.

• Football is not a sport. It is perhaps the only religion that makes sense. For a start, it doesn’t divide.

• The greatest invention of mankind (and I say it at the risk of getting idiotically repetitive) is the theory of relativity. You don’t agree? Opinions are relative.

• All men are chauvinists, some are less, and some are more.

• The concept of feminism is more to do with an evolution of a thought process over the past hundred years. It is not just a mere antonym of chauvinism, and people who think in that way should do some reading.

• All forms of creation are good. Even a bad piece of writing, or a pathetic poetry. For they are creations all the same. They didn’t exist before, and now they do, and that’s a feat great enough. Saying that some paintings are horrible is like insulting the creator’s imagination. I believe his act of giving shape to his imagination is beautiful enough in itself.

• I do not understand the “Best Actor” concept in the award ceremonies. For the recipient of the award was fortunate to get the role, and the other nominees did some other roles. If you want to compare, then both the actors should do the same role, and then be compared. Russel Crowe played a schizophrenic professor, while Danzel Washington played a bad mouthed corrupt policeman, how do you decide who was better in two diametrically opposite roles? Sean Penn once said, “The only thing we are sure of other than the fact that there were no WMDs in Iraq, is that there’s no ‘best’ in acting.” The man has a point.

• The idea of being successful is very personal.

• All religious books are misinterpreted.

• All Muslims are not terrorists, all Jews are not Israelites, all Hindus are not separatists, all Christians are not anti-Semitics, and all Americans are not Republicans (or Democrats). Prejudice is an example of constriction.

• I don’t believe in Karma. For I see the ones who have always been rich and powerful. In the past, and in the present.

• There is nothing in this world called liberal socialism, or socialist democrats. You cannot be half pregnant. You may, of course, be confused.

And you get the drift. And if you loved, hated, disagreed or whatever with the above list, wait for the next one. It would be even more ridiculous.

Bombay

2008-10-21T08:11:00.000-07:00

Dust, a lot of dust kisses the shimmering concrete roads. Sun reluctantly ascends in the horizon as a very mild wind helps the dust along.

Some behind the time school children run to catch a bus that threatened to leave; a few drops of sweat drenches the otherwise parched surface, a few milk men cycle silently to their various destinations. They spilt milk with every bump, exciting the stray dogs for whom it was just another kind of a liquid.

Some cigarette shops wish that they could sell tea, some tea stores wonder about their stalk of biscuits. A bus stand boasts of a sizable crowd, hoping, perhaps for a new love story to begin. A man fights with a rickshaw driver, reminding him of his awareness of the fare system, while the driver rebels for being the proletariat in the situation. A girl jogs listening to “A Beautiful Day”, oblivious of some pairs of eyes and their longing desire to meet hers. A faint sound of the waves crashing against a melancholy, but dirty shore, the air has a hint of salt, and an everlasting smell of fish.

The sun rises higher, waking up from its partial slumber, even as the streets crowd. Haphazard honks for no apparent reasons, some people trying to get on a moving train, flirting with lives that they so ironically tried to keep happy, some cobblers observing shoes all round, while some others trying to blacken the faded.

A few newspapers, two tabloids, some sudokus, some half finished crosswords, and a very interesting game of rummy. Few college students with fancy backpacks, some curious faces gazing through the stock prices, and noise, a lot of noise. Some stolen moments of romance, along a stretch of road, while a forgotten queen’s necklace awaits its evening to shine. Some very fast cars, and a few claustrophobic taxis, some over priced restaurants, claiming that they play Jazz by the Bay.

Some very efficient signaling system, and even some close circuit cameras, some police men with sunglasses, and a roaring walky-talky. Motorcycles, and double-deckers without roofs, and people all around. Strangely well planned slums, and some plastic shades as excuses for abodes, some cut hands, some ugly diseases, and some children losing their innocence. Some intimidating eunuchs, some extremely kind vagabonds, and a few bent with the burden of age.

Dreams, accompanied by some nightmares. Some realizations, some disillusionments. Few starting all over, and some premature ends. Pride, enmeshed with tears, with some sprinkling of smiles, and that odd, and abrupt laughter. History, singing songs of legacy, which told stories of art, literature, cinema, science, crime and punishment.

Love, in the midst of everything that threatened to defy it. Lots and lots of love.

And then blood.

Of people, of faith, of community, of India. A fear, and a question of belonging. Some thoughts of returning back, and some broken window panes. Some taxis on fire, some rickshaws upturned, some milkmen’s blood mixing with the milk that spilled on the ground. Some stones thrown, while some identities get lost into the oblivion. Some questions asked, some answers given, a few arrests, a few more speeches, some more broken glasses, some decisions, and a vicious victory lap.

A life lost, a mother cries, some hopes crash, some fears surface. A dream ends, and the drowsy sun goes to sleep again.

And in some corners of our guilty hearts, we celebrate the end of democracy.

Always burning….

2008-10-04T04:23:00.000-07:00

We are at war.

And by that I don’t mean singing praises for the army while they toil it out, and watching Lata Mangeshkar singing “Ae Mere Vatan Ke Logon” on television reality shows while some plastic actor pretends to be emotional. By being at war, I mean, we ourselves are at the front. And what is worse, we don’t even know when that bomb is going to explode from where, and we can do nothing but get exploded, and wait for some politician to come and give their apologies and promise us a lakh of rupees that we might not even get. As Indians, serial bomb blasts are not even news now. It’s like a day in our lives. We have started to take it on our stride. Like wake up, brush, get to work, witness two or three odd blasts, run around like maniacs a little, try and give some description to the creatures who claim to be broadcast journalists, come back home, and get ready for the next day. I think our only hope is that these terrorist groups would stop exploding stuff realizing that we are so used to getting blown up, that we aren’t terrorized anymore. So the entire cause is defeated. SIMI dudes, are you listening?

Anyway, talking about terrorism, radical religious groups aren’t the only ones who are into that sort of thing. Don’t believe me? Just sit in front of the television. Then watch some demented reality shows, and then some news channels, after that watch Sourav Ganguly play cricket, follow it up with Kiran More’s expression to Sourav Ganguly playing cricket, then watch Karan Thapar spitting all over the close up camera lenses in a pretentious talk show, and finish it up with Sobha Dey’s editorials on The Sunday Times. Your trip of getting terrorized by the explosion of Indian popular culture will come to an explosive end. Apart from these, there are stuff that are going around, which are loud, and are proud of being loud, and they are everywhere. They might have stolen your heart, but somehow, I think they can be described in one solitary word, which is both, simple, and for the poetry lovers, metaphoric: crap.

Yes, this is going to be a long post full of rants, abuses, and insults hurled at people or things which or who might just turn out to be your favorites. Opinions are personal, so please feel free to abuse, and insult the writer for this hideous gesture. Without beating around the bush anymore, here is a list of things that are doing the rounds, which I find so irritating that they deserve to open a financial institution in USA right now:

1. Hindi news channels:

You come back from office, don’t know what the hell is going on in the markets, and wonder is it actually going underground, or you have some friends at Delhi, where you just heard some seventeen thousand dilapidated scooters have exploded all around, and you want to know whether the nation’s capital has been wiped off from the face of the earth, and you sit down, and switch on your 24 x7 news channel. Eight on the clock, primetime television. And you see Ahsaan Khureshi standing and reciting poems like a moron with the last word of each line being purposefully prolonged so as to get a unique effect. And you realize, that the “number one Hindi news channel” of your country shows recorded stand up comedy on primetime television. You sigh, and change the channel, or not.
Also, the concept of Breaking News, is redefined by present day broadcast journalists. Let me recollect some of the classical Breaking News that happed over the history:

- Wall Street crash of 1930.
- Assassination of Abraham Lincoln, JFK, Gandhi, etc. etc.
- Indian independence.
- Emergency.
- Bangladesh war.
- Assassination of all the assassinated members of the Gandhi family.
- India’s world cup victory.
- Russia turning into Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS).
- Cold War.
- Gulf Wars.
- 9/11
- Saddam Hussein, etc. etc. You get the drift.

Enter new age Indian television broadcasting. With a brand new look at the Breaking News concept:

- Abhishek says sorry to Rakhi Sawant with flowers in her apartment.
- Lindsay Lohan is bisexual.
- Salman Khan slaps SRK.
- A kitten is trapped in the High Court building of Calcutta.
- Salman Khan refuses to slap SRK.
- The great Khali is in India and says he wants to take revenge on Batista.
- Salman Khan says that slap was doctored, SRK mum.
- Sourav Ganguly doesn’t want to talk to media (wonder why)
- Salman Khan says slapping or not slapping anybody is his own personal business.
- Amar Singh has constipation.
- Salman Khan says he could have slapped SRK but he didn’t…..

And you get the drift.

Then there is the fantasy turned into forced reality. Like strange alien object in the sky, or some cow was seen flying somewhere, or some guy was hit in the head, and regained consciousness to talk in some ancient English dialect, or CERN experimentation creating another black hole in the Solar System. And all of this comes with background music, dramatic voiceovers and fake emotions of the anchors and all. And we toast in the name of infotainment.

2. BCCI

A VRS scheme for the older players of the Indian team? Really? So is this a concerted effort by the administrative body to ‘corporatize’ Indian sports to make it more professional? Where does one draw the line between creative ideas and plain stupidity? I understand that players like Ganguly are like leeches, they will just not retire till they are kicked in their backside and continue to play. But then, in such a scenario, kindly kick his backside, and don’t give creative ideas for respectable exits. In some places, creativity does not work. Seriously.

And then, two days after this, they take him in the Test squad against Australia! For two matches. So he is out of any match practice, he is making up answers to the media when they are asking him embarrassing questions regarding his age and unwantedness, and there you go, out of the blue, he is again back being the member of the team. Some fifty or so people in Calcutta lose their lives out of happiness, Kiran More sheds two drops of tears and drenches the parched soils of Baroda, and Ganguly joins the camp, again.

I think he understands the way BCCI works (or doesn’t work), better than most of us. Because as long as he gets called to the team, why the hell should he leave? A fifty here, a forty there, sticking on to the wicket somehow, putting his helmet, pads, wrist pads, abdomen guard and whatever else he wears to the field and save his wicket for around an hour or so, and he can tell the media that he did his job, and still he got thrown out. The Hamlet of Indian cricket. Some fifty people in Calcutta lose their lives out of sadness, and the tragic Prince just waits in his luxurious home at Behala, or now, even in London (yes, he bought one recently, our poor rich prince) until he gets called again. And yes, fifty more Bongs die…

So goes the vicious cycle of Ganguly.

3. Amitabh Bachchan:

Ok, kill me, castrate me, throw stones, hack into my blogger account and delete this blog, do whatever, but I have to say that the man, nowadays, does everything but acting. The other day, I saw The Last Lear, which is supposed to be “inspired” by Utpal Dutt. Now, if talking in accented English with prolonged pronunciation of vowels would make him a quintessential Elizabethan play actor, then my English teacher Mr. Neville Ray would have been in the Broadway by now. Wonder whether Mr. Dutt turned in his grave or not. And then of course, his other escapades, like playing the ghost, with the beard, the powerful political figure, with the same beard, then the Don, yes, with the beard, the romancer of the young, with the beard, I mean seriously, you are an actor Mr. Bachchan, you cannot have the beard with you in every eccentric, badly written and over the top role you play.

4. Ram Gopal Verma:

Our very own Martin Scorsese wannabe made Aag, and then, well, nothing else, I rest my case.

5. Shahrukh Khan ads:

If only his advertisements had an inch of the intellectuality that he is so well known for, then he wouldn’t have lost respect unnecessarily. Apparently, he carries his air conditioner along with him in the form of hair oil, and thinks an alien who looks suspiciously like Ranveer Kapoor has come to escort his sister. I mean common, you have a reputation to live up to. True you made bullshit tear jerkers like Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, and the audiences still loved you, but that doesn’t mean you would approve of this. Then of course, you prove your automobile engineering professor wrong, and play the genius there. And lastly, fairness creams. Common Shahrukh, you are better than that. Take a leaf out of Aamir’s book. See his Tata sky ad where he plays the man and the woman at the same time a la Kishore Kumar, or see him change his expressions in a silent ad of Samsung mobiles, a product whose USP is music. Now THAT’S genius.

6. US elections:

The democrats take care of the poor, and the Republicans are the elitists. So? What the hell does that got to do with me? I mean it’s alright to be well aware of the surroundings. It’s important to know what’s going on at the Big Apple, or for that matter other international news. Like how many more helpless Palestinians are getting molested by Israel, or whether Ireland’s relation with the EU is still “troubled”, or what are the latest fashion trends of Sarkozy’s humble and down to earth wife, which anyway is more important than the immigration laws of France.

But take a look around, the Obama-McCain contest is like the new Ganguly-Chappell for India. The IT companies and the outsourcing institutes have suddenly become elitists and are arguing , that they are sure McCain is going to win, while some of the neo-socialists-in-mind-but-getting-paid-by-the-corporate-world-in-real-life friends that I have are all for the “humanitarian” Obama. One of them of course, supports him because Scarlett Johansson is also supporting him. So there.

Guys, you are not allowed to vote for them. So chill. Instead, there’s an election coming up in our own democracy. When was the last time you voted here?

7. English football:

So now, Robinho is suddenly in Manchester City, because an oil rich Sheikh has too much money coming out of his well and made the wise decision of buying the club. So by the next season, half of world’s best players will be playing for a club which wasn’t even one of the top four. And the fans of Man C will be in seventh heaven. So what happens, when that Sheikh suddenly wakes up, and decides he doesn’t like football anymore, and sells that club to some sorry ass English businessman and puts his money on camel races at Kandahar? So Manchester City is back to being Manchester City, and their archrivals in red smile again from Old Trafford, and we are back to normal. So everything, every success, or failure of a club, now depends on one man’s decision, one man’s business returns. And that’s what football has become. I am sorry, this isn’t the beautiful game, this is prostitution. Succinct.

Ronaldo decides to have some fun, and says that he wants to leave Manchester United for Real Madrid, and Sir Alex Fergusson accidentally swallows the gum he chews. All hell breaks loose, media becomes frenzied, girlfriends get dumped, and press conferences only have questions regarding Ronaldo anywhere the grand old man of the English club football goes, from Manchester to Johannesburg. And then, Ro realizes that it’s not fun anymore, so he says, “OK, I will stay for another year.” Sir Alex smiles, and says, “I always knew.” And in the meanwhile, the other players realize what their worth is in the team. Bite me.

8. Righteous Kill:

The Godfather 2, Heat, and then this!!!! De Niro having sex at this age was one of the ugliest things I have seen on screen. And this coming from a person who has seen Bengali serials. Dialogues translated straight out of a fucked up Sunny Deol movies, director’s absolute disregard for all the aspects of film making because he thinks he has two legends that would do the work, total and absolute rubbish in the name of cinema. This is what we shall remember of the film that reunited these two people who have redefined the art of method acting. Two people, who have made us cry, hate and laugh like we have never done them before through their portrayals of so many roles. There was nothing righteous about the movie gentlemen, and you better give Cappola , Scorsese and Michael Mann a written apology and request them to make another movie that lives up to your reputation, and makes us forget, or at least try to forget this crap.

Anyway, there were more. But then there are always more. And everything does not have to be written, take a look around, and you will see what I mean.

Meanwhile, keep away from unattended briefcases and the likes. Unless of course, they are filled with money. For with the way the market’s going, money is perhaps the only thing that’s worth risking your life for.

Money and Vodka.

Reminiscence VI

2008-09-19T07:17:00.001-07:00

World had all but turned upside down. Three people ran from pillar to post in search of a five year old who had been discreetly missing since afternoon. Frantic calling of his name and threatening possibilities to probably let loose a demon while he slept at night followed. As his mother suddenly heard thumping sounds from up there in the terrace.

Where he was already fighting with his own demon.

A fallen brunch from a guava tree was proudly brandished as the sword of the nemesis. He had just demolished the dangerous castle where the frightful monster held his resources, and now, the hero met the destroyer. The duel started, some frantic slashes taking off some paint from the newly painted water tank, some irascible war cries, a stinging sensation on the weak hands that held his magnificent weapon, and some cuts inflicted by the formidable powers of the demon. But he was not to lose hope, he came this far, right from the small settlements in the garden downstairs, to the cunning ministers of the devil in the first floor, right up their in front of the devil itself on the terrace. Blood was sacrificed, and he wouldn’t stop till he ended his mission. He heard his name being called from elsewhere, probably the souls kept captive by the demon cheering him on, urging him with gratefulness, praying to the al mighty to give him the strength to slay the monster. And then, in one sudden but solid movement, his weapon slashed the devil in half, who looked at his destroyer in one moment of disbelief, and then probably with a glimmer of respect, fell with a thud, as dead, as death could be.

He smiled in victory, and sat down on the mossy surface, drenched in sweat.

“You have been running around in this hot afternoon on the terrace!! Look at you! You look like you have been farming!!” His mother screamed.
“I just killed the monster Ma,” he replied with pride that he would realize later, was unparalleled to anything he had done in his life. His mother took him straight to the washroom for a midsummer bath, followed by a slumber, where he was already preparing for his next great battle, with his dead guava branch.

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Somewhere down the line, I have always felt that all my monsters, and all my heroes were given to me by that white structure in that otherwise godforsaken town where people ironically had everything but imagination. It was as if, beyond that huge black gate which was so possessively embraced by a climbing bougainvillea, everything came down to earth, and probably even below it. But inside, it was a world of its own, my very own Neverland. Where the trees spoke, the plants smiled, ants built there own empires and cynically guarded them from my careless stampings, while I ran behind a pet dog that just wouldn’t let me catch her so that she could take a bath.

I have ridden a tricycle across the rough surface of the pebble ridden garden, and even a bicycle which was a bit too high for my liking and thudded on the ground spilling blood. I drew stumps on the pristine wall right next to the gate and imagined myself as being the fastest bowler under the sun giving nightmares to the imaginary batsmen with a very noisy plastic ball. I managed to make a bat out of a coconut tree branch and then go into record partnerships with Sachin Tendulkar, and later, used that same branch to play hockey in the balcony. I have made stories inside my Neverland, the scripts of which still echo from every corner where they had brushed off their remains.

I remember there was this papaya tree which my folks decided to let go of, as it was creating more of nuisance than anything else, and I embraced it and cried like a baby, talking to it and trying to convince it that it wasn’t my fault, and I tried and would try my best to let it live. It was perhaps my first sense of loss, and realization of the thinning difference from the world outside. I remember scratching out some of the paints from the house after we shifted to Bombay, as a frantic effort to take a part of my Neverland to a place where people always managed to grow old faster than they would have liked to.

Never felt lonely in my life, for I had my imagination, which was perhaps gift wrapped and presented to me by this only place that I have ever considered home. For my home wasn’t just my abode, it was my companion.

As I let go of MIG 4, I realize that indispensability of everything under the sun, remains in the mind. For the structures, the physical entities may all go away, but their memories, are engrained for ever. As I let go of MIG 4, I realize that you do not require a living being to fall in love, for this solid structure of bricks and concrete, has given me so much love that now it hurts. It hurts that in a few month’s time, there will be nothing but horribly scattered remains of a once prospering establishment that had stories in each and every nook and corner. It hurts to realize the concept of destruction, at such a personal level.

But then, I realize that if it’s truly my Neverland, then it’s indestructible. That letting go doesn’t necessarily have to be so painful if we do not let go of it. Do not let go of the memories, and hold on to everything that is anything to do with this place that had once taught me to think. That had given me the space and the courage to follow my heart, and made me realize that in spite of the tears, and the heart breaks, life can be so beautiful. For anything that is so short lived, cannot be anything else, but beautiful. Like the first smell of rain after a long summer, or the first flake of snow that suddenly fell on an unsuspecting Fall, like the first look of a infant to its mother, like life, like MIG 4.

With a belief that this blog would have a longer life than most things that I see around, here is a troubled attempt to immortalize certain things that deserves to be immortal. Some chapters to reminisce about, some photographed memories of love.

The wall at the backside that also played the shore of the huge pond. I remember once after a very bad storm, it broke down. And that bit of destruction, ironically resulted in some of the best days for me. Bathing suddenly became an event to look forward to, as all I did was go back, and jump in the pond and swim like crazy. I also learnt fishing and used to sit for hours in the afternoons expecting a catch. I did catch one once in a while, and that moment of achievement was worth all the wait, as patience was never my virtue. It still probably isn’t.

Another sight of the pond, that actually remained the same. We used to climb to the other side of the wall to get the balls that would fall in the pond. Used to throw stones just ahead of the floating plastic ball, so that the ripples would bring it towards the shore. It worked most of the times.

This used to be the ‘pitch’ where I had imaginary partnerships with virtually all the greatest batsmen in the world. And needless to say, I outscored them most of the times.

This is the place where I used to bowl straight to the wall ahead, where the petrified batsman used to await the lightening fast delivery. :)

The greatest fresco ever made. A stump on a white wall. Next to a letter box which must be questioning the reason of its existence, as letters have not entered through that narrow opening for years now.

Very bad with flower names. But namelessness never came in the way of the flowers’ pride. Hopefully it will be saved.

A very trimmed down version of a once ostentatiously spread out mango tree. It gave my granny a lot of pain as kids who came to take bath in the pond used to throw stones to get the unripe mangoes, in the process breaking windows. It is right now the oldest living thing in the house, but sadly has to be brought down along with the house. Folks were thinking about selling it, but then realized that would be like contract killing. So we gave our profiteering minds a break and let it be. A few more days of that familiar place, before it took away with it all the storms that it withstood, all the fruits that it silently sacrificed.

These long fixed windows at the staircase always managed to give me the creeps. Especially on rainy nights with the continuous sound of the falling rain, and the shadows of the moving leaves of the trees that could be seen from the inside.

I remember I woke up one morning with incessant shouts of my Mom. Came down to discover that a kitten had accidentally managed fall inside the well, and somehow was holding on to the bordering wall. A person was brought in to rescue the animal, who couldn’t move for a long time due to the shock. Dad used to give food to more or less all the cats in the neighborhood every night after dinner, which would disturb Jack (our pet dog) no end. Which itself had not so pleasant memories of getting chained to that tube well and given a brisk shampoo bath as it stood there helplessly.

This blurred photo is a perfect representation of the ‘nicher ghor’ which was our store room. There was always something scary about this room. It was like a very bad version of Room of Requirements in Harry Potter. Think it’s got something to do with the fact that the position of the room by itself was surreptitious.

I have this strange belief that although my grand dad passed away when I was all of three, and I can hardly remember him, if he were here, he would have let go of this place he purchased so many years ago with a smile. Somehow, I always imagine him as someone who smiled a lot. Don’t know why.

The different moods of my Dad. The boy grew up to be man, but the emotions are just the same. Each and every one of them.

The stairs that witnessed me falter some million times.

A very blurry picture of the wall bordering the stairs. I used to slide down through it to save time, and energy. And yeah, used to be a lot of fun!

The bed that is very difficult to imagine without the slouching figure of my grand mom. This room still smells of her. She used to lie down quietly, as I used to talk to my girl friend from that phone beside. She was never known for being non interfering, but strangely, she never asked me who I used to talk to so much and blush like a maniac.

Never mind the pathetic condition of the room, and the mosquito net. For the net is truly a life saver when you stay in Calcutta. So I thought it would be unfair if I sacrifice it for the sake of aesthetics. It deserves a standing applause, even a bravery award, trust me.

A very ugly condition of a once beautiful bathroom. Dad and I used to play squash making an abnormal amount of sound which echoed in the enclosed room. Squash was of course, played with a ping pong ball and table tennis bats made of plastic. But they were good enough.

The room which was my world for the last three years. This was where I started this blog, this was where I read about surrealism, and made some of the most amazing friends. This was where I smiled like a fool after falling in love and also cried the entire night after realizing its eventual demise.

The balcony where I used to play imaginary hockey. That would perhaps explain the long grills that prevented me from falling while jumping in exhilaration after scoring an impossible goal.

My Streetcat Rock-n-Roll with shock absorber. The number of times I fell down with the entire thing, shock absorber and all, is besides the point, but we definitely had some moments together. Not necessarily mentionable here.

The most uncomfortable ascending device ever discovered by mankind.

The famous site where the young knight destroyed the cruel demon with his powerful sword that resembled a branch.

Classic example of potential postmodern architecture gone horribly wrong. My dad never forgave the maverick artisan responsible. And with good reasons.

My favourite hiding spot when I was young. Or let me put it this way, when the knight felt outnumbered and needed a place to disappear.

If humble Sodpur had a skyline, then it would look something like this.

Perhaps they are pathetic excuses in the name of memories. But they are doing fine.

Just fine.

Rats! It’s Sunday evening!!

2008-08-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

“… And yet, Mr. Diggs, I love this country. I love it not just because I was born here, as my father and mother were, as their parents before them were ………. I love it because I know it, I have studied its history, travelled its geography, I have breathed its polluted air, I have written words to its music. India shaped me, my mind, my tastes, my friendships, my passion. The fact that I bow my head towards the Kaaba five times a day – after years in college when I did not pray even three times a year – does not mean I am turning away from my roots. I can eat a masala dosa at the Coffee House, chew paan afterwards and listen to Ravi Shankar playing the raag Darbari, and I celebrate the Indianness in myself with each note. I hear the Muslim Dagar brothers sing Hindu devotional songs, and then attend a qawaali performance by one of our country’s greatest exponents of this Urdu musical form, Shankar Shambhu, and I am transported as he chants the long list of Muslim pirs to whom he pays devotional tribute before his rendition. This is India, Mr. Diggs!”

From ‘The Riot’, by Shashi Tharoor.

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A squeaking sound from the kitchen made me come back to my senses. Was more or less drowning in the chair and staring at the television, which was showing a film about teenage heartbreak, the story line of which, I lost track of long back. Didn’t want to switch it off, and was too lazy to change the channel. So I kept staring at a very blonde teenage girl crying about some problem which was apparently making her life worthless, and making her think of taking sleeping pills.

I rose and approached the kitchen. The sound was coming from behind the oven. I traded carefully, not knowing what I am about to face. Dramatizing the situation was not something which I wanted to do, but I become very apprehensive when I try and explore squeaking sounds made by unknown objects. I stood in front of the oven, and wondered, whether or not should I take a look at the potentially lethal and disgusting thing that exists on the other side.

And then suddenly, I saw it. Its long, black, hairy tail became visible from the side of the oven, and then it turned as it came out into the open. Looked at me with small bright eyes, winked for no apparent reason, and disappeared through the kitchen window. I stood there as if I had just been manhandled by a tarantula, and quietly came back and sat down. The blond girl was smiling now, ran down to a very good looking, blazer wearing dude and started kissing like a blonde girl who found the man of her dreams after crying for two hours does. And I wondered why that blasted rat came to my kitchen everyday, even after knowing that there would be no food for it to nibble from. It had seen and observed with those winking eyes that I console myself with undersized wafers and stale potato chips in order to curb my hunger. Then since when did the slimy rodent world become so optimistic that it would continue to believe that there would be a feast in my house anytime soon?

Weekend ending with a teasing wink from a dirty rodent. Life impresses with its sense of humour. I finally changed the channel. Saw this guy with a French beard and a T shirt screaming GET ME DRUNK, I AM HOME, speaking very passionately about why he thought that India shouldn’t let go of Kashmir under any circumstances. “Kashmir is ours man, and it will remain ours. I have this photo of Dal Lake as my desktop background, it’s so cool man, it’s so beautiful, how can we just give into such demands from a group of people?” another girl came in, with pierced eye brows and all, “if we give Kashmir away today, tomorrow Assam is going to ask the same thing, day after Mizoram, and soon we will be left with only the BIMARU states,” she got a huge clap from her group at the background.

I kept wondering why would the people of Kashmir want to move away from India? Was it a few odd solders of the Indian Army went into their homes and raped their mothers and sisters? Was it because there were too many suicidal blasts taking too many innocent lives in too many unsuspecting places? A propaganda by the ISI? A doctored poll made by the authorities to keep the citizens attention away from the inflationary market? Or was it just that the people of Kashmir are tired now. Tired to be in the wrong side of a ridiculous decisions on the part of an immature Indian government during independence, tired of being torn apart between India and Pakistan, being at a war that would never end, tired of the burden of bearing a LOC which never really had any effectiveness.

I watched the clock, 9:30 already. Somehow, Sunday evenings never stayed as long as I wanted them to stay. I wondered, another Monday of waking up to the alarm. Another Monday of doing excruciatingly painful office work about which nobody cared, Another Monday of feeling like falling vertically down a bottomless pit, of ranting to friends and packing up by the end of the day to gather myself for Another Tuesday. Went and stood near the window. There was that familiar smell that was a pre-warning of a careless shower. The one that never stays for long, but drenches anyone who undermines its efficacy. I shut the sliding windows, and came back to that lazy looking chair that faced the idiot box. I kept the television on, I always do that when there is nobody at home. It makes me feel like there is someone there.

The random interviews with the Common Man continued on the everlasting issue of Kashmir. “If they want to go to Pakistan, let them get out, who is asking them to stay here,” cried out a youth from northern Bombay. “There is too much hatred from that part of the country, we should look into the matter in a more sincere way,” a girl in Kurta and jeans commented very thoughtfully. And I quietly changed the channel. Not because I didn’t care about what was going on in the country, but because I needed to change the channel. I just felt the need. It was like that girl said, there is too much hatred in this country, only thing is, the hatred isn’t only from any particular part, but the entire country in general.

What happens if we lose Kashmir? Will that mark a lost battle of democracy? Would Kashmir point out to the Indian government that the greatest democracy it so proudly operates has its flaws that has been detrimental to a lot of innocent people? For India has managed to make its most beautiful state, a dagger threatening to stab its heart, and today, nobody knows whom to blame.

I wish Kashmir stays with us though, for India deserves to bear everything that is as beautiful as Kashmir.

Sometimes, I wonder the things India have experienced in the past, never cease to haunt India in the present, and the future. The partition continues to haunt all of us, even a generation that does not have anything to do with it. The generation that consists of a minor section of this huge population, which considers itself to be the liberal face of India. Where the Hindus do not think that the establishment of their religion is threatened by the radical nature of Islam, and the Muslims do not have to wonder whether this country treats them as outsiders. A generation that never understood what it is to become a foreigner to a friend with whom one has grown up. A generation, who seems happy to sing the national anthem and become adventurous enough to change its tune with a little bit of base guitar and a few beats of drum here and there. A generation, which has learnt to become apathetic towards the beggars in the streets, or hates when Pakistan wins a match, knows that their politicians are ex convicts and understands that 70 per cent of their beloved country still lives in villages. A generation that could never relate to communalism, shivers when they hear stories of infanticide, scorns the dowry system, and argues about the existence of reservation. A generation that knows India, but still, somehow, was never a part of it. And when a part of that generation gets blown away by a cheaply made explosive hidden in a dilapidated bicycle, they probably, for the first time realize what is it to be a part of a country that still strives to find its identity.

I retreated to bed with a grave mind, and realized that I think about all this only on a Sunday evening. There is something about the Sunday evening that makes me think about the things that look way past the everyday life. Something about Sunday evenings that makes me quiet, and try and understand the sorrow of someone else. It never prepares me for the next day, but makes me look back at the days gone by. It makes me quiet, as I get ready for another week, where I console myself that I am contributing towards the making of a new India. I ignored some more squeaking sounds from the kitchen, and let sleep seep through my eyes, ending my wasteful introspection.

There is something very silent about a Sunday evening, which probably explodes in a million minds like me all over this mysterious country.

India

2008-08-17T21:15:00.000-07:00

To the idea of happiness, that persists to struggle,
To the tears that sooth the pain,
To that smile that has nothing to do with joy,
To that lingering relationship that is tied down by societal obligation,
To that child who wondered why she was the way she was,
That window that didn’t have a latch and kept opening in the midst of a storm,
To the beggar who could dream,
To another who could not,
To the society that constrained,
To that man who held the hands of another and sat quietly by a silent pool,
And enjoyed a few moments of love that seemed enough for an eternity,
To that hunger that brought tears in the eyes,
To that person who lied down and awaited inevitability,
To the flower that was given to someone to make her smile for a moment,
Before being discarded off as it slowly died,
To that man who dreamt of sky diving in the Alps,
Waking up to his responsibilities,
To his wife who hoped to be loved one day,
To thoughts,
To aspirations,
To beginnings,
To ends,
To kisses,
To imagination,
To death,
To realizations,
To music,
To troubles,
To all who wear bombs to explode with vengeance,
To all who explode along with them,
To faith,
To beliefs,
To disjointed pieces of writings which never followed any pattern,
To random thoughts on virtual papers trying to become literature,
To distance,
To that boy who forcefully cleansed windshields of cars,
To that driver who turned on the wiper to drive him away,
To women,
To education,
To corruption,
To bribery,
To success,
To failure,
To everything that is anything in this sixty one year old cluster of ideas, cultures, and languages,
To the feeling of being confused about the concepts of socialism and capitalism,
To five year plans,
To parliaments and speeches,
To cinema that is delightfully senseless,
To stories that are regretfully recycled,
To fairness creams,
To dichotomy,
To one more year of being a part of a deceiving renaissance,
To anger,
To love,
To prejudiced views about the unseen and unknown,
To anything, that is delightfully naïve,
To us,
To everyone who passes by this ancient blog that laments more than laughs,
And still cares to visit again,

A very happy Independence day.

Different this time

2008-08-12T23:51:00.000-07:00

It was as if I turned a little left, and then a little right, walked a few miles, ran a few distance, jumped a little, played in the puddle a little, a little football here and there, a little falling in love, a little falling out of it, a little dissatisfaction with work, some more turning left, and then a little right, and I completed one year of my second coming to Bombay.

It was different this time. This was a different Bombay. It was a Bombay without those long train rides reading everything from Mario Puzo to Hemmingway, it was a Bombay without boarding the BEST buses, a Bombay without Jai Hind college, or a mid week afternoon siesta. Instead, there were a lot of trousers and shirts, a very old pair of half torn formal shoes, some roads which were covered in the middle with the excuse of future developments of mono rails, numerous, uncountable, serious people with a fixed goal ahead of them, and yes, loneliness, and lots of it.

It was a Bombay which required vodka to make itself look a little different, it was a Bombay which made me realize that local call facilities are useless for me, a Bombay with a lot of overrated movies, some desperate efforts to make new friends and get disillusioned, incessant use of the cell phone radio, and trying to appreciate the superhuman quality of saying the same thing in a thousand different ways with as much enthusiasm by the RJs, listening to Alanis Morresette, and falling in love all over again with Floyd, singing out Summer of 69’ in a very hoarse voice and realizing that I was embarrassingly loud and checking whether anyone saw me.

It was a strange Bombay, that made me a stranger.

Some evenings with friends in that old football court, or some nights in the terraces drinking and singing ek ladki bheegi bhagi si in a Metallica kind of way, a few smiles here and there, a long distance call in the middle of the night, some old faces, and some lanes echoing my voices that spoke of a different expression some thousand years ago, challenge my strangeness sometimes. And I wonder, has Bombay changed, or have I grown up in the wrong city?

The city that bears a small corner, questions my judgment as I call it my home.

Rain

2008-08-02T05:41:00.000-07:00

I walk down a mud filled road, with splashes of brown dirt kissing my already unwashed pants, even as I realize that sometimes, windcheaters can only do so much. I do not know where I am walking, and I don’t have a destination, for I stepped out of home in search of your smell in the breeze. For the wind was never so crazy and directionless, like it is today.

And I stroll down the lanes, which have suddenly become deserted, almost as if the millions that treaded the heart of the tar roads have vanished with the maddening wind. It’s as if the road ahead, is promising me to take me to the end of the world, where that greying horizon begins.

And I think of you.

Would you be walking with me right now? Has your messed up hair suddenly settled down with water dripping from the entangled locks? Is that the sound of your floaters flapping through the water? Is that the wetness of your arms that rest against mine? For I can sense your presence, with every step down this drenched path.

I try and make sense of the senseless That thin ray of sun peeping like a guilty child in the midst of pitch black serious clouds, that very ray reflecting on the droplets and bathing them with colour, like a million rainbows falling from the colorless heaven. The frighteningly empty road inviting me to tread till its end, blurred by the incessant downpour. That disgruntled frog trying to find a shade to save itself from the rain for which it has waited for all its life. The deafening sound of the rainfall on the tin parapets of the shops. And a deserted Volkswagen, right in the middle of the road.

They all seem without a reason, they all seem so redundant, but then, when I see them together, they all remind me of you, and somehow, reason ceases to matter, somehow, redundancy paves way for desire. A desire to see you through these rains. For I try and see you through anything that is remotely like you. I try and see you through the winds that caress the leaves on an early monsoon morning, try and see you through the careless ripples on a small patch of water when a vagabond pebble jumps abruptly in it, try and sketch your face through the droplets that blur every other vision that pulls me to reality.

I see you, and I walk, and I pray for the rains never to stop as you fall on me. I walk, as you drench me with your love. I walk, as I discover you in all your forms and your formlessness. I walk, and I fall in love, as you become my rain.

And look how it rains today.

A Knight’s tale

2008-07-25T23:34:00.000-07:00

Bluish darkness surrounded even the brightest of the days, hopes were tainted by a tinge of hopelessness, smiles were disrupted every now and then with that sudden surge of a scary possibility, life lived in fear of death, and children slept to watch the battle between their dreams and nightmares, even as the city marred by a perpetual gloom, awaited the hero to protect it from a hideous clown, whom we will never see again.

One of the things that I love about Batman is that, he is perhaps the only celebrated superhero, who does not have any super powers. If someone hits him hard, he will bleed, if someone shoots him at the correct places, he will die, and doesn’t have to wait for insects or aliens to provide him with strengths. His strength lies in his humaneness, his bravery, and intellect. And probably that’s why, his villains look even scarier, because they don’t use any extraordinary and impossible powers to bring about his demise, they use their brains, they use their sadism, their insanity.

So when someone like Christopher Nolan decided to make Batman, it was as if that missing puzzle suddenly riveted into that opening to make Batman, the way it should be, believable, sadistic, dark humane, and scary. Nolan made one of the most complicated films to come out of Hollywood in recent years in the form of Memento, which was almost like a movie that went backwards. Though the story, written by his brother Jonathan was brilliant, the film itself, in my opinion flattered to deceive. Flattered because it had all the promises of doing justice to the script, with moments which were cinematically perfect, but deceived, because of its heartbreakingly weak ending. In Insomnia, he brought together two of the greatest actors of Hollywood for the first time, Al Pacino and Robin Williams. But while Pacino played his characteristic dramatic self, the man who took our breath away was really Williams. For we never thought that our very own Patch Adams could be so damn cruel. He introduced Robin Williams, the rapist, and he showed it in a way people are not going to forget in a hurry. There were glitches, but it was evident that the man was learning, and learning fast.

And then, in some sudden moment of enlightening realization, he decided to rewrite Batman. And the rest was history. Batman is something which has always managed to attract some big names. Tim Burton got attracted because of the surreal nature of the imaginary Gotham city, Jack Nicholson and Jim Carrey didn’t think twice before playing the villain’s part just because they could show their histrionics, and all of them were successful in their own way. But I feel Nolan, made Batman come alive. And with Dark Knight, he set a whole new standard in film noir.

Be it Christian Bale’s husky voice when he is inside the suit, or his eternal strife to find a hero for Gotham who would not have to hide behind the mask, his sacrifice, his romance, his anger, and his pain, Batman was never so heartbreakingly human. He never took his existence for granted, for he knew, that there would be a time when he would cease to exist, but Gotham would go on. And that’s why; heroes have to be the people who made the city, and not any one particular individual who was fortunate enough to have resources to make him stand out.

And then, there was Heath Andrew Ledger.

He shook while he was walking, he got his tongue out every now and then, he danced in joy, he got philosophical, and then, he pushed a beautiful girl out of a multistoried building, like we throw the unwanted portion of an apple, and then walked away to sip his wine. Joker, was never so spine chilling. Ledger, in the last performance of his life, was ironically never so alive before. He was mellowed in the gloomy Brothers’ Grimm, emotionally destroyed in love in Brokeback Mountain, confused romantic in Casanova, brave and sincere in A Knight’s Tale, but he was never, ever, so alive. It was as if his viciousness matured with time in the movie, and as he grew more toxic, Batman became weaker. He made us forget Nicholson (the last actor to play the Joker), and he almost made us forget that he was human. His charecter didn’t have anything to do with money (which he stole, and burnt), he did whatever he did, for he wanted to do it, he loved to do it; he believed he was born, to do it. He called himself a dog chasing the cars, as someone who was there as a messenger of chaos, and instead of hating his adversary, he thought that Batman, completed him.

He came up to the protagonist, so close that she could feel the pathetic grease in his hair, and batted his eyelids and asked, “Why so serious?”, he cut flesh as if he that was the most pleasurable thing to do in this universe, he plotted with a group of people, and then killed them too, he made a mockery of every rule, every emotion of this society. Nolan made Ledger so frightening in this movie, that people got addicted to his viciousness, for all people could talk about was the Joker.

Many went to watch The Dark Knight in order to watch Ledger for one last time on the big screen, to remember the talented young actor who gave us so many memorable performances, to reminisce, and to pay tribute. But by the time they came out of the theatre, they forgot Heath Ledger ever existed, for all they could think was that greasy chalky clown, who had shown them different phases of devilish calmness, for the last two and half odd hours.

Even when he was chained and inside the closed chambers of a high security prison cell, with nothing going in his way, with no weapons, no allies, and surrounded by everyone who would give their right hands to kill him, including the Dark Knight himself, he was as scary, as intimidating, and as devilish as he was when he was outside. For his evil didn’t rest on the power he had with himself, or the weapons, or the strength, his evil, rested on the way he thought. His philosophies, his attitude, he ability to fall in love with someone, and then realizing bliss only by killing that person, the way he looked, the way he looked away, they were all coming out of this thought process that was so calm, so frightening, that it was almost surreal, almost like a painting that looked real, but wasn’t possible.

We would like to remember Heath Ledger through his entire body of work; we would like to remember him as the lover who couldn’t express his love story to the society, we would like to remember him as the knight who fought for the poor, as the lovable college heartthrob, as the indecisive but brave brother, but he took all those wonderful roles of his, and bundled them and threw it into the bin, as he essayed one of the most vicious roles to come out of Los Angeles.

It was almost as if, he lived just long enough to play the Joker. As if the Joker waited for him to play his part, before he moved on to some place else.

Thank you Mr. Ledger, it was a swansong to remember, and I am still humming the tune.

Fare you well.

Vicious virtues

2008-07-05T23:56:00.000-07:00

And the spirit rushed from the glass and burnt his stomach for yet another time. World suddenly became like a universe, and he was like a planet, rotating and revolving. He could feel the spirit rush through his body, like a river flowing down stream, but the splashes going straight up. He felt light, everything felt light, as if none of the things that mattered, mattered anymore. The only thing that seemed logical now, was taking up the next glass.

Suddenly he remembered his brother, the brother whom he hadn’t seen in a long time, who was so far away from him. And he called him aloud. He called him in a way he had never called him before. He didn’t care that the people around him were looking at him with a disgruntled face. He called him up, and then, he abused him. Abused him for not being there, abused him for being such a wonderful brother for so many long years, and started shouting like a maniac, spurting out words that were there hidden under layers of reluctance, coming out in the form of profanity, ending with a contradicting “I miss you”.

He realized he was at his transparent best. He was ready to scream out to the world what he felt for everyone. He was ready to confess to the person whom he hated, and the person whom he loved. He realized that perhaps, this is what is being honest. This is what is being genuine, being someone without any inhibitions. For somehow, something as vicious as alcohol, had presented him with the virtue of absolute honesty. And ironically, the honesty became so vicious, that it almost became a vice.

But honesty is still, honesty.

He was put to sleep that night, and scorned the morning after for his behavior. He was called uncivilized and uncultured for screaming out things that screams in the minds of everyone. He said things that none wanted to listen. And he also said things that some would have loved to listen. He abused, but not with hatred, he smiled, but not with meaning, and he wished some people were there with him, at that very moment, with all his heart. For once he didn’t pretend, for once he didn’t suppress, and for once, he did what he always thought he would.

And the next day, he became normal again. Dishonest, diplomatic, lying, fake, and normal.

He realized, that for that one evening, as he was scorned by the society for getting drunk, he was perhaps, human for the first time.

And he thanked his alcohol secretly.

________________________________________________________________

I have promised someone never to get drunk again. But that’s alright, as long as I remain human.

That doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red

2008-06-05T20:31:00.000-07:00

The bus stopped with a sudden jerk, and I alighted. Some discarded newspapers whizzed past me as if someone suddenly had given them a pair of invisible wings. Dust storms blew with vengeance, and the horizon got colored by a grayish hue which slowly but surely took shape. People around suddenly showed a sense of urgency, even as some dwellers on the footpath started putting up plastic sheets which cried out in protest.

The dust reduced, and the wind had a sudden but comforting chill in it. That smell of moisture accumulating on warm soil, and those sudden screams of the sky above, and those symmetric lines of lightening. A woman hastily started to tie her hair tight, but lost the rubber band, and let the hair go. They seemed listless, but less than that of her expressions. She started her brisk walk towards destination trying unsuccessfully to manage her hair, by now, going crazy in all directions.

Women can be heartbreaking, when they are careless about themselves.

I smiled, and started towards my home. I was aware that I was carrying this back-pack with my laptop inside it. So I had to hasten. As I did so, I looked up towards the sky, now pretty much covered by a thick layer of blackish grey, and one of the first droplets of an infant monsoon, landed on my eye. A desperate effort to make me cry, I thought, and I realized, that the summer that we love to hate, was getting itself ready to leave on a jet plane.

Giving Denver a break, I started to move faster, but wasn’t fast enough. And suddenly, all heaven broke loose. Within seconds, the dry streets became slippery wet, the gravel filled holes got filled up with water, and the shaded shops started to get crowded. I took refuge in one of them, even as the downpour became more intense. Some kids ran with their shoes in hand, a girl couldn’t control the umbrella which turned the other way, and tried to make sense of the brolly, not realizing that she was already soaked. Three old men strolled nonchalantly down the lane not caring about the water as their evening walk took a turn for the better. Two old women stood next to me and kept staring at the downpour, with a blank smile in their faces. Something told me, that they didn’t realize they were smiling. A couple held hands and kept walking, with a strange aimlessness in their movements. Something told me, they fell in love all over again.

And then, there were the grounded.

A man with a cell phone, standing under the shade, cursed the nature for these kind of surprises, a woman, coming out of the shop with loads of new clothes, started shouting at one of the helpers for his failure to find her an auto, a man called up home, which I gather was close by, asking his son to come with an umbrella and get him, and a beggar, took refuge under a very small shade in the form of a paddle van, shaking his head in disbelief, as he wondered where would he sleep tonight.

I took my bag and held it tightly like a mother holds a baby. Covered it very stupidly with my handkerchief, and waited for the heavens to stop crying. It wouldn’t stop though, but it did reduce to sniffing. And I came out into the open. A slap of cold air, a splash of muddy water on my pants, and a walk back home with very wet shoes and millions of raindrops on my clouded head.

The first rains fell on a disarrayed Bombay.

Felt nice.

Lonely, but nice all the same.

A tragedy called the Eden Gardens

2008-06-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

The stretch from Esplanade to Maidan in Calcutta, is an area that boasts of some of the most historical sports grounds as far as cricket and football are concerned. You have the grounds of three of the oldest and most famous football clubs of India, Mohun Bagan, East Bengal and Mohammedan Sporting. You have the numerous small but lush green cricket grounds that hold matches at the local and districts levels, and then, you have the oldest and the most famous cricket stadium of India, The Eden Gardens.

It is one of those structures that stand out every time anyone visits that part of the city. From its inception way back in 1864, till this day, the Eden has been the mark of history and culture and has been the script on which the changing tides and times of Indian cricket has been written. The grass that was used in the stadium was actually imported from England, and there was a time, when the ground looked as if it was actually the perfect reincarnation of the Garden of Eden. It is the only stadium in India to have hosted a World Cup final and has made a special place in the memories of so many cricketers around the world. From Douglas Jardine to Lala Amarnath, from Allan Border to VVS Laxman, every one of them, across several generations, has some stories to tell their grand children that have been associated with Eden.

The story of Eden itself, however, is that of a fairytale, that does not necessarily portray a dreamy picture, tainted in parts, and incomplete at notches. What goes inside the famous B.C. Roy Club House that stands so proudly conjoined with the stadium, has been a matter of great curiosity to a lot of people, who wonder, why the stadium today, is slowly losing its reputation that preceded it for so many years. For it is unfortunate to see that the supposed Mecca of Indian cricket, does not have flood lights that can promise to keep glowing for an entire T-20 match. I shudder to think what would happen if BCCI took the risk of holding One Day Internationals at the venue.

We as spectators, do not know, and do not care to know the working of the administrative structure of the Cricket Association of Bengal, which is a body consisting of a group of honorary members who understandably take this very important job of managing the Eden as a part time assignment. But what we do care, is when we do not get our money’s worth when a twenty over match cannot be completed because of a ridiculous problem of electricity. We care when we see cricket being played on a pitch which is ideally suited for farming. And we will hold the CAB responsible for that.

When the first match of the Hero Honda Cup between India and Sri Lanka was washed out due to “heavy rain” in February, 2007, the president of CAB Mr. Prasun Mukherjee issued a statement that it was mainly due to the bad drainage system of the stadium that we have a problem of water logging. The very next day, the ex president and the recently defeated candidate in the CAB polls, Mr. Jagmohan Dalmya held a Press conference, and explained, in detail, with diagrams and all, proving that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the drainage system of the stadium and this excuse is made to cover the irresponsibility of the present administration.

Now, Mr. Dalmya might have a point. But the point is not really important. For at the end of the day, the cricket loving people of Calcutta were kept away from watching their heroes play because of a slight drizzle. And it is about time that the administration took responsibility. Cricket and politics, unfortunately, have always gone hand in hand in India. And when it comes to Calcutta of course, everything goes hand in hand with politics. But then, Eden is too precious a jewel to be sacrificed in the tangle of mind games.

Over the years, the reputation of the ground has been subjected to numerous beatings. Be it security issues like the semi final of the 1996 World Cup, or even the consistently below average quality of pitches that has been dished out to make the players play anything but cricket. And the CAB has consistently been indifferent to everything. And now, with the IPL coming into the foray, the stadium is getting more exposure than it had got in the last ten years, and the glitches are becoming more evident. And if the administration does not stand up and for a change and work towards the solution without harping on the problems, the hollowness of the majesty of Eden is only a few more goofed up matches away from exposure.

That will, in no way help the cause of cricket in Bengal, and in the long run, India. For it is a shame when a ground like Eden becomes stale in a country which has the richest cricket board in the world.

We hope for its revival, but then, we live in hard times.

In Retrospect

2008-05-20T23:01:00.000-07:00

I like to make sand castles and believe that they would stay forever,
I like to fall in love and believe that she will love me back.
I watch the stars and think that they look back at me.
I believe that I make people smile in their times of trouble,
And I believe that the people I have loved before, and always will in some way, still love me.
I believe I give shape to my feelings through words.
I believe that words are my only strength.
I seek refuge in my tears once in a while,
I believe it is essential to laugh at silly things.
I say sorry to people whom I have wronged.
I forget, I forgive.
I apologize to god for not believing in his existence.
And I continue to not believe in his existence.
I say that truth is consistent,
I believe truth is overrated,
I lie whenever I feel the need,
I don’t feel guilty for my lies.
I believe I have friends, but yet,
I believe I have sleep, I don’t,
I believe I am fine, but then.

And castles crumble,
Stars twinkle,
People move on,
Words betray,
Tears dry,
Laughter withers,
And I disbelieve, in my beliefs.
For I make mistakes,
And get mistaken.

As I embrace each moment of uncertainty, I discover myself in all my shame. And with every such discovery, I sigh, to realize that I am ordinary.

Stubborn, pretentious, and cold,

But ordinary.