The Kaleidoscope

Film Review: The Descendants

2012-02-11T11:34:00.003+05:30

George Clooney and Shailene Woodley's charaters play off each other perfectly in The Descendants

The Descendants is a simple story, where if you were to put yourself in the shoes of the protagonist Matt King (George Clooney), you would feel anxious and scared about your world that seems to be collapsing. It is about a man trying hard to hold the pieces of his world in place with a smile and with dignity, while seeing sides of him that he never knew existed.

Set in Hawaii, the narrative takes off with Matt telling us about his wife Elizabeth's speedboat accident which has left her comatose. For the last 15 days, he has been surrounded by medical bills and hospital paraphernalia, and he has been handling two daughters, 17-year old Alex (Shailene Woodley) and 10-year old Scottie (Amara Miller), who can be quite a handful and are picking up quite a mouthful. He confesses he has never really been around for them, and he has no clue about what to do now.

The vast ancestral land bequeathed to his extended family, of which he is the sole trustee, has to be sold off and his cousins are eagerly waiting for their share of money. To top it all, Alex informs him of the reason she and Elizabeth had their last unforgiveable altercation, which shakes Matt and brings his world to a standstill.

The plot then follows Matt as he bonds with his daughters (over big bowlfuls of ice cream), informs friends and relatives of his wife's impending death, and goes through a personal journey discovering facets of anger, jealousy, restraint and competitiveness and the preservation of his self-respect and dignity; feelings that he had not experienced so deeply before.

Helped by Alex and their mutual concern and love for Scottie, they grow to trust each other and just be there to make life comfortable and as easy for each other as they can. The treatment of Matt's desperate need to know if he had become insignificant in his wife's life is particularly wonderful and makes his attempts to be a good father quite believable.

Director Alexander Payne's (About Schmidt, Sideways) The Descendants is a close look at real families, where humour and light moments make appearances even during troubled times, and act as the impetus to seeking positive ways to deal with them. Woodley is a gifted actor who plays wonderfully off Clooney's relative reticence with her still-maturing adulthood and the bit of drama that girls her character's age are prone to.

A scene to remember would be when Alex stands up for Matt as their maternal grandfather blames him for Elizabeth's unhappy life, and death - Matt stays quiet to not ruin their daughter's memory for them, but his daughter takes charge of the moment when her protective instincts kick in. Similarly, the way her concern for Scottie's well-being prompts her to convince her baby sister to stop interacting with an annoying classmate is hilarious.

The film is not just a satirical take on American society or about the beautiful Hawaiian setting. It is about the tumultous phase in a man's life and his personal struggle to overcome the ill-feelings that threaten his happiness and his faith in himself - the phase being marked by perfectly defined moments of Matt's recognition of how important Elizabeth was to him and the resolution of his anger, anxiety, indecisiveness and resumption of a normal life with Alex and Scottie. He wants to be capable, to be accepted and to be at peace with himself, which he succeeds in finding at the end of this phase.

The script adapted from Kaui Hart Hemmings' book of the same name is backed by strong supporting performances by Matthew Lillard, Judy Greer, Nik Krause and Robert Forster among others who add value to the film. The editing and cinematography are effective in keeping the film well-paced and in setting the mood, which is light yet deep and introspective. It is no doubt then that the film has been nominated for five Oscars. It is a must-watch and it stays with you long afterwards, making you smile.

Film Review: Good Night Good Morning

2012-01-24T11:27:00.000+05:30

I had been reading a lot of good things about Good Night Good Morning all over my frequented places on the internet. I was tempted enough to catch a preview, but I had my doubts about how a movie about a night-long conversation between strangers was going keep me interested.. By the time the movie ended, I wished they kept talking.

Set in New York on the night of New Year, the film is shot in black and white, save some imagined sequences. There are references to much-loved hits from cinema and music, casually peppered throughout the film. The universal appeal of the movie lies in these factors - it gives you a sense of timelessness, that this could be happening to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Four guys having their own party in a bar, meet a single girl, Moira (Seema Rahmani). She politely, but curtly sends them packing. One among the men, Turiya (Manu Narayan) has smartly noticed that she is staying in a certain room at a hotel. Drunk, and feeling particularly courageous after being encouraged by his cronies , he calls her while they are driving to Philadelphia. She is spending the night alone, waiting to catch a flight in the morning. Here begins one of the most real and charming conversations among strangers in recent film history, that reminds you of the loneliness and alienation one feels in spite of the thousand and more ways we have invented to “keep in touch” with the numerous people on our friends lists and chat lists and in the phone book.

They flirt, they toss pick-up lines, they assume new identities, they share personal stories, they playfully challenge each other, they discuss movies, they reveal their insecurities, their beliefs, their needs. They know it is just a random conversation for one night and the anonymity helps them let down their guard. So they lay bare their souls, and end up sharing more with each other than one would with their best friend.

The intimate nature of the dialogue plays a huge part in keeping the audience rooted to their seats for the little-over-an-hour duration that the film runs. It is honest, engaging and very real. The seductiveness of the interaction is held in the cryptic exchange of words - careful enough to not express too much, but expecting the other to get the drift of what is being said. And even the audience realises that leaving the mind open to probabilities is happier and more comforting than coming to a definite conclusion. It may be a tad unsettling, but for the heart has just found a friend, it can spot the proverbial silver-lined cloud even in the bleakest of times.

The lead actors leave you wanting more. Narayan, who believes in “happily ever afters” is lovelorn and attractively cocky and Seema swings from being brazenly flirtatious one moment to philosophical and mature the next - and very effortlessly. Together, they end up creating very memorable and likeable characters. There are 3 other characters, but they justifiably have very little to do.

Good Night Good Morning is directed by Sudhish Kamath, who writes for The Hindu, and written by him and Shilpa Rathnam. It is an independent film that makes you wish more film makers treated their art with such respect and love rather than resorting to solely money-making gimmicks like exotic locales, melodrama, big stars and item numbers.

The film reaffirms your faith in the power of script-backed cinema supported by strong acting and a keen sense of filmmaking. The entire team makes this film look effortless, like something born out of love. You, as the audience are bound to reach out and meet them halfway. That, is the sign of a piece of art, which makes you want to revisit and appreciate it again.

Days, nights, and the times in between

2011-08-24T21:35:00.002+05:30

As the wind hums its free-spirited song

Overcast skies and the moist soil

Freeze the frame in a fragrant picture of bliss

When nature washes its world clean

As the morning spreads it warm colours of life

Or the poignant evening scents cast their shadow

I sit by the window, thinking of you

Wishing you were here, sitting next to me

Bright golden beginnings come day after day

Seasons flutter past in happy and frenzied frolic

Time stretches in a sensuous wait

The sunshine mellows and blossoms spurt their new hues

On branches, resembling light from a prism

When the bees buzz in my garden

I tread barefoot past these tiny rainbows, thinking of you

Wishing you were holding my hand as we walked together

The seductive blackness of the night takes over

Dreams beckon, calling me to a far-off happy land

Glimmering stars spot the skies, glittering fireflies light the porch

The thickness of darkened silence is everywhere

An intoxicating fulfillment trickles down my veins

And I give in and melt into a pleasured heap

I stare into the candlelight, thinking of you

Wishing you were here as we felt the love in each other

The promise

2011-08-21T17:00:00.002+05:30

In those rare hours of fitful sleep
I turn over to rest my head on that warm shoulder
To match the rhythm of my breathing
With the rise and fall of his
The cold emptiness opens its arms to me instead
The voice that brightens the corners of my heart
The ones I emptied to make space
For memories of you and me
And which still lie half-empty
Waiting for more to make their way in
The voice that makes me smile very so often,
With that gentle teasing, the occasional loving bullying
And words to comfort me when I am oft so low
The voice that brings to me without fail
Pristine sunshine streaming down that bright glowing orb
Even through hail, sleet, mist and snow
That voice I still wait for
The footsteps I still strain to hear
Peeking from right behind the corner
Making me wait, but telling me all the same
"It'll be worth the wait, you see."

Teardrop

2011-08-08T16:25:00.004+05:30

Three hundred and seventy-three days
And mere few hours ago
I had shed that first tear.
I hadn't meant to let her go.
She just chose to leave me alone,
Promising to take away a little of my melancholy with her.
She had lied.
But she did lovingly graze my cheek,
And give me a fleeting peck on my chin
Before she left me
In the company of my loneliness.
There were many that followed -
Each making the same promise,
And breaking it more mercilessly every time
Duping me, and then mocking at me
While the hurt fails to dissipate in the emptiness
And the madness finds fertile pain to grow on

The dilemma that is she

2011-07-26T19:55:00.002+05:30

Tiny reluctant smiles tiptoeing around closed doors, trying to stun the pensive visions that live inside. The visions sit, only brooding - over moments lived and unlived; over relationships lost and found; over things that had been, and things that will never be.

The hand of happiness tries to gently prise open, the blue-veined teary veils that keep her from seeing the untried chances, unmade choices, unyielding charms. All it feels is the cold gloom snaking over what once throbbed with a lively pulse of hope and the thrill of adventure.

The slimy gloom slithers and coils around the the weak, tired, trembling shadow of that heart of hers, asphyxiating her with the dread of unsaid loving words, unheard friendly whispers, unseen glimpses of togetherness...

The dread of being untouched by the sweet hand of passion; of being undone by fears that creep along the crevices of her mind, contaminating it with that diseased malignant grime of despair; of being unwanted despite her unhesitating brazen lips reaching out to kiss what she desires.

Flitting past the windows of her eyes shut tight, she senses the obvious but still cannot see. The past she gleefully lived and the moments her heart conjured are the stars and the moon spotting the blackness of her crazed see-sawing mind, teetering along the knife's edge.

To lose heart and to step over the precipice into gloom.... To live with hope and take the leap of faith.... She sways to the rhythm of frenzied practicality that blends with the tune of calculated insanity. The sounds and the smells of doom fill her senses, but in her mind's eye, she knows what she wants is what it will be.

Another day. Another story

2011-04-29T19:41:00.001+05:30

It was an ordinary morning. I stepped into an almost vacant train compartment of a Mumbai local that would take me to work. In spite of all the empty seats, I saw a man dressed as a woman sitting next to the opposite gate. He seemed oblivious to the some-curious, some-demeaning stares and awkward glances his co-passengers shot at him.

Happy in his own world, he felt freedom in having the wind playfully smacking him in the face. The pallu of his gaudily sequined purple saree kept going out of control from behind him, and he let it fly about. Clearly control is not something he liked. He hummed to himself random songs of his heart as he continued to look outside, absolutely nonchalant about all eyes on him. He was happy in his own cocooned world.

Two hawker-women got on the train. One of them held out her hand as a friend would to another, and helped her settle down. The second sat cross-legged on the floor, next to the cross-dresser.She elicited his gentle attention and a smile when she untied the the huge bundle around her shoulders to reveal a gurgling cherubic infant. The baby squinted against the sudden light and let out a small chuckle of delight. The mother and her friend laughed and the child was smothered with adoring kisses. The man extended his hand to touch the child's cheek. It was a touch that reminds one of a caregiver - soft, loving, tender, giving and passionate. The child reciprocated with a smile of recognition of that love.

Another station, another girl boarded and allowed herself a space next to where all of us were. Impeccably attired in a carefully-careless sense of fashion, she finished texting on her swanky iPhone and crouched to play with the child in his mother's lap. She exchanged a few dialogues with the infant in baby language, a smile with the man and picked up a bangle from the lady's wares-box. She asked her how much they cost, picked up a few more and paid for them .

Yet another stop for the train. The girl gave a last beatific smile to the baby and got off. More women embark. Two friends, in particular, looked in the direction of the small group and turned their faces away as if they had seen something unappealing. The man continued to be unaffected and hummed to the wind blowing away the sparse hair on his head. The women began piling their ware-boxes again and the mother strapped the baby to herself, preparing to get off at the next station.

They did. The man waved them goodbye and kept looking outside the train, into the sights blurred by speed and bright sunshine. He continued to sing to himself. I continued to admire his indifference.

The sneering ladies got off at the next stop. Now it was only me and the man. Another two stations before the train reached the terminus. He looked up at me and in a gentle soft voice asked if it would be okay for him to sit on the seat; if I would mind. Mildly stunned for a few seconds, I welcomed him to take a seat. He smiled graciously, took a seat opposite me and went back to staring outside the train through the window.

Feigned indifference? A want to avoid inconvenience or unnecessary and unwanted attention? Cautiousness to ward off hurtful mud slinging and name-calling? Thoughts rattled in my head as I tried to think of something to say, to ask, to start a conversation. He appeared so consumed in his world, that I did not want to intrude. I got up to leave. The man turned to look at me, curved his lips to give me a smile of friendly gratitude. I returned it with one that said, "you're welcome," and got off the train.

I wove my way in and out of clusters of people, all the while wondering about the man, the woman inside him he wants to bring out, and the judgmental world he is carefully resisting.

Something about a rainy Kolkata

2011-04-26T18:28:00.004+05:30

There is something quite special about Kolkata when it rains here.

There is something uncannily beautiful about the way it gets, cool, breezy, rainy and wistfully romantic whenever I am home, no matter how short the trip is. It's like I am being given more reasons to love this sleepy, laidback city full of an incandescent charm.

The tarred roads look shiny, reflecting the golden yellowness of the streetlights. The quietness interrupted by the sound of a car's tyres cruising on the puddles on an otherwise smooth street. The stray dogs playfully scamper about, while searching for a shelter for the night.

As I sit on the ledge by the window overlooking the road outside our house, the boys in my locality get together for their late-night adda. Their loud voices surprisingly aren't irritating tonight. Their jokes make me smile. Their voices have a strange inclusive quality about them. One of them has got cha in a thermos for the whole gang.

I see a couple walk past them, out for their post-dinner walk - the radiantly pregnant lady and her husband holding hands and enjoying the sudden drop in mercury. They share a private joke and laugh; the wind carries the happy sound in my direction...

I sniff the air. It smells of moist soil. The streets are almost empty, the street lights hazied and blurred by the heavens showering the scorching earth with the coolness of Kal Baishakhi. I run to the terrace to absorb it all in...

I face the strong nor'westers and get stung by the raindrops, which are huge and scanty at first. As I start walking along the railing on the terrace, the rain intensifies into an overwhelming cloudburst. I know nothing else. I want to know nothing else. I only know I am here, part of this beautiful moment.

PS - The above was followed by lots of predictable screaming by my mother who was upset for leaving the door to the rooftop open and the water on the staircase and the fact that I refuse to grow up. My father was bemused as always.

But who cares. I slept with a big grin on my face. :D

Also see: Seduced by the Rains
Healing Showers of Pain

Impenetrable Meanings: Just not quite there yet...

2011-04-10T08:29:00.001+05:30

I look at the sky, half cloud laden
I find the stars, shyly hidden
The moon leaving it's melancholic glow behind
The beauty is all but lost on me
As I wish the fluff to uncover the light

I listen to the symphony, mellow and melodious
The notes touching, the harmony porous
The tune ignites a pain at the core
Making love to me and hurting me simultaneously
As I wish for the absent lyrics to tell me why it so

I read a poem, profound and deep
The feeling apparent, but the words don't seep
The words leaving my mind groping for recognition
Halfway through I seem to lose tide
As I wish to be able to look into the poet's mind

I dig into a bruise, sore and hurting
The scab gives way, blood oozing, my fingers dirtying
In the mess that aches and piques
The curiosity keeps poking, the throb tells me to stop
As I am left solving the puzzle of what I want

I tread impatiently, skipping stones on my way
I stumble once, I decide for a moment to stay
The obstruction leaves me skeptical
The route now disoriented, I wonder which way to turn
As I wish for a hand to hold and guide me

As confounding and pretty as that kaleidoscope

2011-04-07T11:03:00.001+05:30

Names of people, places and events evoke emotions in me. All these "nouns" that are sometimes very important, and sometimes seemingly insignificant, have put their stamp on my personailty en route the elusive destination of my life.

As much as I wish to be not affected by these elements in my life and keep walking independent of any form of attachment, it is just the disillusionment of detachment that I discover during my bouts of toughtfulness. Apparently, I am responsible for the way I feel. I may begin to dissociate myself from people, from places, but in my mind I remain as attached and loyal to good memories as the time they were being created.

I had read somewhere, "People will never remember what you did or what you said. But they will always remember how you made them feel." Certain people have made me feel very strongly, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. The stronger the emotion aroused then, the stronger the association of the person with a deeper shade of my disillusioned detached feelings.

So, in the end, doesn't it boil down ot the same thing? Our interactions always evoke emotions, Out attitudes and general frames of mind help us form our opinions of others, which make us like or dislike them.

Some things that I look back on when I am down and out, and the things that salvage me from depreciatory self-piteous phases; An affectionate nickname that someone calls me by. The urge to make someone laugh. Mock annoyance when the joke is on me. Cacophony in company of friends. Moments spent knowing more about my best friend. Voluble silences that accompanied quiet conversations. And days that were made wonderful only by the mere presence of some favourite people around.

I would rather forget people who brought me pain and hurt me by lying to me and undermining me; saying things that angered me and by betraying my trust. I only remember the lessons learnt and choose to scoot from there.

Life is a magnificent gift. Things will sometimes be difficult. They will be confusing. But to look beyond that confounding string that refuses to untie or the psychedelic wrapping paper is what is important. Oftentimes, there are a series of silly boxes to open before you get to the real gift. Don't look for happiness. Create it. Happiness is too fleeting to be found in one place.

Back to my favourite metaphor about life and memories: the kaleidoscope. The broken pieces of colourful glass are like the many shades of sentiments we experience throughout the span of our lives. Isolated and in their exclusivity, these fragments mean nothing. But when you put them all together and reflect upon them in totality, you see how these useless pieces combine and fuse with each other to form the most beautiful patterns; each extraordinarily beautiful, each unique, each unlike any other.

The magic and the ironic beauty of life...!

A heavy heart
A throbbing head
Some smiles I recollect
Some tears I brush aside
Still looking for an illusion
Living in a happy hallucination
I breathe, laugh, cry
Wrap it all in rosy velvet
Gift it to my days to come

Silence

2011-03-27T15:41:00.002+05:30

Sitting next to the window I sigh

The evening sun goes past me

Solitude my sole companion

We talk of times gone past

And the Utopian life I see myself walk into

The keeper of my secrets...

Silence! You are my dearest guide

We walked quietly down that shaded lane, He and I

Stopping to look at a pretty bird

Reaching out to touch that velvety blossom

Summer breeze ruffling our hair gently

The silent smiles spoke for both us

The sounds around meant nothing

Silence! You are my favourite messenger

We sit amidst jovial laughter, all of us

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind you keep me company still

A loud mischievous accusation, a louder denial

Some back-slapping and passing of drinks around

The warm hugs to show solidarity

That ticklish poke in the rib to tell me the teasing isn't over yet

Silence! Even in a crowd you are my best friend

I lie on my bed a crumpled sorry mess

Stifling my sobs, sometimes, crying out aloud in my pain

The promise my tomorrow made to me is broken

The heart that believed that devious tomorrow is maimed

You console me, tell me, "Never again let this happen to you!

But even if you do, I'll still be around," and stroke my feverish head

Silence! You are my philosopher

We meet after a long time, He and I

There is so much to say, so much to share

We recount stories we haven't told, uncomfortable silence intervenes

We know we still understand each other, ambiguous silence mushrooms

We revel in momentary togetherness, intrusive silence makes us edgy

Suddenly, there is nothing to say, nothing to share

Silence! You are my worst enemy

Taking off my Mask... Little by Little

2011-03-18T21:30:00.003+05:30

It has been really long since I posted a blog. And it makes me uncomfortable to note how lackadaisical I have become about the one thing I enjoy a lot... Writing.

It's not that there is a dearth of ideas. They are there. They assume the most tangible forms in my consciousness. I think of putting them into words. The inclination to attempt foiling the vivid imagery with inadequate expression is overcome by my desire to preserve it in its truest, most original and unevolved form. For I seem to be losing faith in my ability to express myself frankly enough to be understood by those I want to read me.

Honesty is still my number one priority in keeping my relationships with people alive, spirited and to make me feel truly connected. Lately, I seem to be taking the easy way out; escaping answering questions about myself, hoping my friends don't see through my lies, wondering if my animated chatter seems happy enough to all around me, crossing my fingers that the constant nagging voice somewhere inside my head doesn't become loud enough for people around me to hear.

Here I go again. Doing what I didn't want to. Writing betrays my intentions. I am expressing myself, yet again.

Time maybe for me to dig out some of those half-ripe ideas rotting away in that dusty old attic of a mind of mine. Time for me to carefully wipe the patina of self-consciousness off them and revive that feeling that prompted me, even if for a second , to challenge myself to express the abstract, the inanimate and the uncanny feeling of wholesomeness it brought to me for that short while. I am craving for the excitement again.

I am hoping to snuggle back into my comfort zone, and hopefully, without much effort.

Just Another Brick in the Wall

2011-02-10T14:43:00.001+05:30

The predictability of human interactions has become a bane for all those who seek excitement in meeting new people. I met someone recently for a formal interaction and there was an uncomfortable and overbearing sense of deja vu hanging in the air. The person was new and so was the ambience, but the conversation was extraordinarily drab. Talk of aspirations and personal or professional five-year goals only worsened my state of restlessness. I desperately needed a witty remark or a clever repartee to bring me back from the dead.

Where is the spontaneity now? Where is the naturalness gone? Why are we afraid to be different? How can we say we are unique when all we are doing is becoming someone who cannot be differentiated from another in a world teeming with a billion other you’s? Even our normal conversations are generously peppered with cliches and the chosen ten-fifteen words that form our vocabulary - “Awesome. Cool. Great. Cute.” We are becoming more unoriginal than ever. That’s all we can choose from to exclaim our excitement.

All of us seem to be rolling off the metaphorical conveyor belt of a mass production unit; we talk alike, dress alike, behave alike and sadly, even have begun to think alike. Our education system, right from the primary level doesn’t allow for exploration of concepts with an open mind. We are more used to the system of learning by rote and agreeing with whatever is told to us. We have grown so conditioned to this type of learning that now we rely on ready sources to tell us also how to act and react to questions, people and situations. We try to elicit responses of a certain kind, and in trying to be manipulative, we end up being predictable fools.

Consider this - you have a job interview to go to. You almost certainly know what kind of questions to expect - “What are your aspirations in life? Where do you see yourself five years from now? What are your strengths and weaknesses? Who is your idol?” and then some more. While these are perfectly valid questions, they also have become so commonplace, that everyone has a well-rehearsed and well-thought-out answer to these well before the interview is even scheduled.

The mantra now is to create the impression that you are the best among the lot of rats squiggling their way to the “finish” line. Look around and you will see advertisements of courses that will help you crack the ultimate job interview, of counsellors who claim to rock your dating life, of personality development courses that help you make friends and enrich your social life, self help books to help you pitch your sales in the perfect manner and workshops to let you negotiate better business deals. We are all unaware, but eager participants in the rat race.

Ironically, having people speak, dress and behave similarly must make the process of evaluating people a more objective and easier task. Or does it?

It is a little alarming to realise how much of our behaviour is conditioned by these profit-making ventures. More alarming is the fact that while we are learning social etiquette, public speaking and acquiring charm and confidence, we have nothing left of our own that we can proudly stake a claim on; not even our impulses which are smartly conditioned to do the “right” thing at the “right” time. Political correctness rules. I do not disagree with the need to be smart and well-mannered. I have my problems with the umpteen replicas all around me.

We are all ultimately becoming like a set of actors rehearsing our lines and blurting them out at the opportune moment What questions should the interviewer ask? How should the job applicant respond to it? What are the keywords, the catch phrases that slot you perfectly in an organisation’s recruitment database?
If you describe yourself as “dynamic young professional seeking to enhance his competencies in a reputed organisation of entrepreneurial culture while contributing to its multidimensional growth… (and all that blah!),” save it. All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.

Picking up the pieces

2011-01-04T12:51:00.002+05:30

An evening spent in reckless almost-abandon after long. Time to meet old friends, reconnect, feel blessed, feel loved and feel the spirit of Christmas in Pune.

As we told stories, retold anecdotes, made new ones and packed some away to relive when in sweet solitude, the smiles grew wider and my heart grew fonder with every passing moment.

Saturday night was spent in revelling being together, some dancing, all the camaraderie rushing back to make everyone feel right at home. Just like old times, when home was wherever even two of us got together - the street side, a store, the tapri, the canteen, our classroom, a discotheque or the quadrangle.

Early on Sunday morning, I walked down memory lane; this time without the banter of familiar voices guiding my memories. There was something so intimate about this solitary walk. Down the tree lined Bhandarkar Road, the frosted sunshine playfully peeping through the drooping boughs made heavy by age, I remembered my numerous walks with friends and confidantes, the umpteen times we would gleefully waddle back home after a scrumptious meal at Panchavati Gaurav or Sharvaree, diligently working on group activity outside Kamala Nehru Park, the somewhat raucous but well-meaning laughter following some restricted viewings in there and what not...

I turn around the end of the road. The familiar walls to some of the most well known institutions in the country fall behind as I walk step after step towards a place that has shaped me. I walk in through the gate. I climb the stairs leading to the main door. I find a place on the top step, sit down and lean against the wall to feel welcome, rested after a night of indulgent and maddening fun.

As always, this physical closeness to the edifice drives me to think - about myself and my life. I do. I set some personal goals, about the person I want to be and where I want to go. I look back upon my recent past to be able to steer my future. I think of all the people who have made a difference in my mundane life by just being there. I check off habits I should get rid of. Things I should learn; only because they will made me happier about myself. A pleasant calm settles in a restless heart.

Something that Dr. Bhupatkar had said to a classroom full of then would-be MBAs on the first day of college has guided my actions ever since - "Make a choice and stand by it, despite the consequences." I may have made foolish decisions, but they are my own and I do not look back with regrets. For, unless I make a decision, I will never know whether it will shape my life for the better or for the worse. If I am on the edge, I would rather take a free fall than step back. What's a life without risks? And the last thing I would do is to just stand there and wait for something to happen.

I Remember

2010-12-19T14:39:00.001+05:30

I walk along the road. I remember a private joke. I smile.

I see them walk hand in hand. I remember walking hand in hand. I see us there.

I sit by the window when it rains. I remember dancing in the rain. I want to dance again but I can't.

I see the skyline of the city from my house. I remember the silent conversations. I smile a sad smile.

I talk to people. I remember our cosy, hushed whispers. I pause to remember more...

I read a book. I remember those excited discussions. I weave a new one behind closed eyes.

I sing a song. I remember the adoring praise. I strain my ears to hear it just once more.

I watch a movie. I remember our awestruck delight. I laugh out loud.

I listen to a song. I remember those poetic sweet nothings. I stop and sigh.

I eat. I remember the eagerness to try a new food. I crave for more.

I wake up. I remember waking up together. I look around to find only a sore emptiness.

I try to sleep. I remember feeling warm and safe in those arms. I shed a lonely tear.

I dream. I remember all the other unfulfilled dreams. I cry.

I hope. I remember hoping for it to come back. I pray.

I breathe. I remember looking into those eyes while we laugh. I wonder when it will happen again.

I love. I remember loving. I still want to love some more.

I feel lost. I remember the time I seemed to have found myself. I search for it.

Guzaarish for an Encore

2010-11-22T14:28:00.001+05:30

I watched a soulful love story unfold like the blossoming of a summer flower. It unfolded, but not completely, not fully, leaving it charmingly ensconced in the soft and sunny hued petals of the blossom. You see it now and now you don't. You look for it, probe deep inside, and then it teases you with just another shy peek from behind its delicate prison

I watched as two people, bound in their own chains of despair and haplessness, look at each each other with such tenderness that it wants to make you look at their into their eyes always. There were simmering undercurrents of stormy waves peaking behind the softness of their expressions of love. The waves calming down and becoming subdued, yet doing it's best to reach that point of the shore where it can feel the completeness lacking in it.

I watched as their eyes spoke in the most verbose manner, the intensity lost on outsiders and the unspoken words holding meaning only for them, between them, in their intimate quiet conversation.

Guzaarish is a splendid film. The story of a once-famous magician, now a quadriplegic, fighting for his right to end his painful vegetable-like existence. But the thought-provoking fight is not what brought out the film's strengths for me. What did was the relationship between the severely crippled, but full-of-love and spirited Ethan Mascarenhas and his dedicated nurse of twelve years, Sophiya D'souza.

The twelve years have been excruciatingly long for both of them, not only because of the physical effort involved in the dynamics of their relationsip, where Sophiya seems to be giving selflessly and Ethan cannot give anything to her but a smile or two and the comfort of being treated like a friend and a compatriot in their lonely battles. They survive by drawing on each others' positivity, strength of character and a constant search into each others' soul. Such pristine love touches the remotest and the darkest corners of your heart.

When you feel that emotion on screen resonate deep within yourself, you know the director has succeeded in having the audience connect with his creation. It is the mark of his craftsmanship. And where in this very blog, I had once criticised Bhansali's Saawariya, I would like to say that he touched an unknown part of me with his work on Guzaarish. He has drawn unparalleled performances from Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai, both of whom have brilliantly portrayed pained individuals spreading cheer in the immediate world around them, giving to their friends only what they have, while dying small deaths within themselves every moment of their lives.

Guzaarish is no masterpiece, but it is touching. It is for anyone who seeks love, companionship and joy. It makes you want to go back to look at those eyes articulating pain, love, hope, compassion, comfort and passion. It makes you want an encore

Taking the Leap

2010-11-17T12:54:00.003+05:30

Just how many of us are willing to take that one step that could either backfire and ruin your life for a long-long time or make you the champion of your own heart and mind, and among a smattering of other people? What is it that scares us? Why are we seeking the comfort of predictability and the security of a well-set life?

I know someone who has decided to quit a fantastic project in Philadelphia, the comforts of a pleasant life there and come rushing back to India win back his lady love. My friend feels it is a lost cause already, but he doesn't want to let go of the 1 per cent chance he has. He doesn't want to wonder later on "what if I had taken that risk?" I cheered for him, his spirit and while I had always respected him for his intelligence and his approach towards life, I grew to respect him even more.

Every day I hear some one or the other say, "I wish I could do something different," or, "I wish I could be some one different". So what is it that stops us from being that some one else? That some one different? Is it that we care too much about what others will think of us. That if we fail in what we set out to do, we will be ridiculed for life? That we will be looked at with some times covertly sympathetic glances or sometimes overtly sympathetic stares? Why do we care? Why do we succumb to the pressure of being accepted? What would happen if we are not accepted? Would we be labelled outlaws?

Where is the sense of adventure that ideally should define the human spirit? The right to be who you want to be is a very basic right. Just like the right to breathe, the right to think, the right to feel and the right to fall in love. But apparently the creation of society and the norms that define it have taken over these basic rights too. In the words of a very wise professor whose class I had the privilege of taking, "Choose. Make a choice. And stand by the choice, no matter what the consequences are. Some times you may fail. But the times you win, will be so worthwhile that the times you failed will not matter at all."

I do not mean disrespect to my elders, my peers or my family when I go on and act as per my will. I love all of them tremendously. They may not agree with what I choose to do, but I cannot let that be among the biggest factors that deter me from doing what I want. Call me stubborn. Call me insolent. Call me foolish. That's who I am. I used to be someone else, thinking the world with oust me if I express what I am within; till I met a whole bunch of mavericks who were as eager to burst out of their fenced lives. That made me realise that I am not the only dreamer, not the only "mad" person around. There are many more just like me, "madder" than I am.

I can claim to have taken that metaphorical leap - in my career. It was not easy. I had considerations - big ones. It was all about taking that one step out of the line drawn around me. That one step was the most difficult. It hasn't been very smooth sailing after that. But yes, life's getting easier. I enjoyed the unpredictability, the fact that I was a little aimless for a while. There were moments where I feared I would have to go back across the line. But it worked out fine. It's just about that one leap. And my advice to all would be to take it.

Sweet Venom

2010-11-13T12:26:00.002+05:30

The poison is snaking its way up my veins with every pulsating beat of my heart. I feel the sweet, cold fire slither along the mesh of crimson elixir of life streaming through my sinews, relishing the feel of overpowering a body that is resisting, doing its best to not give in to the titillating sensation.

My Skin erupts in goose flesh, unable to take it any more; willing for the coursing of the venom to stop. I writhe in ecstasy of losing to this agonising pleasure. Cold sweat breaking out all over. I kick. I scream. I wish to calm down. I wish to be lost in this tumultuous frenzy.

I shiver in fright. I cringe in pain. I scream in jubilation. I revel in being enclosed in the arms of sensuous entrapment. I soar in seizures of liberation.

This is how being ruined must feel like. This is what loss must be. This is the way one rejoices being enraptured. This must be euphoria taking control. This is hell's angels ruling the ordinary mortals, leading them to their doom using temptation.

The scorpion has mesmerised me. I long for yet another sting

2010-11-12T15:00:00.001+05:30

Dear Readers,

The following is a link to my blog on the Business Standard website. Please click on the following link to read it. Your valuable comments on the website are welcome as always.

http://blogs.business-standard.com/shibangi/2010/11/09/trapped-in-a-brand/

Cheers!

I Seek, But I Cannot Find It

2010-11-01T18:55:00.001+05:30

I was once asked, "what would happen if we were to part?"
While I could only imagine the pain it would mean
I had just tried to be a realist and said,
"Life goes on..."

Life does go on
But the pain deepens every night
When keepsakes in my mind flood my moments of solitude
When sleep plays hide and seek with my ravaged, tired, sleepless head

I seek company, I seek crowds; I run away
I seek isolation, confinement; I run away
I seek out my reclusive alter ego; I run away
I seek replays of good times; I run away

Far and away where I find find no one
I seek to lose myself in a hazy maze of adored dreams
Spiteful reality closing in on it, leaving me looking around
Searching for an exit; I feel trapped

Trapped in a spiral of endless wait
Trapped despite the openness in my heart
Trapped in the quagmire of my own expectations and self-respect
Trapped in the whirlwind of a tumultuous, rocky, addled spirit

I dream, I hope, I reminisce; I cannot seem to find it
Groping about in the grim, dark alleys, the paths of my memory
I seek to find the same love, pleasure, pain
I cannot find it

2010-10-28T15:49:00.000+05:30

Dear Readers,

My first "professional" blog has just been published on the Business Standard website. Please click on the following link to read it. Your valuable comments on the website are welcome as always.

http://blogs.business-standard.com/author/shibangi/

Cheers!

A Treasure Trove of Memories

2010-10-23T12:57:00.003+05:30

I am blessed with a good memory. So I am told and so I have come to realise. For I tend to remember the most mundane details that seem insignificant to a lot of people but which soothe my invisible hurting wounds on a less than mirthful day.

I may not remember the date, the time or what exactly was spoken in words. But the connections made as I exchanged glances with that special someone, the tingly and pleasurable current spreading through me that made me anxious, curious, daring and shy all the same time all come back to me in a rush that takes over me in a paroxysm of an unnamed bittersweet emotion.

Is this a curse then? Getting over failures is difficult. Getting over heartbreaks is tougher. Every song I listen to has a history. Every literary piece I read has a reference. Every movie is reminiscent of clandestine hand-holding. The direction which the story my life is taking now is invariably connected to the past that has made me.

Is it a boon? For it makes me smile on a tough day to remember the shared "wisdom". For my urge to cry in anger is subdued by the calming reassurances once given to me. For whenever I feel weak, the strength that was seen by others comes springing back to life. For every failure now seems insignificant. For every joy is now more precious. For every moment is now laced with the nothingness of the sweet nothings we shared.

Tenacity is a trait I have always had. I do not know if it's a virtue or a bane. I cling to memories and I am told I need to move on. Move on from what? Where? From these lamentably lost moments that have given me the strength to love more deeply, care more warmly and fight for my expressions more ferociously?

I may have lost a piece of me. I feel incomplete. But if reflections of that past are all I have to give me a vague feel of how it is to be unbroken, why should I let them go?

If memories are all I have, how can I let them fade away?

Freedom in Fool's Paradise

2010-10-21T19:25:00.002+05:30

I dare to listen to my heart

I dare to dream

I dare to strive to make those dreams a reality

I dare to fight my way through inane obstacles

I dare to defy

I dare to stand up for my rights

I dare to make my own tules

I dare to voice my opinion

I dare to be honest

I dare to be loud and uninhibited

I dare to maintain a dignified silence

I dare to laugh in the face of trying times

I dare to be me

I dare to shed tears when I am sad

I dare to share my mirth with those who stand by me

I dare to love myself when no one else does

I dare to fall in love

I dare to give my heart away

I dare to relive memories that warm my heart

I dare to relive memories that singe me

Like a moth to the flame I dare to stare doom in the eyes

With some longing, some lust and that slowly awakening passion

Does this make me stupid, cowardly, unrealistic, emotionally weak, crazy?

Am I anti-social, promiscuous, insolent, obstinate, narcissist, hedonistic?

Would you call me stubborn, arrogant, abnormal, cold, immature?

If you think I am living in a fool's paradise for being who I am, then so be it.

FOR I DARE TO BE FREE

Mumbai Mojo

2010-10-20T18:31:00.002+05:30

It is often said that nothing, not even a series of bomb blasts can break Mumbai city's mojo. Wrong. Rains can. They did. Just last evening.

I was coming back from work, taking the usual route, wanting to catch up with a friend on the way and then going home, when I saw the skies above Dadar station turn purple in fury and lightning make its 'blink and you miss' appearance. That alone was enough to drive the crowds into a frenzy, whereby everyone was trying to get into any train and any compartment possible. I, for one, managed to find a comfortable corner where the likelihood of getting crushed by heavy, screaming and aggressive women and their heavier and bulkier bags was minimal. I promptly called my friend and cancelled our plans for the evening.

Three minutes into chugging along to the next station, all the screaming and shouting each of these women to every other woman in the compartment was drowned by a loud crack of thunder and the loud sound of torrential rain hitting the roof of the train. Windows were shut and the doors were slid shut to avoid the water from coming inside. The inside of the compartment soon started to feel like a pressure cooker. The air got stuffy and smelly from the combination of sweaty odours claiming my nostrils with a vengeance, and I was starting to feel faint. The local train authorities and the signals were at their sadistic best, making the trains move at a speed that could make a bullock cart ride feel like one in the Concorde.

I managed to stand comfortably in my tiny corner till the time the train reached the station before the one I had to alight at. And thankfully I managed to get off at the right station without much trouble. Oh! Did I mention trouble? How could it leave me alone?Trouble did happen to me. Now.

To get out of the station from the platform at the farthest end took me more than 20 minutes. The crowd looked like a mass of bees swarming around an invisible target. If I thought I had been about to faint from the overwhelming odour of sweat in the train, I had become a zombie now. I cringe to recall all the elbowing, pushing, shoving and name calling that happened around me, while I tried to navigate my way out of the human mess with a phony sense of calm that I just looked, but didn't feel. Amazing as it was, I did pull myself up together long enough to reach the exit and sprint to the auto stand. I didn't care about the rain, the slush, or the mud staining my feet, slippers or clothes.

And now, like in very other city in the rain, the auto walas started acting up; refusing to go anywhere they didn't want to. No matter how much I said I'd pay them. I asked a lady to guide me to the bus that would take me home. She sternly directed me to a queue that was snaking its way into one of the BEST buses of Mumbai I had heard so much about. After having got in, and gone some way ahead, I asked a co-passenger how far my bus stop was. To his amusement and my consternation, it was the wrong bus. It didn't take that route at all!

As soon as the bus stopped due to a traffic jam, I got off and waited for an empty auto rickshaw to grant me respite as I felt the cold rain water drench me. Finally, an old man in a rickety rickshaw decided he could earn brownie points with the Almighty force up there by helping the poor girl in extreme distress (he said that to me). Thankfully I hadn't gotten too far away because I reached home soon enough. If two and a half hours for the whole commute from work can qualify as "soon enough" for a route that generally takes me an hour and forty-five minutes to traverse.

Now that I am writing about this particular "fright night", I am finding it difficult not to smile to myself. It is not like I haven't encountered crowds in public transport systems or rains that mar the mood of the day. It's just that when you expect a city to be on the move all the time, when you have so much about it, it appears invincible. To know that is just an illusion and maybe not the forces of man, but the forces of nature can reduce it to any other ordinary city in India is a humbling thought. As much as I have come to love Mumbai, I have to admit, it needs to manage its rainy days better.

That One Lucky Charm

2010-10-12T10:37:00.004+05:30

It was a day where things couldn't possibly have gotten worse. The excitement of getting to work on the first day at a new job was marred by the rains which are dreaded in a city like Mumbai. I am also completely new to the rush of the Mumbai locals, and the maddening traffic jams that take me about 30 minutes to go a distance of roughly 2 kilometres in an auto rickshaw that I share with complete strangers. After being squished to my bones, I got off the train at the station closest to work, and walked in the direction opposite to work for a good 10 minutes before realising that I was going the wrong way.

At work, the website I am working with refused to be functional. Some joker had decided it would be funny to hack the site and introduce a malware into it. So I was left with doing nothing much except lurk around my regular cyber space hangouts - facebook, gtalk and my blog. It kept raining throughout the day. I almost skipped lunch till I started feeling faint. A huge sum of money I was to receive from someone sitting in London had not reached me. I was on the verge of being broke. I stepped out of office early, as there was nothing to work on - the site was still being restored - and discovered that the taxis were having a ball saying "no" to every bystander asking for a ride to hie or her preferred destination. I walked the entire route to the station, getting soaked in the rain, and splashed in slush by inconsiderate cabs that thought nothing of slowing down when nearing a puddle.

Partly in haste, and mostly because of ignorance I got on to a train that was likely to carry more passengers to a destination way father than where I had to get off. I was placed between aunties so cheerfully plump that for maybe the first time in my life I realised I am actually not quite as fat as I believe. Needless to say, I couldn't get off at my station and was forced to stay in the train till I could push my way out of the thronging lady dynamos, three stations later. The train that took me back to my destination took its own time, stopping between stations, and sauntering merrily. Finally, I reached home, changed into fresh clothes, took of my shoes that had montrously bitten into my tired feet and sat down to write this.

As I write about an unusually drab day full of the best examples of situations that usually ruin your mood completely, making you a banshee of sorts, I realised I was still very happy. I was smiling. There was a contentment in my heart that I had not felt in a long time. I was finally at a job I had always wanted. I was finally free, which was letting me breathe and be calm. And there's something else...

I had been mulling on my way to work about how my life has turned out. About what I want, where I want to go, whom I want to be with and who I want to be. It had made me a little pensive to think that often these directions we set for ourselves in our mind don't work out that way. Life has a strange way of playing games with you. It was a thought worth pondering over and I was doing exactly that. Till... a phone call changed my pattern of thought for the rest of the day; from morose and gloomy to bright, beautiful and absolutely like warm liquid fire flowing through my veins the whole day long. That it was unexpected and gave me a pleasant shock made it more welcome. Oh! If only I could put the feeling into words.

I am now poised with all kinds of courage and a "chin-up-in-the-face-of-death" attitude to confront whatever lies ahead. Don't get me wrong. I have managed myself everywhere. This hasn't been scary for me at all. Only that I have a challenge in front of me. To prove to a certain person who told me that I'll be sick of the hectic and severely professional lifestyle in Mumbai and head home within a month. This has been rubbed into my face so snidely that I have forgotten everything, but the will to succeed at this job and in this city at any cost. To know that I have with me people who care makes the whole deal worthwhile.

That one lucky charm worked in my favour, turning what could have been a horrible day into a perfect day I'd label more as adventurous and exciting. Thank you God.... You do show your love in strange ways.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of My Mad Family - Part VI

2010-10-05T20:34:00.001+05:30

So, I had had a dream-worthy two months in one of my favourite places - Pune. And then came the torture - stabbed in the back by someone I considered my best friend, losing another best friend to a Sidney Sheldon-esque series of suspense ridden circumstances, career issues, problems with my parents not having faith in me and understanding me, and being grounded in a city where I barely have friends (save two people). I was constantly under pressure from myself to find a way out of everything at once. It is no secret for the people who know me that I follow my heart, at the cost of losing out on some "wonderful" looking opportunity (as judged by others, who are apparently concerned for me). I agree I may not always have succeeded in ending up with the dream job, the dream paycheck, the dream city or my dream man. But I am glad I took those risks (horribly cliched, but true beyond imagination). No wonder then that I was looking forward to meeting my cousins, my relatives and my grandparents after 3 long years. I could find new reasons to exercise my vocal chords after having restricted my conversations to typing on the keyboard till late at nights... and all of them brimming with despair, hopelessness and cynicism. That'd explain my unusual quietness and my very frequent spurts of moodiness.

To let you all know, I have a huge family. My father has three brothers and three sisters. My mother has seven brothers and two sisters. If I were to count only my first cousins, I have 20 of them on my mother's side and 16 on my father's side. Just memorising who was whose child and what his / her name is, used to be a demanding activity when I was a child. I confused people with their names, called my mama my kaka and so on and so forth. Amazingly, I was still considered a brilliant child. Now, most of these cousins are settled outside of Orissa, with jobs and their own family. The younger ones are still here. A majority of my uncles and aunts live in Bhubaneswar though, where we were headed towards right now, in torrential rains, where it was impossible to drive over 80 kmph even on the smooth highway and visibility was near zero.There was no way we could reach Bhubaneswar before 8 pm.

Sometime during the drive I got a call from a number in Delhi. It was about a letter of offer of employment with Business Standard - an interview I had almost no hope of cracking, because I had screwed in the written test horribly, confusing Sunil Mittal for LN Mittal (which so-called MBA does that?) and not being able to identify key people who are important nuts and bolts that keep India's financial system running. What the hell was I thinking when I went to write that test. Oh wait! I was crabby and cribby then because I was suffering a terrible heartbreak. It's a wonder I wrote anything in the test at all! But coming back to the point... I FINALLY HAD A JOB!! Mom and dad didn't seem to excited that I'd be moving out of Calcutta yet again (to Mumbai) and for a journo's job that'd pay me less than an HR job (I had consciously made the switch, against their wishes and advice). But I was on the top of the world. There was no way I was letting this job go.

I have go off track now. I am often asked to carry back rosogolla for my friends whenever I visit my parents in Calcutta. What not many people know is that the best rosogollas in the world come from the suburbs of Bhubaneswar, from a place called Pahala. They're made in front of your eyes and served hot. Each is the size of a ping-pong ball, and when you place it in your mouth, it's softness melts into the texture of your tongue, making you feel like you've died peacefully and gone to heaven. Why I am saying this is because I am sure I will die of some diabetes related ailment. I am way too fond of sweets and I am never sorry for it. This is just an attempt to rub it into the faces of all sweet-loving people that I have had these little pieces of heaven.

Back to the drive to Bhubaneswar; we reached Pahala at about 7:30pm. We halted there. And despite the numb backsides, sore backs and cramped legs, I jumped out of the car as soon as dad parked it outside one of the numerous stalls lined along the highway. I was about to taste heaven after so long! We ate some chhena poda (another very popular Oriya sweet) and gorged on the rosogollas before packing lots of it for our stay in the Temple Town.

We reached home at 8pm, as estimated, and after unloading the boot of the car, we rushed to see my grandparents. The bear hugs and the tears of joy when we met after so long was beyond words. It is an indescribable feeling to be so loved and to be able to feel that love just like that, without any effort, without words and sometimes, even without a physical touch. My cousins were all wide-eyed and thrilled, as was I. For I used to carry them around, play with them, sometimes teach them, and when they were really small, change their diapers. To see them as fully grown people, who are so smart in the head and good looking, it filled me with a strange kind of pride. I couldn't stop hugging them and patting their backs (yes! I was behaving like an over-affectionate and possibly overbearing aunt)

I was filled in with details of what they were doing at school, whom they were friends with, how they messed with each other, who their crushes are, what they like, whom they are no more friends with. I wanted to scream with joy. I wanted to hug everyone really long. I wanted to jump about in excitement. I wanted to sleep a peaceful sleep, holding on these good feelings.There was chatter, and evil grins, and conspiratorial whispers and lots of heart warming laughter. As I stepped back from myself and viewed the gathering of people there, I thanked God for giving me a chance to regain my sanity among the people who knew nothing about my ordeals, for they could be happy and make me happy without having to worry about my state of mind then. That's exactly what I needed. I was getting another shot at being me. I grabbed it instantly. There has not been any looking back ever since.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part V

2010-10-03T00:47:00.000+05:30

It was unusually warm that night, very humid and the low voltage refused to let the fan run at a speed good enough to put the air in motion. I remember sleeping very fitfully. But I was looking forward to the morning. It came, but it was pouring then, and the rain-lover in me was ecstatic. I wanted to go to the courtyard and hop-skip-and-play with the big fat raindrops.

DAY 3

Getting ready for the trip back was easy. There was no rush. People were lazy and while we were supposed to have started by 8am, the rain had put out a stopper there. The route was not going to be easy. The narrow mud paths would be slippery and the visibility was bad. Yes! It was raining that hard. We sat in Guruji's study, talking in loud voices to be heard over the pitter-patter on the tin roof of the house. So reminiscent of Javed Akhtar's innocently amorous poetry from 1942-A Love Story... bajta hai jaltarang teen ki chhat pe jab motiyon jaisa jal barse. It was romantic. It was beautiful. And I am sure all of it was laced with a tiny tinge of a treasured but distant poignant memory, for me.

When the rain did stop at around 11am, we were all ready, stuffed to our throats with some fantastic breakfast. Prahlad and I helped dad redo the jigsaw puzzle in the car trunk. It was a mellow goodbye. Guruji's wife gave me some flowers from the temple, blessing me and saying that she had not imagined in her wildest dreams that a city bred girl like me would be able to manage so well and mix with everyone in the village. Although that was a nice compliment, I felt a little let-down wondering what it is about me that Guruji had perceived? I do make an impression sometimes. But I'd have expected someone who has talked to me numerous times to know me just that little bit better. I let it pass. Thanked her. took her blessings and settled into the familiar feeling of being packed into an already stuffed suitcase. We were all back in the car, and raring to get "home". Uncle and aunty had been away from their home for over two weeks now and were getting a little restless.

Dad managed the unpaved roads with his usual agility and in an hour's time, we were on NH5. I was again listening to songs while the elders yapped. We stopped a short way into Orissa border and had some coffee. We stopped at another dhaba for lunch (which was a bad idea). Mom even made dad and me get our own hand wash from among one of the many bags in the car because she did not trust the hygiene quotient of the soap at the sink in the dhaba. And then we stopped at a hotel in Bhadrak for a loo break and another coffee.

While were in the hotel, it started raining cats and dogs. We stood in the porch, trying to figure out a way to get to the car parked about 15 feet away without getting soaked. Mom was most concerned about it. She hates the rains. She also got aunty concerned by saying that the sarees she had purchased to gift to relatives at the wedding could get ruined by the rain water seeping into the trunk. Now it was dad's turn to get annoyed. There was no way water could seep into the car. And mom's finickiness annoyed all of us most of the time. Dad rushed to the car shielding himself with an umbrella borrowed from an attendant in the hotel, drove the car to the porch, and we realised with shock that the trunk of the car was actually open! We were worried that some of our luggage might have fallen off without our knowledge. And we were also afraid something might fall out now in the rain and make a mess of the whole already messy situation.

Dad couldn't hear us call out to him, so I ran to the car, and closed the trunk door. Getting drenched to the bone in those two minutes. And my mother found another reason to crib. "Why wasn't the boot closed?" "Why did you have to get wet in the rain?" "What if you catch a cold now in the AC?" It looked like the havan had worked for me but had made my mother more prone to losing her temper. Mom and dad know me as an insolent child. So I made use of that image and went back to my songs while she continued to nag me, not caring if I caught a cold. Actually, even dad had to ask mom to stop pinning me for every small reason. It was a silent ride for everyone else while I stared out of the window breaking the raindrops into a million little droplets and scattering around. James Blunt's 1973 couldn't have pulled me into it any more
on this that that was so blue.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part IV

2010-10-01T12:22:00.001+05:30

Lost in my world, I hardly took in the flurry of activity around me as the preparations for the evening puja were done. The past has an interesting way of sucking you into it. And the more you resist, the more difficult it is to not think about it. Suddenly, an elderly looking brahmin came to my father and without saying anything prostrated before him. The rest of us looked at the scene agog, while dad kept sitting back complacently, saying, "the moon's rising behind me. He's praying to chandra." We still didn't know what to make out of it. And then the brahmin got up, and bowed low doing a namaskar clearly to my father this time, who choked on the tea he was drinking. And before dad could regain his composure enough to ask what this was all about, the brahmin had walked away. All of us except dad burst out in perplexed laughter, not knowing what just transpired.

Later, we were called to watch as a trio of singers took charge of entertaining us with retelling certain excerpts from the Ramayana. It was a group of husband, wife and daughter, who were so good at what they were doing. It was quite like the jatra form of storytelling, with the harmonium and the dhol as accompaniments to the lady's sing-song manner of narration of how Shabari offered berries to her dear lord Rama. They were like rock stars, handling the microphone with elan, engaging the audience and having them participate by clapping ans swaying to the beat. We, sitting right at the back, were enraptured in the magic the trio wove with their act. I call them The Bard Trio.

And then came the time for the havan. There were two kunds made. Uncle and aunty sat around one; mom, dad and me around the other, and guruji sat in the middle, reciting the mantras into the microphone for the entire gathering to hear. I did not understand why the whole village was present there if the puja was to quieten my mercurial temper. And then it struck me. Free dinner after the havan... the prasad. Well, some may have been there to genuinely be a part of the puja, but free food never hurt anyone. More so, guruji is a very respected man there, so all were around as a mark of respect.

There was Geeta paath between the mantras and as we poured ghee keep the fire blazing, guruj explained to us parts of the Bhagvad Geeta. It was quite interesting because I like dabbling into spheres of spirituality every now and then (religion is not as appealing). Now was good because of the mood set by the bard, her husband and her daughter.

After the havan was done, the five of us - the main participants - of the puja were asked to walk the parikrama (the boundary) of the temple with small cane-woven baskets full of batasha (coin sized sugar tablets offered to Gods during aarti or puja), while the kirtan singers began their melodious chants of Hare Rama Hare Krishna again. And then we had to throw handfuls of batasha at the two hundred odd people watching the puja. What happened next startled me, for these same people, standing with their palms joined and eyes closed in search for oneness with their Almighty, suddenly scampered and scrambled about on the floor, trying to pick up as many batasha as possible. They called out to us, asking us to throw more batasha in their direction. The chaos was funny. It was a ritual I had never even heard of. I have to ask about its significance the next time I meet guruji.

Dinner was served to the people as they assembled in the courtyard, seated in serpentine lines with the banana leaves spread out n front of them. Aunty, mom and I helped serve the food. After that was done, I was waiting outside the bathroom. It had been long since I had had the opportunity to err... em... okay... take a leak. (have absolutely no subtler way to put it). Just then the daughter of The Bard Trio came up to me, all flustered and shy and struck up a conversation with me.

In between losing my turn to go to the loo, swaying madly from side to side to try and forget about my bursting bladder and trying to turn my cringes into a warm smile, I managed to talk to the girl - Sonali - for about 5 minutes. And when I could no longer wait, and the bathroom was finally vacant, I excused myself as politely as I could and sprinted the distance to the loo, just 5 feet away. Sonali was a nice and warm girl. She thought I was still in high school / college (I think I liked her more because she said that). When I told her I am 28, she was shocked and exclaimed, "That's how old my mother is! You definitely don't look your age." I was predictably shocked too. I looked younger than my age! Yaay! To be 28, and have a daughter who's 14 and would appear for her madhyamik (Class X) exams later that year meant her mother was married when she was less than 13. Wow! These things about rural India are known to all of us. But they hit you harder when you meet someone who has been through it.What is worse is, they have accepted it as a way of life and still go about performing these 'traditions" nonchalantly. I wonder if guruji has expressed a stand against it.

Some pleasant "chit-chat with the villagers" later, people started coming in to pay their respects to guruji and take his leave. I noticed that while everyone respects guruji, it is not just blind faith. They love him because he has been a helpful soul and a philantropist despite his modest means; helping the village folk in whatsoever ways possible. And guruji treats them all like children, sometimes scolding them, sometimes their friend and sometimes just cracking a joke and chuckling enjoyably. Something about him makes me like him despite the fact that I am not much of a religious person myself.

After everyone left, guruji's family and we had dinner too, again amidst lots of laughter and jokes. By the time we went to bed, it was well past 2 am. We were to leave for Bhubaneswar the next morning. I said my "thank you" to the force up there for helping me through the day without making it look like a hassle. I switched on the playlist in my phone and fell asleep to the tune of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part III

2010-09-26T19:21:00.003+05:30

DAY 2
I had never thought I would wake up at the crack of dawn hearing a cock crow. Wait! A village full of roosters crowing... there can be nothing more irksome than not being able to shut out that cacophony even with a pillow on your ears. All the thrill of living a rustic and idyllic life for two days was forgotten. I woke up cursing (ha ha... in a spiritual abode! I am sure as hell going to hell *grins evilly*). I tried to get off the bed and drink some water only to have my legs and arms get stuck in the mosquito net. My wildly flailing arms did nothing to help me get untangled. I only ended up realising that my earphones had also managed to wind themselves around my arm and were adding to the confusion. I am sure Mr. Bean would have found me amusing then.

A look at the clock said it was only 5 am. I wanted to go back to bed, but obviously, the sounds all around told me that the people in the house and in the rest of the hamlet had already set about performing their tasks for the day. I walked out to the porch on the first floor to look at the sight around. The sky was getting brighter every moment and it was peaceful. My irritation melted away as I stood there and breathed in the scents swirling in the air. And then, the smell of cow dung hit me. I looked around to see Prahlad running across the courtyard to guruji's vegetable patch with a pail full of dung. It was to be used as manure for the brinjal and the tomatoes growing there. All my romanticised feelings buried under the gross smell of poop, I grumbled and went back to bed and lay reading a book.

At about 7, a snooze later, I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom with my toiletries and clothes to discover a waiting list of people waiting to get into the bathroom. I mentally slapped my forehead because I should have got done with all the bathroom work as soon as I had woken up. Now, I was way after 3 people, only to be able to use the bathroom. First come, first serve. It was like being back at boarding school.

Everything done and with ready for the grand puja (and me trying to come up an excuse to scoot from the scene, ranging from most sane and pathetic to most outlandish and unbelievable), we gathered out in the temple courtyard at around 11am. Kirtan and baul singers from the hamlet had gathered to sing on the special occasion. Well, the occasion was actually special. It was Radha Ashtami. So, began the kirtan. From a noisy and chattering group to their extremely melodious swing taking you to the crests of supreme divinity, the kirtan singers took me to a different level of being. Somewhere among them was a lady, who had appeared very ordinary and very snooty before the puja had begun. But now, as she took to the microphone and gave melody and feeling to the simple chant of Hare Rama hare Krishna, she seemed one with her God. Her eyes turned dark and deep with her devotion, and she looked beautiful as she kept us in thrall. The dhols, chaotic in their individual beat, and yet so much in synchronised tandem with her singing made us us want to sway to the chant. It was, I think, the most spiritual moment of my life till date.

We proceeded to perform the rituals of the puja, with me doing most of the work. The aarti, the bhog and the chanting of the mantras after guruji. After the bhog, the first part of the puja was over. It was around 3pm, and the next part was to begin after sunset. Aunty, mom and I served food to all the people gathered for the puja as they sat in lines in the courtyard with banana leaves spread out in front of them. We ate some fruits and pithe (a variety of sweets made of rice flour, pulse flour, coconut and jaggery). We tried to rest, but low voltage and high humidity ensured that we just swat flies and mosquitoes rather than get some shut-eye. I listened to some more songs, read a little bit more of my book, and waited for the day to pass. For tomorrow, I would be seeing my cousins after three long years.

Before the second half of the puja began, dad, mom, uncle, aunty, guruji and I sat outside the house, just off the courtyard, talking generally. Guruji was very concerned about my comfort, since he assumed me to living in AC all the time and used to the classiest forms of luxury in my everyday life. I'd like to live a life like that, but no thanks! I'd rather be on my own. And by that train of thought, I was having a ball. Yes, I did miss checking my mails and the occasional facebook, but I could live with that. The kids were playing nearby and guruji's two grandsons, Hare Rama and Hare Krishna were leading a group in what looked like a political procession. When we were children, we played office, school, doctor and kitchen scenarios. But the dirty party politics in the Midnapore has made children learn to play "politics" at the young age of 8 and 11. Disgrace!

I tried to get the attention of the kids by holding up a packet of candies. They came running, but some of them went the other way. It took me less than three minutes to know that those kids had gone to call the others who were in their houses and would lose out on the candies if they didn't come and get them. Now, random women, who came in also made excuses like they'd been working the whole day and their throats were parched so they deserved some candy. Still others who said that their grandchildren, nephews or nieces were at home and couldn't come, so if they could take some candy back for them... It was amusing, and I distributed candy to everyone, making sure no one got extra (since, now there was only very little left). The smiles and the cheer made being there worthwhile. And the kids got friendlier with me every time I distributed the sweets. It was a good feeling. Too bad that I kept thinking of relating all this to someone who would listen with interest. Some part of me inside was still sore and discontented.

A Mad Trip Into The Mad World of my Mad Family - Part II

2010-09-25T16:33:00.002+05:30

Like in all comedy of errors, for a drive that should have ideally taken us only two and a half hours, it took us a good six hours to reach Guruji's house in a hamlet in Temathani, a little ahead of Katakhali. The route got more difficult as we neared his house. Kachha roads, made slushy and slippery in the rains, narrow enough only to precariously accommodate our car's breadth on it's extreme ends. Dad was driving with calculated confidence, uncle was holding on to his seat, as if it were his dear life, and aunty and mom letting out yelps of fear with every lurch and calling out to the Gods to protect us. I was unconcerned, confident about dad's driving skills, but worried that the Gods might punish us again for the shrill shrieks of the women were annoying, distracting and scaring dad more than the tricky road ahead of us.

We reached our destination at around noon and toppled out or the car, feeling suddenly clammy - because of the humidity after the AC and the shy, almost reverential and somewhat inquisitive gazes of the dozen or so village children who had appeared from nowhere. Afraid of annoying us in any way, they kept shouting instructions to each other keep out of our way, except aunty's, who was a regular to Guruji's abode in the hamlet. The kids had come to expect her to distribute candies to them every hour. Guruji's own and adopted family of sorts came rushing out with sunny smiles and welcomed us with a lot of warmth. It was all very endearing and nice.

Guruji has made his house himself, with some assistance from his man friday - Prahlad, the local carpenter, a semi-trained electrician and an amateur mason. (Guruji is actually an engineer by education, he turned to spirituality quite late in life). It's a clay house with two floors, and very cool despite the infamous Bengali summers. The bathroom and toilet, located on the ground floor is tiled, and has a tubewell that brings in the water from the pond located behind the house. There are no taps. It was fun using the bathroom (okay... I know I am sounding crazy now). The kitchen was huge and as guests, we weren't allowed to enter it, and we were always served our food on banana leaves on the floor in the area outside the kitchen. It was all so simple yet so lovingly done for us, and it reminded me so much of my childhood and the weddings and occasions in those days, when eating on the terrace, on banana leaves was the happy ritualistic norm.

Dad, uncle and guruji had meetings set for the day, where dad, being a businessman, was to tell the local farmers, fishermen and small traders how to conduct their businesses or transactions more efficiently and improve their standard of living, and maybe make them aware of government initiatives that could save them from being swindled by middlemen. After they were gone, aunty and mom and I sat with the ladies for a short while and then got back to resting, for no one had had sufficient sleep. Post lunch, that consisted of lots of deep fried vegetables - begun, potol, aaloo, bhendi- maachh bhaja, maachher jhol, shukto and bhaat (fried brinjal, pointed gourd, potato, lady finger, fish fry, the famous Bengali fish curry, a special Bengali preparation with all kinds of vegetables and rice), satisfied and full, we went back to our room again and this time I slept soundly.
[Pssst... don't judge me, but I think I wrote these lines about food the fastest and most enthusiastically. An Oriya does love food.]

The evening was balmy too, but the cool breeze wafting and bringing along with it a beautiful combination of scents of summery blossoms made it very pleasurable to sit outside in the temple's courtyard. The temple, also built by guruji in 1982 is a Radha-Krishna temple, small, but beautifully and dutifully managed. The evening aarti was done and the incense of sandal and jasmine too soothed and calmed us. I was listening to songs again, this time on speaker, while mother and aunty were talking (yes, again! some calibre they have!) I had gotten along the packet of candies for the kids and after I distributed it among them, I made friends with them as they played with my cell phone and scrolled across its menu using the tracking ball. They were thrilled and in wonderment. The eldest among them was 10 years old. They go to school and seemed aware about a lot of things when I quizzed them about their studies. But it was funniest when the tracking ball was scrolled down to the internet icon, and looking at the animation one of the younger in the lot exclaimed in excitement, "hai go! pruthibi ta ghuriya jaye re!" (Hey! The world's going round!)

The kids took me around the hamlet, showing me their playground, the guava trees they play near and their school. It was a nice walk, except for the uncomfortable feeling of being stared at like I were a celebrity. It was embarrassing initially, but once I smiled back at a few ladies outside a house, they started to talk to me, and it wasn't as embarrassing anymore. I came back to guruji's house once it was dark and there were so many mosquitoes, I was afraid that an armada of them would carry me off to some other place. Also, the power supply chose to give up on us. Apparently it was the weekly evening haat that day, and so, the voltage was very low. Amidst all the voices around me, I sat thinking about the way my life had been shaped by recent events. I had been pensive, a litttle hopeless. I was quite directionless at the moment.

We kept sitting in the courtyard till about 9:30 pm, occasionally chit-chatting with the household women, till dad, uncle and guruji came back from their meetings. They seemed tired and the day ended quite uneventfully, with simple dinner and all of us retiring to our rooms for the night. While uncle and dad slept in guruji's study (which had a couple of nice beds laid out), and aunty, mom and I shared another room on the first floor. The pooja was to be tomorrow, and I had started to feel butterflies in my stomach. I decided to listen to music, and go to sleep to calm myself . I did, only by thinking of some nice moments I had had and some comforting words I had been told. I had a feeling I was going to handle things just fine. After a long time, I smiled myself to sleep, not a happy smile; but just comforted enough.

A Mad Trip into the Mad World of My Mad Family - Part I

2010-09-23T11:28:00.004+05:30

DAY 1
After barely four hours of very interrupted sleep, my cell phone clock decided it was time for me to wake up and blared out Enrique Iglesias' "Be With You" with a hope that I wake up all grinning and smiley dreaming about Spanish hunks. Wrong! I grunted and groped for the damned instrument and tried to switch it of, all with my eyes tightly shut. It chose to hang just then, forcing me to prop myself up on my elbows, prise it open and pull the battery out to silence it. Apparently, even delicious Spanish hunks are unwanted when a tired woman is trying to get some sleep. Alas! Only sleep was not to happen. For in a house that is being remodelled, and only one bathroom in the house (tragically attached to my room) to be used by four other people to get ready for the road trip, the traffic flow in and out of my room was incessant and desperate attempts to snooze were futile.

Leaden feet, scowls and some hurried freshening up later, I was ready and waiting next to our car in the parking lot by 5:45 am. There were five of us making the trip - Dad, Mom, Dad's childhood friend, his wife (they were in Calcutta to shop for their son's wedding in November) and I. The men and I couldn't figure out what was taking the women so long. We forgot to account for the gazillion "last minute things" they always have to do and, of course, the obligatory morning pooja before they started with their destination for the day. According to them, that would save us from any mishap during the journey. I cringed inwardly while I nodded vigorously in agreement, obviously to avoid a lecture on religion and spirituality first thing in the morning. I was also left wondering if God liked being woken up form his sleep at such ungodly hours.

With dad at the wheel, uncle next to him and the three heavy-weight ladies stuffed in the back seat of an Indigo Marina, already bowing under the weight of luggage that was loaded till the top of the boot space. The rear view glass was blocked with bags of all shapes and sizes, and how can we Oriyas forget that one big bag of ready to eat food packed for any time we felt hungry, or even plain bored? We hit the streets of Calcutta at 6 am. The roads were damp from the rains of the previous night. So was the paint on the old building walls that are the charm of the city of joy. I was seeing Calcutta this early in the morning after a really long time, and it was reminiscent of the morning walks and the chai at thronging Maharani tea stall on the way back home.

Sweepers cleaning the last day's garbage off the roads; newspaper delivery trucks and the stall men negotiating the day's numbers; the pharmacist in a 24X7 medical store asleep on the chair behind the counter in his shop; morning walkers, some with their dogs, briskly walking their routes, kachuri-tarkari and cha stalls with the same morning walkers milling around them; the park benches seated with the retired dadus and the still chirpy and bossy didas indulging in their customary laughter club meetings and the famous Bengali adda... and the sounds and smells that accompany these characteristic sights of my dear city.

For the first half-an-hour, I take all of it in, letting my senses bask in the explosion of things so pleasant, thanks to my dad's need for a cigarette. Once mom started complaining about her hair getting messed up in the wind, we had to roll up the car windows. Mom and aunty got into talking abut their kind of stuff and dad and uncle engrossed in recalling the road trips they took while in college. I was thankfully not required to be active in either conversation. After having caught interesting snippets from both pairs, I plugged my ears with earphones, closed my eyes and let go to the great medley of songs that I had painstakingly transferred to my cell phone the night before. Yes, that is why I had had only four hours of sleep and the comedic story warrants another blog post dedicated solely to it.

We stopped for some coffee at a highway dhaba and to buy flowers for pooja in a village on the way (why flowers and what pooja you ask? Hang on.). Somewhere in Medinipur (WB), there was a flat tyre, which I helped dad change, and pulling out all the heavy luggage from the trunk of the car and rearranging it in the manner of a jigsaw puzzle was no mean feat. There were two suitcases, seven bags, a huge carton containing some 150 sarees and two cartons full of food stuff to be delivered (hang on!). I also hired a van and went some couple of kilometers backwards on our route to get the flat tyre repaired. So much for the early morning pooja to appease the Gods to let us have a safe and not-troublesome journey. I bet they were peeved at having been woken up so early and they had decided to teach us a lesson. I had dragged uncle along, and we were having fun. My parents thought I was in the adventurous mode. Truth be told, they have never seen me in my true form.

For all those who are not used to rural Bengali colloquialisms, a van is a cycle driven cart - used to transport things and people over short and not-so-long distances. The way I took a lead to go and get the tyre repaired came as a shock to my parents. Mom got motivated too, and offered to come along, riding on the van, with her legs dangling down its back, her expensive crepe saree's pallu wrapped around her and tucked into the waist. Only after we convinced her that she would get a backache and her saree would be ruined, did she grudgingly relent. The songs playing on the repairman's mobile phone were predictably 90s, but brought back zingy memories of their terrible picturisations and made me double up with laughter- insanely popular (how?why?) songs of Jeet, Jaan Tere Naam and Daag - the Fire! That done, we resumed, on a route I had not seen before on our innumerable trips to Bhubaneswar. But it had been a while since I drove down there, and I just assumed it was a newer route. How wrong could I be!

I still did not ask any questions. But during the changing of a second flat tyre (yes, in a matter of 30 minutes!), bang in the middle of the morning haat in another village, I heard my mother tell one of the many helpful men who came forth to help dad change the flat tyre that we were headed towards Katakhali. I was taken aback. My feelings bordered on gross indignation. I felt cheated. I did not know what to say. The name 'Katakhali' rang no bell, howsoever tiny, in my big head.

It was after we thanked these men and plonked ourselves into the car again, that I asked where we were actually headed towards. "Why? We're going to Guruji's ashram. I thought you knew. There is a pooja in your name tomorrow, you know, to help soothe your temper."

That flared my temper again, but I decided to look as calm as peace itself. I clamped myself shut to avoid being bombarded with advise about how a girl needs to be calmer, cooler, more, well... more like a "girl". Uh oh! That didn't help. There was still a barrage of advise from dad, mom and aunty. Uncle hates talking too much, and he looked at me, silently extending his apologies and sympathies for the ordeal I was in.

I have nothing against Guruji. He seems to be a nice man and he doesn't force me into believing or doing anything I don't want to. He and I have had discussions about dogma, spirituality, religion, and life in general. In fact, what I appreciate most about him is that he is a karmayogi and that he respects my opinion and my questioning nature.

But I was irked; for the sole reason that I was not told about this puja and I was going to be forced into sitting for it. I breathed deep and decided to make the best of what was to come. It would be my first stay in a village and I intended to have my share of fun. I stuffed my ears to the strains of 'Come Undone' and looked out of the window with something akin to excitement and dread brewing in my gut.

Healing Showers of Pain

2010-09-13T00:30:00.003+05:30

Thundershowers at almost midnight in a warm sultry Kolkata....! Tupur tapur on the window sill... multiple tiny rivulets flow along the glass panes making for a pretty picture... I look through the glass to see a distorted world... The cynic in me laughs and says, "As if it ain't distorted enough yet..."

The distant streetlamps are a pretty blur behind the curtains of shimmering falling water. The streets a field of skittling raindrops, as they hop, skip and jump and finally settle in the lap of a comforting puddle... The puddle itself trembling with the tremors of quietening every single raindrop it absorbs... Absorbing into itself its every turmoil, its every fear, its every shiver...

The distant sound of thunder like a drum roll... Calling out to solitary souls to rejoice in the storm... To let it wash away the pain, the hurt, the anger, the pessimism... To let it take over the barren and fill it with something of splendour... If only I could let it... For pain seems to have made its home now... Unrelenting, unmoving, uncaring...

Sigh!! How I still only crave for what I cannot have...

~~o~o~o~~

The past catches up

Overshadowing my now

Blinding the paved route ahead

I twist and turn

I fiddle with its stronghold

I try to break free

I writhe, wanting to escape

I am pushed forwards

By the same past

That catches up with me

And cruelly taunts me

My Blessings in Disguise

2010-09-07T15:41:00.002+05:30

Along the shore of life, I stop, turn and look
The footprints of memories - some fresh, some fading,
Some undesirable ones washed away by the waves of time,
The precious ones protected by pretty gilded rocks.
I retrace my last few steps, walking past these timestamps
They come alive; the hues of cheer and bonhomie all intact

The fulfilling friendships, the contented loves and the happy romances
The artsy stuff that brought me joy, the talks about movies, the books,
The unimaginably pretty women who made them good (don’t ask!)
Those booze nights with that special girlfriend and roomie,
Laughing with her over the hush-hush girl stuff
And hugging each other in the middle of the street just because…

The jokes in the balcony, the unbridled laughter and the wisps of cigarette smoke,
The late night chats, the heart to heart with a new friend.
Friends old and new pulling my leg, having me believe a distant light a spaceship
The noisiness that made us all feel at home,
Repeated invites for dinner which I regretfully refused
Meaningless banter in retrospect feels like the most meaningful times I spent.

The walks along the streets of cities that made me
The lone times that left me to play with my fancy
The random e-mails reminiscing an old joke, or making a new one
The visits to the quadrangle that gave me a second family
Fighting over movie show times, over what food to eat
Over where to go, over why a dream won’t ever be real.

Talking to the phantom who brought along stories of his own
He’d ask me to stay, but I’d unwillingly have to go back to my reality.
Sharing the last bit of absinthe conspiratorially with a long-lost partner in crime
Playing with dainty raindrop beads on the balcony railing
While singing out aloud a tune that friends loved to hear me sing
Among thoughts that made sense, thoughts that didn’t,
There were premonitions and scary omens
Pushed back into unheeded corners of my head as soon as they came.

Warmth in my heart on seeing my friends find love and companionship
The bittersweet bye-byes after every time we met, the hugs, the tears
And the promises to meet very soon again
The 4 am phone calls to make sure I was okay every time my heart broke
The other 4am calls to just tell me that they care, they are there
Still others that told me they were just missing me
And the indescribably cherished times we all shared.

Places, people, episodes, quotes, laughter, hugs and the random fight
All vividly painted in a collage of honest illusions that happened
As I close my eyes, they replay one by one, bringing back
A treasure trove of laughter, smiles and sometimes, uncontrollable guffaws
I hold them close, those bits of my life trying to fix something broken inside
Their warmth comforts my tired and drained core
The incompleteness forgotten, they lull me into a peaceful slumber

Life's Deceptions

2010-09-06T00:44:00.001+05:30

Little drops of sadness, draining the mirth out of a forlorn heart;
Small meaningless sounds betray the sentiments wanting to tear apart.
Those few tender moments of covert contentment and long sighs
Spent in gently tracing the lines of something running deep inside.
It touches through the skin, the flesh and the claret flow of life,
Seeping into an unknown cold corner to light a gentle and inspiring glow
Warming and bathing in a mild glaze memories that were born.
With every touch a spark, every breath a sigh, every word a caress,
Melting the stony faithless skeptic into a breathing believer of happy existence.
Tricks to deceive gullible souls looking for the chance of finding love,
Played by a sick sadistic force treating itself on cries of loss, fear and barrenness-
There wins fate's machination over a humble spirit looking for nothing but company.
Left behind is only a carcass of a hopeful hazy illusion of what could have been.

Crossroads

2010-09-01T15:08:00.001+05:30

I am at the Crossroads again
One dream lined route pulls me towards it with promises galore
My fate seems to be pushing me towards the bleaker, darker, lonelier path
'Twixt the pull and the push, I stagger, swagger, lose sight of where to go

My eyes play tricks on me, deceiving me with nightmares
Groping about on slimy loveless labyrinthine walls in pitch blackness,
My eyes play tricks on me, treating me to delightful fancies
Holding hands and staring blissfully at the clouds in our outspoken silences

My heart, still beeking in the sunshine of Utopian amour
Skipping a beat now, and pulsating then with wild tribal rhythms
I shake myself out of the reverie, sigh, and try to choose from what's before me
Oh the pull and the push! you are the cause of all this misery

As this air of hopelessness hangs low
I only wish for a tide of my fulfilled wish to wash over
My spirit wants to fight the unfairness of it
But all I can do now is succumb and wait for destiny to take a call.

Sinfully Yours.

2010-08-31T00:08:00.001+05:30

In the very ordinary human life I have lived for my 28 years, I have felt, said and done a lot of things considered radical and not-so-ordinary for the people around me. I wouldn’t say all of these people matter. But some of them do, and very rightfully so, whether by me giving them that status in my life, or by virtue of my birth.

I do not call my life ordinary because it has been uneventful. It has been extremely eventful, more so, in the recent past – to the extent of providing a plot for a thrilling and super-racy bestseller. I call my life ordinary because like most other human beings, I have played with and been played by the seven deadly sins, as they’re very famously or infamously known.

I don’t know if this makes me a lesser mortal. I am certain that what follows is not a confession to help me go to heaven. I am also dead sure that this is not to tell anyone about my clandestine affairs with these vices and the pleasures these have given to me. Factors beyond my control have taken charge of the way I should live my life, and in retrospect, I want to know how these relationships have shaped me and the way I conduct myself.

I was always easily angered. I learnt to control it as I grew up and began realizing that it affects my close ones more than it does me. Over episodes of exercising control in the worst of situations and learning to use breathing techniques and humour to sidestep getting my mind passionately entwined with WRATH’s twisted and sadistic form, I can safely say, I have moved on. There are recalls, and they’re not pretty. But WRATH is like a drug, injecting itself into my system sometimes, to haunt me, to make me do things I don’t want to do, and to make love to my destructive alter ego, making it blossom like a parasitic thornbush… poisoning me, making me bleed inside. The sting of the pricks hurting for long after it is gone.

GREED for success in whatever I do. The ethicality of the means and the ends both matter to me. And in this case, my sense of ethicality is quite dictated by general world views of what’s right and what’s not. Cheating during exams, bribing, sabotaging of another’s efforts are just a few no-no’s for a self-respecting a person to accept anything she doesn’t deserve. GREED for more… Knowledge, love, money, respect and all the good things in life. But all of it earned, not snatched or demanded. GREED drives me. Call it ambitiousness, call it madness or call it a personality flaw, GREED drives all of us. I think my longest and most fruitful affair has been with GREED, bringing out the best in me, driving me to get ahead.

It’s close cousin, ENVY lies dormant in me, waking up shaken and agitated only when I am worried about losing what’s dear to me. Invidiousness has never been a problem for me, for coveting what rightfully belongs to another is not something that comes to me easily, or even with effort. It would only lead to discontentment and unhappiness. I’d much rather earn what I deserve. For if I have that ability, I deserve better and I know I will own it someday.

As much as I have tried to love SLOTH, it has never managed to make me feel as loved in its lazy hold, often leaving me alone and lonely on dark nights, while it has gone on to seduce the world around me, into peaceful slumber. Its touch has left me fitfully aware of my sometime over imaginative, sometimes intuitive sub conscious. SLOTH and I share a love-hate bond, with each trying to smugly outdo the other, playfully running away from each other, while yearning for each other.

My best friend through thick and thin, my closest aide at all times, food for comfort, food for joy, food to feel at my best, food to sustain me, food to thrill me, to tell me about places I haven’t set foot on, food to heal… I love GLUTTONY. Looked down upon by my gender, laughed at by most as a weakness, food is my route out of any problem, and into a whirl of some satisfying emotion. And I do not hesitate in admitting so. The tastes, the flavours and the aromas play wickedly with my senses and entice me into living in pleasurable sin forever.

So what do I say about LUST? A word that scares the conformists away, makes the traditionalists cringe and has lately become the standard one word definition of immorality. I LUST– for life, one without rules that tie me down. I LUST – for love, pure and pristine. I LUST - for a lover who will love with for who I am. I LUST – for knowledge of all that eludes me. I LUST – for peace, of my mind and in my world. I LUST – for comfort in the truth that my life is for me to live. My self-indulgence may be sacrilege but I revel in it. Living with LUST is heady. It’s intoxicating and it is addictive. For now, no matter how much I try to go back into the problem free days of abstinence, LUST pulls me back into today, with more push than ever, to strive for a life free of conventions.

In loving and hating all these alter egos, I definitely have not forgotten my love for myself. VANITY has kept me sane. VANITY has let me decide how to treat my other six aberrant dimensions. To have me look good in front of others, but definitely not to deceive; to know that I am right, although not by putting someone else down; and to keeping outdoing myself, only to keep myself ranking highest and the best in my own eyes is my VANITY taking charge of my life. And how it has dictated my life’s decisions! My silences, my speeches, my actions have all been slaves to my VANITY. The only times it has lost is when I have forgiven the wrongs done unto me by the loves of my lives. But now, like a deeply bound, but wounded soul sister, it has reasserted itself, speaking for itself and protecting our honour, whenever I begin to stumble to forgive all those who have hurt it. Ours is a respectful and respectable liaison, bordering on blind reverence. My deepest relationship yet.

The seven sins and my interactions with them define me and they have created my identity. The varying degrees of our interplay with them form our characters, making each one of us different from the other. Had we all been the truly “pious” sorts, we’d all have been mirror images, rendering the world predictable and lacklustre. Dharma, religion and spirituality should lead the way, but allow for pragmatic means of drawing inferences. I am again not claiming to be an authority on the subject; far from it. This is just my supposition in a world where I am the lord of me.

2010-08-18T20:19:00.001+05:30

I grew up being told I am free
I grew up being told I have to choose for myself
I grew up being told I am responsible
No wonder I grew up with misunderstandings, and being misunderstood

Day in and day out, as I make my life’s choices
I struggle to understand what is more desirable
To do what I would like to be seen doing
Or that that I would like to see myself do

My coterie defines me, is my identity, I am told
Oh my life has become such a reprehensible charade
As I shamelessly flit in and out of roles I am born into
As I shamefully admit to myself my dual existence

An uncanny paradox is my story
For among the numerous characters inside me
And the various people outside I aim to keep pleasing
A loneliness still engulfs me, closing in on me more by the moment

I panic, I splatter and sputter, coming up for air
Only to be pushed beneath that overpowering surface of artifice
By the doppelgangers who have gradually taken over my life
Sucking up to everything I hold dear

I cling to that fundamental part of me; the tenacity clawing into my flesh
Tearing the sinew and bruising my heart and mind, body and soul
The frightened two-faced visage retreats into its once naïve, vivacious shell
To lie forever in bloody filth… scarred by its self-inflicted deceptions

And Then She Said, "Bye Bye"

2010-06-21T23:03:00.002+05:30

Is it a bruise I see? Or just an evil shadow cast on her face? She smiles as I wish to touch her to know what that dark aura is about. I reach out, touch her pale alabaster face. It feels cold and she flinches not. I poke and prod, but all she does is sneer unfeelingly and all I do is feel smooth indifference

She seems familiar though, some one I used to know... But the eyes had love in them. The lips had curved in warmth then. The hands had always reached out to help sincerely. The heartfelt words and tender embraces had healed numerous broken hearts, mended minds maimed by misunderstandings, warded away despair and soothed pained bosoms.

She no longer seems the same. I try to find her, but she is lost in the maze of betrayal. Her thoughts made sense only to her. Her life made sense only to her. To confirm and to believe she wanted, only to her ideals. But her ideals were not meant for the people who made her world. She searched for that soul who would know her, love her and be hers for who she was. All she found were illusions of understanding and of love. Her heart broken and trampled upon innumerable times, what defines her now is cynicism, sarcasm and satire.

She is now the hardened by the expectations that others use to define her, yet she wants to be vulnerable. She defines herself with her rigid beliefs that she would willingly soften for a little understanding and respect for who she is. She wishes for dreams to come true in a world that seems too practical and set in logical equations for "Give and take" doesn't really define her relationships.

Just as it strikes me who I am looking at, the stony facade drops just that little bit and I catch a glimpse of sadness. But before I can ask her to stay, she hurriedly leaves and I lose sight of my soul, buried deep under expectations, conventions and societal norms. All that remains is the pale, unflinching, unfeeling, sneering cold visage.

Seduced by the Rains

2010-05-14T00:05:00.002+05:30

As the gusts of winds, smelling of moist deccan soil fill my senses, and the pitter-patter of rain hits my face with loving stings, I see my hand outstretched to hold that elusive beauty, but see the raindrops trickle down my palm and fall off my fingertips. The sensuous chill make the goose bumps on my arm tingle that wee bit more. The songs of Shaan and Mohit Chauhan make my heart skip those couple of beats. But just then the low growling thunder sounds like it is imitating and laughingly mocking my heart that is drumming with the beats of the rain. The feel of the soft carpet of gulmohar petals on the balcony floor created by the messy and impish wind takes my breath away.

The whole experience is playing havoc with every pore of my being. I feel that smile gradually pulling the corners of my lips wider. I feel the tickle as the drops of water teasingly and very slowly move along the length of my arm. I feel the warmth of an unbelievably loving emotion inside me despite the coolness of the rain and the wanton breeze. I feel thankful for being able to be part of this spectacle when nature decides to be at its playful best. I feel elated, for absolutely no reason. I feel somewhat wild for standing in the rain with open arms, facing the sky, and my eyes closed. It’s about soaking in the experience with reckless abandon. The heart takes over reason and logic and the world seems a better place cleansed of all evils!

But Now I Cry, I Wonder Why?

2010-05-14T00:03:00.002+05:30

It happened suddenly, and then it happened over time;
That extraordinary magic was beginning to wind.
Hopeful eyes spoke volumes of the softness of the heart
And our smiles shyly touched the other’s mind

It was meant to be, I beamed when I thought
Nights of sleep were in a happy frenzy lost
The sky was azure; I was in love I was sure
But now I cry, I wonder why?

Staring at the dazzling moon on cloudless nights
Filled my heart with a resplendent faith.
In my secret world I saw us enclosed in togetherness
There was nothing there that could shatter my soul

Life will be good, I told myself
I fought all fears, overcame all dreads
The nights’ silver clouds were a perfect home
But now I cry, I wonder why?

The playful raindrops drew me pictures of sparkling verve
Drenched in ecstasy my steps were bolder, assured, in love,
The ardour was tingly and lingered on for long after
Little moments made life my worthwhile

My smiles grew wider, full of conviction
The feelings out of their shell
Exploding with joyous sensitivity, thrill, delight
But now I cry, I wonder why?

I was hoping for a beginning, but then it ended.
My confidence faltered as I lost it all
It cost my heart many tiny furtive tears
The warmth of love was now unfeeling bitter despair

Sincerity I said mattered most.
It did but not without trust
Shadows blocked every happy thing
I did cry. No wonder why.

Precious vivid memories in black and white
Safely tucked away into that private chapter of my life
With no regret I try to walk on alone
My tears are dry. I cannot cry.

The Devil Wears My Skin

2010-05-14T00:00:00.001+05:30

I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada, a well-known chick lit made even more famous because of the well received movie that goes by the same name. For those who came in late, the “devil” in the book’s title alludes to one of the main characters, Miranda Priestly, again inspired by Editor-in-Chief of Vogue magazine, Anna Wintour. What had made me like the movie was Meryl Streep as Miranda, and while her rendition of the character lent it layers and dimensions as compared to the solely evil description in the book. In fact, I was so taken by her performance that every act, gesture, the raising of the eyebrow and dialogue that Miranda had in the book had me picture Meryl doing it, with her unreadable face, trademark white hair and classy timeless attire – all in place.

I kept turning page after page to see Andy slaving away to Miranda’s unreasonable demands, only because I wanted to know how she calls the whole thing off. The happiest place in the book for me was when Andy publicly tells her boss to “F*** off” and walks away. I have been thinking ever since of all the times I have heard friends talk about giving in to what their bosses demand, however incredulous. I also thought about the times I had to keep quiet and quietly do what I was told to do. There have been times like them, even though my boss was a great friend and guide when it came to our personal interactions, but in the professional arena, things weren’t so great.

We pass out of college with big dreams and aspirations, and two weeks into a promised job or internship, we might as well check the soles of our shoes to see how badly we’ve managed to stomp over our own big ideas. Agreed that we have to do the “picking up the tricks of the trade” bit first, but we are dismissed in a manner that crushes all sense of self-pride and puts us on the lowest rung on the ladder of our morale.

How many times have we bowed over to accommodate requests that take over our personal lives, our personal time and space? How many of us can boast of not having to spend extra hours after work, trying to meet deadlines that our managers set very unrealistically or just to please his boss? How many times have we heard disparaging comments that are hurtful and demeaning, but kept mum to avoid a bad performance rating or losing the job? Honestly, just when did we start believing that our jobs are more important than our self respect? The very thing for which we get into a job – a earn money and gain respect in the society (as if that is the only yardstick by which one’s respectability quotient can be measured!)

It is not that all bosses and organisational leaders are the same. There are many who command that respect by virtue of being good human being who understand human needs and limitations and their need to be loved and respected. But when I was told by my boss that she saw a lot of her in me, I decided I needed a different perspective in live – simply to grow in another direction. I did not want to be as hated as she was. I’d want people to mean if they ever complimented me and I’d want people to give me feedback without the fear of being gotten back at during annual promotions.

We crib and crib and crib. And just today what I known all this while, has put itself into words for me to write down here: we often do not take decisions based on what will make us happy. We take the easy way out. We choose the easier way to make money by not risking our own capital, skills, talents… We choose to live the banal existence that pushes us to endure new heights of humiliation every day… We to choose to let others subjectively objectify our skills and abilities and grade us based on what work is given to us, and not what we would like to do….

So basically, aren’t we letting the devil take over?

Mother's Day

2009-08-03T16:11:00.001+05:30

Neil looked at his watch again. He was almost late for the lunch meeting with his client. It was a Sunday, and his client lived in the other corner of the city, but who cared about these miniscule details any more? It was all about keeping clients happy so that they feed money to the corporation you work for to grow larger and pay you more so that you could slog more without complaining.

A short distance away, Neil saw a billboard wishing all mothers in the city a happy mothers’ day. Neil cursed himself for forgetting it and decided that since he couldn’t be sure of meeting her today, he would send her some flowers. He stopped at a flower shop to place an order for a bouquet of lilies to be sent to his mother who lived in the town two hundred miles away.

As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the pavement sobbing. Neil asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother. But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars. Neil, ready to do anything to assuage his heart of guilt over not meeting his mother on this special day, smiled and said, "Come in with me. I'll buy you a rose."

He bought the little girl her rose and ordered flowers for his own mother. As they were leaving, he offered the girl a ride home. She said, "Yes, please! You can take me to my mother." She directed him along a beautiful road lined by green trees and white picket fences beyond which lay hundreds of graves with marble tombstones. They reached the gate of the cemetery. She promptly got out of the car, ran into the cemetery and tenderly placed the rose on a freshly dug grave, so as to not hurt her mother.

Neil looked on with surprise. He felt ashamed for prioritizing his job over his mother, the woman who had made him what he was today. He stroked the girl’s head, turned back and returned to the flower shop. He canceled his order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother’s house to tell her how much he loved her.

Autopsy of a broken heart

2009-06-27T15:07:00.000+05:30

One day I killed a heart and invited my love specialist friends to perform a post-mortem. I stood over the heart, which was kept on a plate, smiling with mirth and euphoric over my victory. I ripped it open with a knife and all of us bent over it to know – what all a lover's heart contains? All of us had wished that someone dies for us but I was the first to make a heart die for me. What a prized possession it was! Believe me, the joy of having a lover to trample over his feelings, to kill emotionally – inch by inch and to know someone is completely at your disposal, is unparalleled. Call it the vanity of the beloved or whatever but it gives such a high to kill a heart.

I killed that particular heart easily. I kept my eyes open to see, who's the most vulnerable and reliable of the lot and went for the kill. When I saw her coming under my spell, I started ignoring her. It perplexed her and she started pursuing me with all her might. One moment I smiled at her, the other moment I smiled at her rival. I took all favours from her as my right, made her run errands for me, mocked her inability to fulfil my wishes, threw tantrums when it was beyond her means to fulfill those dainty desires. When I saw her completely in my power, I knew it was the time to murder her. I did nothing much, just smiled sweetly and bid 'adieu', stating that I am seeing someone else. That finished her and that's how her heart landed on the plate for a post-mortem. Well, the dissection began. The heart was of a peculiar quality, it was as soft as a new-born babe. I did not dare touch it again with knife. As we stooped to examine the contents, we were too stunned to speak. It was so rich – full of beautiful memories. Like a video-clipping it showed memories of yore. There were so many moments I had seen, but not lived.

It showed the day I first met her, shy and sweet with fluttering lashes. It showed her anger and retort, when others called me a flirt. It showed me her loving care, when I caught cold and sneezed. It showed me, her anticipation of my wants and his attempts to fulfil it beforehand. I saw her preserving those ugly gifts I tossed at her from time-to-time in the name of love. I saw her holding on to my hanky and crying at the time when I had called her names and quarrelled for the first time. I saw her, waiting endlessly for me on chilling nights, when I had chosen to ignore her and hang out with other friends. I saw her, insecure, silent, pathetic, completely at my disposal – a victim of my love game. I saw her gazing at my face for a smile, for approval, for love and what she got was selfish affection. I saw her wincing, her confidence failing, whenever I angrily called her a failure, a stupid loser. The heart showed me her gradual ruin when I shunned her – her lost faith in herself and went into depression. she faltered in studies and became an all-round failure, but one thing revived her even on her deathbed – my name. She would whisper my name in her dreams, sigh and wait for me always.

The day I said I would never come back to her – she died but with smile on her lips and with the hope that I will come back. Something like a tear fell from my eyes on remembering that hollow-eyed familiar face as the heart played another masterpiece - a sweet-sad love symphony. There was also a little love note for me, which said, "Kill me but my love for you will never die." The note was tear-stained. There were other masterpieces also but I could not bear to see them, as my heart was dying. Agitated and guilty, I brutally cut her heart into pieces. But what oozed out was love, love and more love. My friends deserted me on seeing me frenzied and called me a love-maniac. I was left alone with nothing but a dead heart for company. The heart that died painfully was mine; her heart revived and lived, sustained by my tears and memories. I lost all.

Love, Lost? ...or Found?

2009-05-29T02:52:00.000+05:30

Why did you promise me the world?
When all you could give me were a few charming dreams
Some which were fated to see light of the day,
Whilst others that were doomed to drown in the oceans with the setting sun...

Why is it that the heart desires all or nothing?
A deceitful predicament that shall shatter my being in any case
You can't have it all, so the pain comes in much later (and stronger)
Or, you have nothing, and you live with regrets...

Why the guilt if you smile in times of pain?
Why is the world sometimes bleak despite the shiny sun
And the twinkling stars that have never lost their luminiscence?
A soft sigh to break your heart,
Or a smarting quote to make your heart writhe in miserable torture...

The one that loves you most, hurts you most.
But why feel the hurt if you love?
Questions galore and answers none,
A riddle called life destined to run
Through rain, wind, snow and sun -
You find your soul and the race is won.

The Truth Can Kill You

2009-05-29T02:36:00.000+05:30

Ever wondered why it is so difficult to handle the truth?

Why is it so important for me to live up to expectaions and yet have none? I am human too, and in expectations from myself and the people I choose, I find it perfectly humane to be able to do so.... give and take, the basis of all relationships, professional... and PERSONAL. Why is love called unconditional, when it is not?

It kills me bit by bit every single time I have to face the truth that nothing is mine to stake a claim on - no material object, no intangible feeling, no relationship. And yet, I make the same mistake over and over... of wanting to hear what I want to hear, or of wanting people to accept me as I am, and for them to do what would be considered as "understanding me".

I have often said, "I am the way I am, and it is up to the other person to accept me or not". Too bad, I so want certain people to accept me, and I am wiling to go to lengths to mould myself in any which manner possible to gain weightage in the eyes of my near and dear ones. And guess what, intentionaly, or unintentinally, I am rejected. I go and dwell in self depreciation and a feeling of utter dejection till I am on the verge of losing the very last ounce of my sanity.

Right now, I am under the influence of one such heartfelt loss. It makes me think of all those beautiful yesterdays full of unspoken promises, dreams of a perfect and happy world, and a satisfied soul juxtaposed with a sense of a hauntingly sonorous and echoing emptiness, my hands trying desperately to grab and hold on to the virtuality of the past, but groping about failingly to only find real emptiness and a complete sense of loss.

I am lost. So lost... My expectations had laid a part of the foundations of the years to come, but I keep forgetting, fairytales don't come true. They are just dreams. There are no "...happily ever afters". And when the foundations are imaginary, what do I build my future on???

Spoken arrows, Dying butterflies

2008-07-03T17:17:00.000+05:30

I don't know where I picked up this trait from? The one that pushes people I love far away from me and the sincerest and truest apologies that I have to offer afterwards hold no meaning. The hurt is done. An arrow once shot can never be brought back. This particular trait of mine makes me go through bouts of depression, because I know I have caused tremendous pain to a loved one for no fault of his / hers. Everytime, I decide it has to stop at any cost, and all I come up with, are more such knives slicing hearts savagely. Makes me feel no less than a psychopathic cannibal.

I have this strange urge to have the final say in everything - insane argument, sane debate, fun interaction, lazy friendly banter, leg-pulling, professional discussion. I have this weird need to be "heard". I am loud, brash and extremely hurtful when I have to prove a point. And trust me, the problem has lately been growing to a level that makes it extremely uncomfortable for me. And I firmly believe it has something to do with a strange sense of insecurity. Not the type that makes me doubt anything or anyone, but the sort that has me fearing the loss of something extremely valuable to me. Something that'll break my heart into a zillion pieces if I don't keep it close enough to me and just let it go away.

I have heard of setting butterflies free and knowing they are meant to be yours if they come back to you. I have done that a few times before, and at the most important juncture in my life, the prettiest and and the most dazzling butterfly came back into my life, filling it with the most vibrant colours and swirling the shades of positivity, imagination, hope and cheer into fervent action. It is the most special feeling I ever felt. But right now, I am scared of losing that beautiful palette to anything else. It's my dream painted across the horizon. It's the most special thing I ever had. It's close enough for you to touch, you think, but you're always too far away. And only I see its significance for me. Maybe you'll see it someday too, but just not exactly the way I see it for me. It's something only I possess. It's mine and I'm guarding it with all my life.

The guarding aspect of it is what stifling the poor butterfly. The same one that filled my mundane life with those bright hues. I am guarding it way too closely, curbing its movement and killing its spontaenity and its ability to fly around me to surround me with all the strength in the world. I am killing it in trying to save it. I am killing myself.

All I am trying to teach my scared, timid heart is, give space, and let your happiness grow. Open up and make the world your cosy nest, just like that special butterfly in your life is telling you to. It'll have to come back to you if your arms are the world. Just wait patiently. Sometimes, it takes more than ten years to get what you've desired all your life for.

Woman

2007-12-12T00:54:00.000+05:30

Have you known her ever?
She, who is of clean mind
And pure heart.
She, who when loved
Loves back in her entirety.
But when challenged
She, personifies the determination
To fight, to exist, to prove herself.
She, whose instinctive nature
Is to nurture
To pass into new hands
The myths, legends, tales, rites
Of aeons ago.
And to show the vision
Of a new and brighter tomorrow.
Of an earth that is free of vices,
Of demons and devils
That strangle freedom
She, who breathes and believes
In the vast treasures of her powers
The power to believe, trust and have faith
In herself and others
In the darkest, lowest hours of life.
The power to face the challenge everyday
To prove herself in a world
Which is lost to her.
A world which breeds and is bred by
Those seeking to rule over the other human.
The power to love, when pained
The power to willingly lose,
Yet not be trapped
By the greed of worthless material gain.
She, is the epitome of patience, passion and persistence.
She, is the one who sees the world
With a new sight everyday.
She spreads lights and colours
As bright as the blossoms in May.
To care, to love, to nurture, to cherish,
She, steps into this world.
Seek and search to find her.
She, is the Woman

Saawariya

2007-11-11T00:31:00.000+05:30

As is a ritual for my mom and me, whenever I am in Calcutta for a break from work, we catch up with the latest release of the season. Om Shanti Om looked liked the regular caper and we thought it would be a much better idea for us to watch the work of a more "serious" director whose earlier works have been quite inspiring and touching. Khamoshi showed promise of a debutant director with absolute freshness in every aspect of the film. Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam is a classic in its own right, with brilliant performances by the lead actors and the supporting cast alike. Devdas was too opulent for my taste, yet I cannot deny the power in the use of the songs and the background score to convey the pathos and tragedy in the protagonists's life. In complete contrast is the songless wonder, Black; in my opinion, Bhansali's most awe-inspiring film. Rani's splendid portrayal of Michelle McNally overshadowed Bachchan's over the top schizophrenic tutor out to do some good in the big bad selfish world and won every humane heart in the audience.

Saawariya has Bhansali's stamp in every small detail of the film. The perfect set in monochromatic tones, with rare yet eye-catching contrasts, the lovely flowing costumes, the soulful background music, the supporting cast that fits the script to the "T" (iornically for the fact that a good script is missing), good acting by the debutant leads and the awe-inspiring cinematography. Everything screams out "Sanjay Leela Bhansali". Sadly, the problem with the film is... it's too perfect. You cannot identify with it. You see the perfection in everything. You see the passion and the obsession that is Sanjay Leela Bhansali, yet that fails to touch your heart like his other movies in the past. The acting is good, a little too dramatised, if you may, yet it fails to strike a chord in the heart of every person who has had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of unrequited love. What could have been a wonderful theatrical play, turns into a monotonous sequence of dialogues and a wee bit of over the top emoting in this day and age when the movies have become "too real".

Bhansali has a wonderful vision of what he wants his audience to see. The problem here is the audience fails to visualise his vision with their eyes. He tries to shove it down the audience's throats and makes it look at the story with his eyes. Not wrong, I would say, but it doesn't leave the audience with much to think and feel on their own. After all everyone experiences the same emotions, but in different ways. Bhansali leaves no scope for any viewer to try and think of fitting into the lead characters' shoes. Either he/she just doesn't want to beacuse he/she finds the emotion unlike anything he/she has felt before and doesn't identify with it, or the viewer finds the protrayal too pristine and beautiful to spoil by substituting the one displaying the emotion.

The end result is, all the reviews I have read of Saawariya are scary. They all talk about Ranbir Kapoor's backside which almost shows in one of the songs...that's all. They don't even say this one is going the "critical acclaim" way, or is a sureshot frontrunner in the Oscar race. It scares me. As much as I find Bhansali an extremely arrogant man, I have loved his movies and his ability to turn the mundane into something extraordinarily beautiful and touching. I respect him for his passion for perfection. I just hope the adulation doesn't go to his head and make him another Ram Gopal Varma, who has lost it completely in trying to reinvent Hindi Cinema. RGV has lost his audience too. Bhanslai's movies have started looking a world independent of other communities and factors outside of his fairyland, something that happened in Black too. I just hope he doesn't start moving too far from reality to be able to connect with his audience - mass or class.

I understand if Bhansali says he doens't want to make blockbusters for the mass, but he wants to make meaningful cinema for the class. But, please at least let us find the meaning in your movies Mr. Bhansali. Don't you know, meaning is what we create? Leave something for our imagination to come up with. Weare quite capable of thinking and feeling, you know. Perfection is great, but ambiguity is what makes life so much intriguing and entertaining at the same time. You are known to reflect lifelike emotions in your movies. Let your movies reflect some of life's ambiguities too.

What I have learnt the hard way

2007-10-14T05:45:00.000+05:30

Not a crime if you want to be different.

Not abnormal if you do what your heart tells you to do.

More to life than talking about things of common sense in a manner which sounds like I have nothing better to do than memorise a thesaurus.

Simplicity – the key to a fun life, loving the simple things in life.

Life is not all about power point presentations, business suits and graphs and statistics. It is neither all about movies, friends and adventure trips. Balance… so easy to talk about and so hard to find. Not claiming that I have found it, but yes, understood its importance.

Experimentation. Crucial to find smarter ways of doing things. Managing a group without a leader. I was a member of a group selling “unconventional” NGO products and still made a considerable profit.

Authority. Not to be scared of. But to be treated with responsibility and respect.

Can be friends with anyone, irrespective of similarities and differences. May not be friends but still can have mutual respect for each other. Need not be rivals to be on different sides of an argument.

Nothing more satisfying than a warm hug from a friend in times of joy or moments of extreme sadness.

Nothing more calming than a patient listener during phases of exasperation and frustration. Giving advices to friends is easy, but one in trouble really appreciates is a listener, not someone who plays agony aunt by jumping to conclusions and giving ready made solutions.

Nothing more exhilarating than being genuinely happy in a friend’s achievement.

Do not take your talents for granted. Absorb from people and situations. Small things that you pick up always help. You may never be able to put these learnings on paper, but that’s ok. There will be times when people will disagree with you, but that’s ok. The fun is not in getting people to agree with you, but in gathering more perspectives and broadening your horizon of thoughts, even though you may not agree.

There is no reason to justify all your actions. There is no real way of labeling something moral or immoral, ethical or unethical, good or bad. It’s all just so subjective.

Actions do speak louder than words. But words can be more scathing than an act of hatred.
To be able to listen without being judgmental is a rare quality. To be able to develop this quality, one has to be a part of groups; not only for academic purposes, but also personally.

Classroom sessions are not the only times when you learn. You learn every moment. But what each one learns is so different from what all the others do.

2006-12-21T22:21:00.000+05:30

I am one of those who often thinks India has no future as long as its corrupt people live by their own rules. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel proud as an Indian. Like in life I have my bouts of joys and sorrows, my feelings for my mother land oscillate between disappointment and unadulterated benevolence. What happened to the murderer of Jessica Lall is what should have happened about a year back, but as they say, better late than never.

The power of public opinion and protest is not to be questioned. Just observing how the media and we, the people got together to demand for the justice that Jessica deserved, highlighted a new angle of the psyche of the ordinary Indian. It reminds me of a song…”Hum logon ko samajh sako to samjho dilbar jaani, Jitna bhi tum samjhoge utni hogi hairaani..”

We may be backward. Lies, bribes, hypocrisy and filthy social habits may have put us on the world map as a “Developing nation”, but, at the same time, Jessica’s murder case has reaffirmed our place as the world’s largest democracy. The sad part is that Jessica is no more to see it happen.

But, do we need such costly examples to check the authenticity of our Constitution?

2006-06-05T14:31:00.000+05:30

Being Me.

22nd day in my first job. Wonderful so far. People are great and supportive. I seem to have the right work/life balance (but, too soon to make such statements…right?) Except for one small problem…

I am a member of a networking site, where a few of my company people have formed a community of sorts. Since I received an invitation to join in, I did. This community also has some people who have left the company for some time now; reasons for which – I do not know.

It all started with nice welcome messages and introduction. Then the ex-employees began sending me vague messages about the company being not a very good place to be in. About the company doesn’t pay too well compared to most other upcoming firms (read-IT/ ITES/ BPO/ Consulting Houses. Our company doesn’t even remotely compete with such organizations!). I got the feeling that he wanted to reaffirm his ill-faith about the company by listening to me say something on similar lines. I could shut him up then, but I know he will try it with others too.

I don’t know why people try to be “guardian angels” for others. They try to come forward, without being asked to, and want to sway our perceptions towards a certain side, one where they would like to create a strong hold for themselves, be leaders of a group that’s anti-something. That, for many, seems to fulfill their power motive. Leaders of thought, however meaningless and unimportant – any day more powerful than leaders in physical force.

I only asked him to let me have the time to form my own opinion about the company. I did not want to be influenced by what others faced here. Experiences shape our perceptions, but I feel, it also happens the other way round. Our existing perceptions also shape our experiences. If I base my perception of my work place on what my “well-wishers” have to say, my experience will not be good, for I shall start seeing everything in a poor light. All attempts of the company to make me feel welcome would be seen as fattening the goat before devouring it.

I am not saying that these “well-wishers” were trying to turn me anti-my company. Maybe they are trying to help me. But, no thanks! I’ll ask for help when I need it. The least I can do to remain myself, is to have my own experiences and judgments backing my decisions and opinions, for life. And there lies the need to be objective.

2006-04-01T11:04:00.001+05:30

I try to feel love in everything I do. When I wake up every morning, I feel love for all the people I know (unless I am in a really crappy mood 'cos of something bad that happened the previous day, and don't know who to blame; rare though). I take every new day as it comes. I believe, loving others has a lot to do with being able to love oneself. Loving oneself doesn't mean being a narcissist (standing in front of the mirror and admiring self). It's being in sync with who I am, being aware of myself, my qualities, talents, my abilities and being perfectly happy with them. Once, I love myself, I can love others. Once I love others, the world is a more beautiful place to live in.

For all those who are wary of love, I might as well say one thing. Giving up on love and giving up on life is not what one should do to live a life free from heartbreaks. Making one's existence vegetable like is not the right thing to do. Life has a lot more to offer than a couple of broken relationships. Wallowing in self-pity is just not done. Introspection is important, but giving up is not. It is one life. Rather than living an eternity being wary of love, one should feel it, experience it and love being in love.

2006-03-31T17:23:00.000+05:30

My closest friends were those from school. At least, that's what I used to think. We had no expectations. We did want to share lunch and pencils and stationery. But we were unaffected with what opportunities we could provide each other with in the future. As I have grown older and made more friends, I find myself lonely in a world where all relationships are based on the motto of 'Give and Take'.

I do not blame anyone. Even I find myself expecting people to behave in a certain way and treat me in a way that I define as perfect. Why is it that as we keep growing our mind conditions itself in a way that we begin to expect patterned behaviour and responses from others around us. The psychic constructs become so strong that the unfulfillment of our expectations have the innane strength to create discord in the relationships we are sent with or the ones we choose to make. One moment we are happy in blissful togetherness, the next leaves a bitter after taste when we realise that 'something' was missing.

Should we be so dependent on the psychic constructs that we ignore the beauty of relationships where people just co-exist with each other and choose to be with each other for the simple reason that they enjoy being with each other? Why has the business related concept of Return on Investments become so poular in case of personal relationships too? Are we so easy to condition? It's woth a thought.

2006-03-29T14:35:00.000+05:30

A quote from a professor set me thinking, "Where the mind takes over, the fear is greater". I feel it is absolutely true for me. There have been times in my life where I have been really scared of learning things because I tried to analyse pros and cons of the actions that would gointo the learning. For example, I was fond of rock climbing. Once, during a camp a friend fell from some height. Thank God she didn't break her limbs, but she was in a state of mental shock for a very long time and started experiencing sudden bouts of anger for no reason. That left an imprint on my mind. I stopped rock climbing completely.

Last year, during a picnic to Lonavla, I was so scared of getting to the waterfall. I am so glad that my friends encouraged me to get there. I enjoyed the entire experience. They engaged me in mindless conversation, which kept me from thinking, "what if I fall?" They, in some way did not let me think too much. All thanks to them, for they did not let my mind, and subsequently my fear take over.

2006-03-28T19:18:00.000+05:30

Plain surprise is what describes the feeling that hit me during introspection the other day. I have no reason to complain about not being happy with life if I choose to feel unhappy. We are sorrowful when we choose to ignore things around us that make us happy. But a friend's question struck me the most. Isn't the environment also responsible for influencing our mood at most of the times? One question leads to another. NO wonder life isn't simple.Also, contexts differ.
Some day, seeing a sunset would mean beauty, an array of vibrant shades across the horizon, and the satisfaction of having lived another day to the fullest. Another day, a sunset would mean the end of something beautiful, arrival of darkness, and thedread of facing another day with its ordeals. Our way of thinking changes from time to time, and from context to context. Can we really control our thoughts so much. If we could, we would all be majorlyself-actualised GURUJIs - the kinds who jump with glee at the prospect of flooding the bookshops with another self-help book.