Aquatic Static

How Some Atheists Make It Harder For Themselves

2012-01-25T00:49:00.000+05:30

The Graham Norton Show tonight.
Rapper 50 Cent is invited to share his history with the audience. Urged on by the host he tells us how he was born to a teenage, drug-dealing mother in one of the poorest & meanest neighbourhoods of America, how he never knew his dad, how his mother was murdered at 23, how he followed in her footsteps and how, by age 12, had become a drug dealer.
Then he talks about the birth of his son and how it profoundly pushed him to move in the right direction (as opposed to his mother, who used his birth to move in the wrong one). He speaks of giving up the criminal life, taking up music seriously and signing up with a top record label. Then he describes getting shot 9 times. And surviving.

When asked what saved him, 50 Cent says it was god.

To which the other guest on the sofa responds (and I'm paraphrasing): If god was watching out for you, why didn't he step in a moment sooner so you wouldn't get shot 9 times?

You Heard It Here First

2012-01-19T21:14:00.002+05:30

It may not seem so today, but decades (perhaps centuries) from now when the feminist movement has achieved & reached beyond its goals, the male-empowerment movement will trace its roots back to this:

(And me? I'll be the visionary who knew, way before it was fashionable to say it, that men are as sexy as women.)

Sahi

2012-01-08T10:28:00.003+05:30

The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty.
~ John Steinbeck

Fiction writing which does not acknowledge the uncertainty of the narrator himself is a form of imposture.
~ W.G. Sebald

He Just Wanted To Be A Real Boy

Book Review

2012-01-03T08:29:00.002+05:30

A friend suggested I might like a book so I googled it. Its review described the author's work by referencing another writer as inspiration. So I googled that writer. His profile brought up two other authors as influences. So I googled them. Their work was described through the styles of yet another army of writers.
If only I owned a library of cliff notes. I'd be reviewing all the time.

Bad Zoke

2011-12-31T08:43:00.000+05:30

This happy new year I want a happy new yaar.

Have A Good One

Grow A Pair

2011-12-22T12:31:00.003+05:30

Three women got together one evening and through a fog of marijuana teetered down a dangerous path. They found themselves recounting their tumultuous adventures with unsuitable partners.
Towards the end of the evening, they converged upon an idea of spending their twilight years together in an Old Hag Home.
Then one friend said: And there'll be a sign outside that says 'Yay Boobies!'
To which the other one added: No entry unless you grow a pair.

She saw me through my angsty twenties and will always be welcome in my Old Hag Home.

Pause For Reflection

2011-12-20T10:19:00.005+05:30

Yesterday something unsettling happened to me. I was at my friend's home and her sister's son came bounding in. He and I have a cordial relationship. We greet each other when we pass in the hall and generally wish each other well. Yet, neither of us has really taken the time to create lasting bonds with the other.
I accept my fault, being inept at relating to the younger generation, just as he must own responsibility for being one year old.

Anyhoo, the little man came bounding along. I was lounging on the bed with my friend (his aunt) and we were debating the importance of woollen socks in winter. Generally, the child tends to shoot in & out of rooms at random so I didn't think much of it until he began to climb my side of the bed. I enjoyed watching the struggle for a while (the little bum attempting various wriggle-based techniques to make the ascent) until I realised that life with babies is not a mere spectator sport. I helped the boy up.

He was generally in good spirits having just eaten a boiled egg and taken a hearty dump and was feeling, I suppose, at one with the universe. He decided to jump on me and envelop me in a big hug. I was taken aback. While he wrapped his ridiculously tiny hands around my neck, my own arms were limp at the sides. What is the protocol in such situations? Does one say 'awwwww'? (I did.) Does one pat the child's head in validation? (I did.) Does one attempt to return the honour? Yes, it seems one does.

And so I hugged the little fuzzball back.

You know those National Geographic documentaries with the 3D animation of how neurons behave, with the whooshing of electrical impulses across the central nervous system? Something like that ensued and suddenly I had a vision. No, not of me cradling a brood of babies (it's surprising how many babies one can cradle at the same time in ones imagination), but of my mother saying - "See, doesn't that feel amazing? Don't you want some of that for yourself? Don't you feel the urgency of your biological clock ticking? Have some babies, won'tcha?"

I had to take pause for reflection.

To my vision I answer: Yes. No. No. No thank you.
I won't lie. The babyness of babies is a narcotic high like no other and I'm not immune to it. I'm down with babies. Babies are fly. I can even accept how becoming a parent could impart meaning to people's existence. I just doubt it would, my own. Of course, were I to have children I'm sure I wouldn't remain untouched by the experience. But must I invite this experience into my life when I feel no compelling requirement to? No argument extended so far has made me change my answer of Oh Hell No.

And there've been several arguments.

1. Perpetuation of the race: A relative was an insistent advocate of this argument. He didn't mean the human race either, he had narrowed it down to our specific Brahminical stock. On pressing him further the conversation entered the murky zone of how we Harvard-going, Padmashri-winning types (see how I inserted a show-off bit here?) needed to outnumber the plastic-bag-picking, garbage-collecting types. To which, I responded - I neither went to Harvard, nor does my barely-scraped-through-college intellect imply I'm winning the Padmashri anytime soon. So if he was refering to how valuable my genes are, they're at best Meh.
His argument may hold water if I were to meet & conjugate with a Harvard PhD-cum-Padmashri awardee, who also happened to belong to my gotra. I haven't met any so far, but if you fit the profile & possess a high sperm count, please contact me. Meanwhile, do excuse me, I have to take out the trash.

2. You'll regret it once you hit menopause: The sword of menopause has been hanging over my head since I first started menstruating in the 8th standard. I was told to expect the maternal urge in my mid 20's. It didn't happen. Then they said - wait till you pass 25, it'll happen. It didn't. Ok, talk to us when you approach 35 and realise you're dangerously close to the finish line. Nope, still nothing.
Because here's the thing: If at age 55, I truly wish to be a mother, there are wonderful options to adopt a child that someone else didn't have place for in their lives (Because guess what? Babies aren't a gift to everyone on this over-crowded and over-burdened planet.) In which case, if I indeed wish to keep the option of parenthood open, my only obligation is to stay fit & disease-free so that I can run after the little terrors even when I'm 65.

3. You are incomplete as a woman unless you give birth: Perhaps. But then you're also incomplete as a woman if you don't follow your passion, if you don't travel, if you don't invest in relationships, if you don't indulge your desires, if you don't perform selfless acts, if you don't possess an education and don't build a professional life.
I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted just reading that list (and it doesn't even include the requisite number of hours one requires for time wastage). I'm guessing all of us have dropped the ball on some of these items in order to pursue the others.

4. But babies are so cute!: This is the most persuasive argument so far. It's true that most babies are kinda awesome (even when they're cranky or poopy) and some of the older ones will say things that'll make you re-evaluate your life. Still, the basic problem I have with this argument is that babies grow up and their cuteness declines rapidly. They become, shudder, these things called individuals and tend to become their own sodding people with shocking alacrity.

5. But your mother needs grandchildren: Sigh. The ultimate diss. What a failure you are as a child to not spawn your own child. It eats me up inside, this selfishness I possess. I have tried to make it up to my mother by being a peace-loving citizen of the world and a generally happy person. When that didn't cut it, I offered to buy her a baby. This overture too was spurned.
******

The pause for reflection having run its course, I snapped back to reality. The boy had dispensed his share of love and was now squirming to get away. I released him after one last squeeze and cheered on as he ran off to chase a fly.

********

Also read: With Apologies to Nike by @chronicusskeptic

Covered In Love by Chidi Okoye

Death Be Not Proud

2011-12-16T20:29:00.006+05:30

Everytime someone like Christopher Hitchens dies, I panic as though the world is running out of seering intellect & fearless folk.
That seems illogical.
Maybe I panic because in the absence of people like Hitch, I'll have to think & be fearless for myself.

Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011: Click here for a reading list

Here's To The Asshole In All Of Us

2011-12-15T22:39:00.001+05:30

...or maybe just the one in me.

December's not been very kind. I've had one health related mishap after another. First my back gave out on me. Then, a mysterious illness that had my mom sticking needles in my bum (it's ok, she's a doctor), a Masterchef-inspired finger massacre with a butcher's knife and finally a sprained wrist caused due to incorrect techniques employed in hooking a bra. I tried gaining perspective on my troubles by reading Christopher Reeve's autobiography 'Still Me' but since physical setbacks don't frequently occur in my life, suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper.

Of course there was the discomfort. But I was also frustrated because every evening I spent in bed was an evening not spent outside. I'm not a terribly physical person (by which I mean, I'm a sloth) but I do love walking. Summers, terrible as they are in Delhi, aren't feasible for long walks. So each winter day is extremely precious.

(The above is a prologue that, I'm hoping, will justify the upcoming telling of my assholey-ness.)

I didn't wait for the back to heal. I did a pilates class with a friend, experienced temporary relief and decided I was cured. A few evenings ago, I hobbled across to the colony's walking track and began a gentle round. Within minutes an elderly gentleman caught up from behind. He must've been in his 80's and was quite sprightly. As we walked shoulder to shoulder, he smiled at me. I smiled back but inside I was seething. The old guy hadn't just caught up, but would soon overtake me. What was that? A pity smile?! I pressed my aching bones into action and made a few feeble attempts to increase my pace. It was tragic, really.

For about five minutes, I pretended to be in a race with the gentleman, who by now had decoded my insanity. He wasn't looking for competition, he was just out for a walk. Now here was this crazy lady trying to out-walk him. There was a bit of a dance, a dialogue without words as our respective speeds did the talking. At some point the wiser one (not me) prevailed and he began peeling off to the right as I veered left. Unfortunately for him, in order to successfully complete this maneuver we'd both have to cross each other.

I should've let him pass but I was still raging in my mind. So I decided to turn left before he could turn right and cut him off sharply. In trying to avoid a collision, he stumbled slightly, then regained his step. As I sped away, like a renegade Salman Khan after mowing down innocents, I looked back shamefaced & mouthed an apology. The octogenarian, who'd reverted to his nimble stride, gave me the kindest 'It's ok, don't worry about it' grin.

This was hardly the first time I'd been an asshole. This summer something weird happened. Something shifted the value system I'd built carefully over the years. A situation presented itself & I wanted to be an asshole. I wanted to be selfish & uncaring. I no longer wished to see the larger picture. I was in full control of my mental faculties. I made a decision to be bad.
The joke was - I did unto others as I'd had done unto me (which had then undone me for a long time). I did the same thing. It was a decision, cold & calculated.

What made me do it? A sense of entitlement that I'd earned the right to be bad after years of being good. Or maybe, I got too impatient with internal debates. Perhaps I thought - 'If I could survive that, others would survive this.' I was definitely greedy.
I deluded myself into thinking that the past justified my present. It was a scary moment and in many ways it burst my little bubble of moral uprightness. Once the bubble burst, I had to question everything I'd been so sure about. If I wasn't good then what was I really? Suddenly words like 'sensible', 'silly', 'intelligent', 'dimwitted', 'honest', 'cruel', & 'thoughtful' seemed too lofty. They needed to be broken down into terms that were less loaded.

So in the spirit of keeping things simple and hoping I don't go rogue again, it's important to say this: I'm a woman who likes to trip up old men to feel better about her trivial problems.
I'm an asshole but I promise I'm trying not to be.

What Would You Do?

2011-12-10T21:12:00.009+05:30

I'm very excited about the Discovery Network's new series 'Curiosity'. They're doing some brilliant & inspired work in popular non-fiction. As someone who's worked in the Indian non-fiction industry for over a decade and is severely jaded, this series gets me energized. So of course, I'm going to plug it like crazy.
********

Writer-Director Eli Roth hosts the second episode of Curiosity that asks - 'How Evil Are You?'
It's a topic I'm captivated by - acts of evil (especially mass destruction) and how evil-doers reconcile themselves to their actions.
Not all the answers can be found in this film, which focusses primarily on a famous experiment from the '60's called the Milgram Experiment, but it's still a fascinating watch.

The film's basic premise (as I understood it) is:

In terms of biology, evil isn't as far removed from 'good' people, like you & I, as we'd like to think.
And that critical moment when you decide between right & wrong action? It's not quite as straightforward as we'd imagine.

Turns out that at crunch time, it's not so much our moral beliefs we employ but those of the top dog who controls our environment. Nearly 65% of us will act, not in accordance with our conscience, but in accordance with the accepted 'code' of that time (Sounds a lot like Twitter, doesn't it?).

Turns out that even if women ran the world, the Holocaust could still have happened. (Sigh. There goes my favourite unsubstantiated theory.)

Turns out that decades of widespread 'sensitization' & awareness about things like genocide, murder, torture etc. have had very little effect on our collective sense of right & wrong.

Turns out empathy is one of the most difficult emotions to feel and even more difficult to act from.

Turns out that you & I will commit acts of evil even as we bury ourselves under excruciating guilt. That we, in the words of Eli Roth, are willing to be 'the torturer & the tortured all at once, never quite comfortable in our own skin'.

This isn't a comfortable realisation: because not only does this mean that you & I could plausibly run death camps, it also means that we can't be quick to judge or distance ourselves from those who do commit acts of evil.

But don't be sad. Turns out that the reverse is also true: that if someone intervenes with positive role-modeling, you & I will suddenly grow balls, rebel against provocative authority figures and refuse to commit evil acts.

To this I'd like to add my own little theory (which is based on little to no research data): I think empathy is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. At its strongest, it can overcome the compulsion of cowing to authority & prevent you from becoming part of the mindless herd. At its best, it can return to you, your sense of self.

*******

John Steinbeck's work touches frequently upon themes of good & evil and what makes us act in one or the other way. His epic novel 'East of Eden' is a generational story that suggests evil is a genetic predisposition (as do certain segments of the Discovery film) but eventually hinges on a biblical word 'timshel', which is a game changer.
In the latter half of 'East of Eden', various characters debate the correct English translation for 'timshel'. One translation of the Bible interprets it as 'thou shalt' but deeper study reveals its true meaning lies in the phrase 'thou mayest'. 'Mayest' offers man a choice in his actions that the word 'shalt' doesn't. Out go any notions of religious compulsions, out goes the excuse 'I commit this act in the name of God'. Steinbeck makes a powerful suggestion that free will exists in holy scriptures and there is no basis for using religion as justification for doing evil (or good, I suppose).

In another of his famous works 'The Winter of Our Discontent', the 'good' protagonist grapples with a critical choice. To commit an act of evil or not. He is torn straight down the middle and, as a reader, one doesn't know what he will decide to do. But once he (and a very likeable 'he' he is too) goes down a path, he commits to it in its entirety. In the final chapter we get a glimpse of the price he's had to pay to make his choice. It's beautiful and devastating and to be frank, even though I've read the book several times, I'm yet to fully grasp it.
********

Also read: Does Evil Exist?: Neuroscientists suggest there is no such thing (as evil or free will). Are they right? (link via @culdivsac)

The Test

2011-12-10T08:14:00.009+05:30

The above video is a popular test to guage which parts of your brain you're most likely to employ in the course of your life. Take a look and note your responses. Now match them to the analysis below:

1. You can't tell which way the figure is turning: You have a minor disability that causes you to insist automobile drivers turn left, while you gesticulate frantically to the right. At best, you will be the butt of humilating jokes. At worst, you will be involved in a terrible car crash. Either way, insist on medical insurance.

2. You think the visual is incomplete without a dancing partner: You are ready for commitment but only if you give up the nasty habit of sobbing 'I'm going to DIE ALONE!!' into your pillow every night.

3. You wonder what the figure looks like when not in silhouette: You are perpetually horny and frequently channelize your productive energies into abusing yourself. You have a bright future in the porn or banking industry but must reconcile to a future where no one wants to shake your hand.

5. You're glad the figure is swathed in black from head to toe: You are a misogynist i.e. lady-hater. Don't worry, this does not mean you're a boobies-&-cooch hater. You just wish they wouldn't express any thoughts, feelings or opinions and stopped serving you cold paranthas dammit.

6. The figure makes you dizzy: You're either stoned, low on blood sugar or need an MRI. You may not live too long or prosper much but you can always switch to watching this.

7. The video makes you mad. You want to kill all videos: You're probably a high-ranking official in the Indian government and enjoy using the word 'sentiments' frequently. Congratulations, you must be rich.

"My dong this long. How long your dong?" ~ Kapil Sibal, Hon'ble Minister of Communications & Information Technology, Government of India

Stupid Mantras

2011-11-23T07:43:00.002+05:30

Live each day as if it's your last.

Really? Do you know what would happen if we actually did that? Lived every microsecond with the spectre of our mortality, our looming deaths? Fear would paralyze us into Tussaud versions of ourselves. Or we'd poop. Like, constantly.
And because we'd be pooping constantly, we'd have to consume constantly. Pooping, consuming. Pooping consuming. Pooping, consuming. The spiral would continue until our bodies were completely destroyed and we dropped dead in a pile of our own waste. Imagine how many years of productive life we'd have cut short because we tried living each day as if it were our last. Imagine the plight of the person who finds our corpse and has to clean up after.

Tell me, is that a risk worth taking?

What do you think happens next?

******

Note: The above corresponds to this blogger's personal views. If you find any ideas or words objectionable please direct your complaints to: http://www.parnasse.com/drwww.shtml

Excellent Deduction

2011-11-22T23:25:00.001+05:30

Aw man! You smell awful!

What d'you mean?

That stink. You gotta do something about it! Phew!

That's presumptuous of you.

Dude! There's no one else here. It's you...god...

Oh really? Think of all the bad smells you've ever smelt...like, in your entire life...

Jesus! What's that going to solve?

What's the common denominator in all those bad smells?

What's the common deno--?! Man, you're crazy! What's that supposed to mean?

Seriously dude, think.

I don't know man...I'm dying here...

Your NOSE, man! The common denominator is your nose.

Excuse me?

Yeah, so quit hassling me & do something about that stink already.

Me No Speaky Rubbish Translations

2011-11-22T10:32:00.002+05:30

So I've been on this Amrita Pritam kick for the last few days (NO? Really?!) and have been wandering through Delhi's bookshelves di galiyan in search of her like a lost-and-found lover (What? Stalker, you say? Huh? I. Can't. Hear. You.)
I will tell you this: the quest for Amrita is not for the faint-hearted, especially if you're faint-hearted and linguistically challenged like me. Because I don't just want Amrita. I want her in a language I understand. I know this is a travesty - after all, we're talking about poetry, where meanings can shift with every little sentence restructure and certain words, well they just might not exist in the language of your choosing.
I'm willing to make a compromise, though. I'll forgo English. Just give me Hindi, ok? I'll figure out the rest. After all, how far can the leap from Punjabi to Hindi/Urdu be?

Ouch

Oh God. Huge leap. Huge, huge leap. The kind that makes you stretch so far out you split your inner seams. The kind that hurts so bad, there'd better be a baby at the end of it all. In short, I never thought words would pain me so.

To my uneducated ears, Punjabi has always seemed like a dance between Hindi & Urdu. As Urdu leans in, Hindi sashays out and when Hindi takes the lead, Urdu gracefully accompanies. The two are never out of step & together create something fresh and evocative.
The translation I eventually found was more like those drunken Unclejis who storm dance floors at Delhi weddings. The Hindi is hard and pushy (and strangely reminds me of L.K.Advani's screechy speeches at public rallies). The Urdu pops in and out most jarringly. The musicality & emotional impact of the original is totally lost in the mayhem.

Now I'm left here like a spurned lover (stalker/ weirdo) with this useless translation filled with cold words. I'm pissed off. I might even commit arson. Create mayhem of my own. Conflagrations of fancy words, jostling with ridiculous college-level humour and needless parentheses (just say 'brackets' will you?). Hell, I'll also throw in some random images because who doesn't like a story with pictures?

This is my ode to Amrita's translator. Take that, bitch.

"I want world peace" ~ L.K. Advani

Amrita Pritam: 'Mera Pataa'

2011-11-15T10:05:00.008+05:30

Aaj main apne ghar da number mittaiyan hai
Te gali de matthe de lagaa gali da naam hataaiya hai
Te har sadak di disha da naam punjh ditta hai
Par je tussa mainu zaroor labhna hai
Ta har des de, har sheher di, har gali da booha thakoro

Ih ik sraap hai, ik var hai,
Te jitthe vi sutantar rooh di jhalak paavey
.........samajhna uh mera ghar hai.

Today I have erased the number of my house
And removed the stain of identity from my street’s forehead
And I have wiped off the directions on each road
But if you really want to meet me
Then knock at the doors of every country
Every city, every street
And wherever the glimpse of a free spirit exists
That will be my home

~ 'My Address' by Amrita Pritam (translation: Raza Rumi)

**********
Also this by Amrita Pritam's partner Imroze, via Nandini Arora (Yes, Nandu, they did ruin it for the rest of us...)

औरत
फ्रांस के एक मशहूर नौवल में
एक पात्र अपने आप से कहता है-
मेरा जी चाहता है
की मैं दुनिया की सब औरतों
के साथ सो सकूँ ...
पर किसी के किसी नौवल कहानी में
किसी पात्र का कभी जी नहीं चाहा
की मैं उस एक औरत के साथ जाग सकूँ ...

सोने वालो को सिर्फ़ जिस्म ही मिलता है
औरत तो मिलेगी
...किसी जागने वालो को ही
-इमरोज़-

Woman

In a well-known French novel,
A character reflects:
My heart desires
To sleep with every woman
in this world...
But is there not any novel, any story,
or any character, who feels:
I wish I could wake up next to that special woman...

Those who desire to sleep, only get the body,
The one who gets the woman
...is the one who is awake.

~ Imroze (Translated, very poorly, by yours truly)

Spooky - Or Are You There God? It's Me, Aquatic

2011-11-14T20:52:00.005+05:30

For the last week this one saying has been following me, popping up in the strangest of places, spooking the bejesus out of me.
First, as a random occurrence on my Twitter feed.
Then on a dear friend's art blog, as part of a beautiful painting that I decided to make my desktop.
And then, just 10 seconds ago, as the opening lines to a documentary I downloaded today.

"There's a crack in everything...

...that's how the light gets in"

~Leonard Cohen

These are the things that make you book the next flight to Lourdes. Or get you put on meds. Or make you re-evaluate your life.

Transformation

2011-11-10T10:06:00.006+05:30

*This post is dedicated to the crazy lady who taught me about the 'Eros' of her 'doodle'. Don't ask.
*********

It's funny how things (and meanings of things) can remain the same while transforming every instant.
Like the famous soliloquy from Hamlet, which acquires new symbolism while retaining its original existential dilemma with the single exchange of the word 'be' with its syllabic doppelganger.

"To pee, or not to pee, that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles..."

"But tal to me, Hamlet, are you sooar?" ~ Horatio

Whatchoo Talkin 'Bout, Willis?

2011-11-06T08:26:00.005+05:30

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How dare you disrespect apples?

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How dare you take Satan's name in vain!!

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How do you know what Satan's balls taste like?

Exactly.

**********

Teen Behenein: A Review of the Reviewers

2011-11-01T23:58:00.009+05:30

Last evening I attended a film screening at the School of Arts & Aesthetics at the Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. The film was Kundan Shah's 'Teen Behenein' (completed in 2005, not seen in theatres till date) travelling the country in its DVD avatar with Chief Associate Director Shekhar Hattangadi. It is thematically rooted in the dowry-related triple suicides in 1988 Kanpur, when three sisters decided to end their lives to save their parents the burden of getting them married off. (The filmmakers are at pains to clarify that this is not a biographical representation of the tragedy. The incident only serves as a take-off point for what is most certainly fiction.)
Cinematically, it's a simply treated film with its share of flaws that other reviewers have described better than I could. As for me, I found it extremely well researched and nuanced in terms of the characters' dilemma, their inner workings and the societal pressures they eventually succumb to.

It wasn't an easy film to watch. I'm one of two sisters fortunate to have been born to people who were excited to have us. (My doctor mother would tell us stories of her patients asking, "Only two daughters? No sons?" Then she'd proudly re-enact the feminist lectures she'd give them.) Growing up, my parents were focused on us getting degrees, building a profession and being financially independent. At no point was marriage the sole purpose of our existence, at no point was getting us married, theirs. Still, the film made me uncomfortable - but for a twist of fate, my sister & I could just as well been the siblings in Teen Behenein.

I was riveted. It brought back memories from when I was 9 yrs old and saw the front-page photograph of three hanging girls - such young girls too - and thinking: what would make you so miserable that you'd want to do that? The film laid it all bare in stunning and painful detail.

Then someone in the audience giggled. Her laughter caught on and soon her friends were giggling too. I can't claim to know what they found so funny but was taken aback by how different our viewing experiences were. Once the screening was over, the floor opened up to questions & comments. No one was curious about the characters or the story (or even the process of arriving at that particular cinematic treatment) but there were plenty of comments - some felt the film had a 'narrow' perspective because the girls had no aspirations besides marriage & that dowry was too trivial a matter to elicit suicidal decisions. Some commented on how showing the sisters deriving strength from praying to Krishna was too 'romantic' and 'took away from the seriousness of the issue'. Other commenters, Shekhar told me later, took offense at the portrayal of educated young women, who 'gave in so easily'. 'Feminists', Shekhar said, were amongst the least impressed with Teen Behenein's story.

To me, their comments indicated a fundamental disconnect with the reality that countless Indian women live out every single day. It is a hard fact that, like in the film, many women are brought up to think they are mistakes, that they are the sole cause of their parents' unhappiness. (Like in the film, it is also hard fact that these women are often highly educated.) It's fact that these women derive their sense of belonging from their marriage-worthiness. Fact that they don't see education as a stepping stone to emancipation. Fact that they do not define emancipation the way I do. Fact that some of them subvert their identities to such an extent that, like the eldest sister in the film, they believe even their dreams don't belong to them.

Earlier this year, while researching reproductive health issues I interviewed a bunch of young married girls, ironically, in Kanpur. Many were college graduates yet couldn't speak to me directly. Every time they tried, their mothers in law would answer on their behalf.
They were all aware of the contraception options available (even the newly introduced 'injection' method that I'd been blissfully unaware of until I took on the project), the risks involved and the procedures they could get done. Most of them had no desire for more children, yet were unwilling to practice anything besides the most traditional (and largely ineffective) methods.
"Why?" I asked incredulously.
"Because." They answered. Just that - because.
Their mothers-in-law glared at me for asking such questions. I knew then that these girls had handed over complete control of their bodies to someone else. When I asked one 21 yr old girl with 3 children, what she was hoping would prevent another conception, she said: "Krishan bhagwan hai na."

Of course, I'm fortunate to have this perspective largely thanks to where my job takes me and I can't speak for the experiences viewers in yesterday's audience have had. But it upsets me that they refused to validate the Teen Behenein sisters' story as plausible (or that they accused the filmmakers of projecting an inaccurate picture of reality). It upsets me that some of the most privileged members of the audience thought the story was either so unreal that it was funny, or told so badly told that it misrepresented Indian women. Most of all, it scares me how blind our privileges have made us to how close we've all come to being one of the Teen Behenein.

But for a twist of fate it could have all been so different.

Thought Experiment

2011-10-31T10:22:00.003+05:30

Try this. Try being absolutely non-racist, non-sexist, non-elitist, non-homophobic, non-sizeist - non prejudiced in every way possible. It's is not easy, I know. You have my sympathies...empathy rather, because I struggle too. Sometimes, I forget and an atavistic discomfort with the other creeps in. If you're like me, you might make a tasteless joke or become flustered & confused. Or you could swing the other way & be patronizing of the other. It's okay, get back on your feet and try again.

But try.

********
I liked this post a lot. It's fun. Also true: Important Truths For Your Consideration

Really, people...Part IV: Look Ma, I'm Racist

2011-10-20T11:24:00.002+05:30

Saw this in the papers today and thought - Wow! India has truly become a global superpower if it's beginning to exhibit classic signs of xenophobia in the mainstream:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/bollywood/news-interviews/Btown-wants-a-ban-on-Hindi-dubbing-of-English-movies/articleshow/10415428.cms

Excerpt: Speaking to DT, Bhatt said, "There are similar apprehensions in Bollywood and everyone is planning to come together and fight this practice of Hollywood films being dubbed in Hindi or Tamil. We cannot allow them to have a right over our mother tongue and use it to their advantage just because they have the budget. Hollywood studios have big budgets for promotions and we can never match that. Hindi film producers are now planning to come together against this. Letters have been written to the I&B ministry secretary in the past also, and I can say with full certainty that something similar is on the cards now. We face similar issues in other states at times. For instance, I cannot get my movie dubbed in Bengali."

Hey Mahesh, here's a revolutionary thought - Let's make films that are less crap and maybe audiences will actually want to watch Bollywood rather than Hollywood films.

Yeah, that'll be Rs. 500. Come again.

Low Angle

2011-10-19T22:22:00.003+05:30

It's been a difficult couple of days and I knew I had a solid cry coming.
This evening I went to a screening of a documentary on Henri Cartier-Bresson. Once the lights dimmed and opening credits rolled across the black screen, I found the darkness & comfort I was looking for. I had me a quick & efficient weep.

And as the folks around me nibbled on their popcorn, tears fogged my spectacles and I thought - "It's been a difficult couple of days and I knew I had a solid cry coming...."

"There is nothing in this world that does not have a decisive moment" - Cardinal De Retz

One Of A Kind

2011-10-17T17:46:00.002+05:30

This one's for the sweet gentleman who left a comment on this blog about how sad I sometimes sound.
*********
I'm one of those awful people who uses stories about her mother to get a laugh/ sympathy from people, when I'm in attention-seeking mode. Truth is, my mother is much more than the quirky, mooh-fat woman I paint her out to be. I love her dearly. She's strong, independent, generous, loving and tremendously funny - sometimes intentionally, sometimes...well...

*********
Crank calls are a big problem for many women in this country. If you're female & own a cellphone, chances are that you've had your fair share of dedicated blank callers, heavy breathers and verbal abusers who call you up when their bosses/ wives/ dogs have kicked them around too much. I've tried many strategies to get rid of them: handing the phone over to male friends, shrieking loudly into the phone to deafen the caller, cutting the call (once, up to 27 times in an hour) or taking the call, putting the phone under a pillow to cut ambient sound and letting the motherfucker run up his phone tab.
None of it really works.

The day before yesterday, some poor sod decided to make an obscene phone call to my mother's cellphone. Phone rings, she picks it up pissed off (she's always pissed off when a phone rings, no matter who's on the other line) and barks into it: Hello!

Obscene Caller (OC): kshhhhhhhkkkkkhhhhhhhhhh

Mother: Hello? Hellohellohello? Hello! Hello? Hello? HelLO! HEllO? hELLO!!!!

OC: Kaun bol raha hai? (Who's speaking?)

Mother: AAP KAUN BOL RAHE HAIN? (YOU TELL ME WHO'S SPEAKING!)

OC: Main aapko dekhna chahta hoon. (I want to see you.)

My mother's a doctor and has many strange people calling her on a daily basis, asking to see her. She decided to continue the conversation.

Mother: Toh clinic me aakar dikhana. (So come over to the clinic for a consultation.)

OC: Main aapko chaddi ke bina dekhna chahta hoon. (I want to see you without your underpants.)

Mother: Accha? ACCHA?! Main bhi dekhoongi tumhey! Main bhi DEKHOONGI TUMHEY.....MAIN BHI DEKHOONGI TUMHEY CHADDI KE BINA!!!!!

(Really? REALLY? I will also see you! I will ALSO SEE YOU....I WILL ALSO SEE YOU WITHOUT YOUR UNDERPANTS!!!!)

**********

I guess you had to be there.

As for the crank calls, Ma hasn't had a single one in over 48 hrs.

Crossing Over

2011-10-15T13:51:00.005+05:30

Hands held tight, they crossed the crowded street together. Him leading, as she adjusted her most stylish 'going incognito' gear - a pair of over-sized sunglasses, a massive grey poncho & skin-tight black leggings. Her hair was gathered rather messily at the top of her head. A couple of pimples that had appeared overnight had been camouflaged by an expert hand. She bent forward, leaning into him as they speedwalked through the crowd. Her ploy was working, the more she dug into his back, poky sunglasses and all, the less passers-by seemed to care.

And she said: "....I feel like a fool walking around with all this makeup on my face."

He replied: "Take it off then."

"I can't. If do and someone takes a picture, I won't hear the end of it in tomorrow's papers."

"Like what?"

"Like how old I look, how much work I need to get done. How the work I have had done is so terrible."

"So what if they do?"

"You think this is vanity? It's not. I'd just as soon be out for dinner with all my wrinkles & warts on full display."

"Then...?"

"It's the machine. The machine can't function if I stop caring. One bad piece in the press, one paranoid producer. One paranoid producer, one film lost. One film lost, another piece of bad press. It snowballs and before you know it - you're done. Finished."

"Aren't you overstating things a bit?"

"You think? That's because you're not running the machine. You're not responsible if it comes to a creaking halt."

"Aren't you attending those prayer sessions? Don't they tell you, there is no machine?"

"Yeah, everything's a stream....it's all changing, I'm changing, you're changing. Nothing's permanent."

"See? You're not supposed to sweat the small stuff."

"Like the death of my career? Like letting down everyone who works for me? The loss of respect...bankruptcy?"

"Well...hmmm...maybe 'nothing's permanent' doesn't necessarily mean 'nothing matters'...."

"I don't understand what you're saying. Are we there yet? How much further? People are begining to stare at me - I must look like such a freak with all this stuff caked on my face."

"Almost there. You're right, I don't get it either - how do you give a fuck about this world without giving a fuck? Don't worry, you look beautiful."

*********

http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/wallpaper/river-crossing_pod_image.html

Note To Self

2011-10-08T16:30:00.003+05:30

It's alright to accept that you're not all that. That the things you write about are neither very exciting nor relevant. That you're not as skilled with language as you'd like. That you make horrendous mistakes in grammar & spelling. That your blog is just a blog and not a stepping stone to anything more meaningful like a book or a script. It's alright if you can do this calmly, without self-pity, without loud proclamations of "I will never write again!" It's fantastic if you decide, in the face of all this, that you must never stop doing what you enjoy so much. That nothing can stop you from writing that book or script or from correcting your spellings.

When a story needs to be told, it will compel you to do the needful. Till then, go finish reading all those books you promised you'd finish. There's more than enough grammar to be learnt from those things.

The Shit They Don't Tell You

2011-10-07T21:54:00.002+05:30

It's taken me 32 years of living to realise I know nothing of love. At least not in the way they tell me I should.
I love both my families - the one I'm born into and the one I've cultivated. I also know that I'm loved back. I have felt deeply connected to creatures of all kinds, even objects. I've hugged my fair share of trees & even said "I Love You" to my Ipod and meant it. I've experienced what can only be described as love, when a piece of favourite music reaches its crescendo or when I read a sentence that's written so surprisingly, it takes my breath away.

But the kind of love they write pop songs & billion-dollar grossing films about? I've never known it.

I finally watched BBC's adaptation of 'Pride & Prejudice'. I hoped it would help me learn lessons about love, lessons I might have missed when reading the novel. It was very pretty, very charming and very infuriating - all the ingredients for a good romance, I suppose. Then came the most highly anticipated, deeply intimate moment the lead players had shared so far. After 5 episodes of waiting, this was it:

Surely Liz Bennett & Mr. Darcy had traces of anal-retentive South Indian DNA floating about

He's just proposed to her. She's just said yes. Super. Let's never talk about our feelings again okay? Okay.

Then there's this:

My route to understanding love, as you may have guessed by now, had more pit stops in popular culture than in real life. I never grew up with functional, positive examples of romantic love to learn from. I never knew any other templates of 'love' besides the ones pictured above. My 20's, therefore, were most exciting.

I messed up all over the place. Misunderstanding what romantic love meant, what partnership entailed and what I needed to look for in a healthy relationship. By 28 I was most decidedly, and dangerously, on the brink of failure. So I gave up.

Then my friends started partnering up one by one and suddenly I had new templates to observe and learn from. Some crashed & burned spectacularly (because they, like me were following the above two templates of 'love'). The ones that stayed afloat opened my eyes up to a whole new world.

There are some who understand the real texture of intimacy more easily than I do. They seem to instinctively understand the unglamorous bits of being in love, the every single day hard work, the non-grand gestures that end up being more memorable than anything in a lovesong. I observe as these couples respectfully give each other the space to be the best individuals they can be, how they resolve conflicts, how they set ground rules, how they become a team, how they go about their normal lives. There's a distinct lack of melodrama, there's also a lot of talking (not as much 'reading of the minds' as I'd imagined) - in short, nothing that fits anything I've been taught 'love' to mean.

Maybe it's time to get real about how we tell love stories. Not just in films or on TV, but even the stories we tell each other, the stories we tell our kids: the little girls & little boys. Maybe in the tales we spin about grand gestures, we can sprinkle in some magic of the everyday kind. Maybe mention how loving oneself is as integral as divine luck in finding true love. Perhaps talk about how thrilling an argument can be when it leads to greater closeness. How sexy it is to know that someone truly sees & respects who you are. That love - any kind of love - is life's work, neverending & immensely rewarding.

It's taken me a while to get to the starting line. Even though I'm a little behind in the game it's not in my interests to look back or regret the lost time. What I can do is celebrate the fact that I'm no longer on the sidelines.

This happy ending may or may not be like the movies, but I have a strong feeling that it will ultimately & profoundly be okay.

Sometimes things just take time

2011-09-20T11:31:00.004+05:30

I like when the unlikely character makes it.

A few years ago, I was watching Paris Je T'aime for the second time - having fallen asleep midway the last time it came on TV (not the film's fault, I was exhausted). I'm glad I stayed awake through to the end because the final story '14e Arrondissement' by Alexander Payne reached right inside me and made me cry.

This was the genius of Margo Martindale - whose name, I'm ashamed to say I didn't know until last evening when the 2011 Emmys were broadcast in India. It was a great evening for unlikely characters. Peter Dinklage won. The funny women of American TV gathered en masse on stage and suddenly I had a glimpse of what the world might look like one day when more women were at the top of not just their game but THE game.

Miss Martindale is as far from the LA cookie-cutter star as your imagination can take you. She fumbles, bumbles, sobs most unprettily, does not have great posture or body, is not a 22-year-old 60 year old and she has never, until very recently, been recognized for her powerful talent.

Then this happens to her:

And in her acceptance speech I find the faith I sometimes struggle to have in my own life: "Sometimes things just take time..."

Memory loss

2011-09-09T23:05:00.007+05:30

I can't sleep. Primetime newshour has rabid newscasters salivating over recently released recordings from 9/11. Can't flip a channel without the triumphant 'EXCLUSIVE' pasted over visuals of the WTC smoking & tumbling down in infinite loop. We're urged to appreciate the calmness of the inflight staff on doomed planes, to tune into the chilling frequencies of cold-blooded killers. We're asked to perform mass countdowns of the seconds to disaster.

Try not to forget, this is the 10th anniversary of the September 11th terror attacks on American soil.

Really, good people of the news channels, I won't. Especially since every couple of months (like the day before yesterday for example), the country I live in gets its own nasty little reminders. So what I need to know is this: what precisely do you want me to never forget? The voices on those tapes that I'll attach cinematic visuals to in my mind? That irrational near-conviction that if I paid close enough attention, I could alter the course of history allowing everything to end well? How do you propose we 'honour memories' through this continuous rinse cycle of broadcast tragedy? What do you propose I do with this insomnia?
Because if this is what you call 'rememberance' then I'd rather forget.

Street art by the charming Mr. Brainwash: Wikipedia him for shits & giggles. Better yet, watch 'Exit Through The Gift Shop'

Also do visit the blog 'Beings Akin' for a more nuanced perspective on 'what collective memory of the kind that is being expressed in the tenth anniversary commemorations of 9/11 is actually good for'.

aspire-ations

2011-08-13T11:39:00.003+05:30

one day,
i'd like to go deep-sea diving in my grandma's pet fishbowl.
or be a whistleblower of whistleblowers.
maybe write a novel about my navel,
or how noses look crooked, reflected in my bifocals.

just small dreams, nothing fancy.

i'd love to travel with the millions i make in a parallel universe.
perhaps hike up my coworker's pants,
or take a gentle cruise down my perpetually stoned friend's stream of consciousness.

and love,
i'd like to hook up with john hamm's body double,
but because i value my roots, eventually settle down with a professional mamootty memorabilia salesman.

and when my day is done,
i want to be buried next to gandhi & then be cremated.
i want an obituary written in 140 characters by kamaal khan.
i want no one to weep for me, for i would have had a full life
so rejoice,
And I will soon return as a beloved character from your favourite sitcom.

it's even funnier when you're sober

Doomsday

2011-08-04T10:43:00.004+05:30

"Wow, kya obituary-type picture hai."
That's the highest compliment my sister can pay as we both squint into the camera's display. What she means to say is that, for once, both of us look good at the same time. What I hear is this:
"...and that's the last thing she heard before her plane went down over the Atlantic. Tragic. This is Ryan Seacrest. Up next on E!News - Kim Kardashian's ass..."

And so the omens line up.
Waiting to board my connecting flight, a conversation is overheard between a mother and her young boy.
"What happens if there's a storm, Mom?"
"Then the plane doesn't take off baby."
"And if there's a storm after the plane's taken off?"
"Well, that's not so good then baby. But the pilots take care of it."
"Hmmm...good thing it's a clear day Mom."
"Yeah baby, good thing."

From here on out everything is a sign that I'm a fool for not heeding.
Everywhere I look people are reading the same headlines: "CRISIS!!!" "Armadebton!!!" It's clear I'm not the only one bracing for impact.

I'm seated next to a tobacco chewing Texan, who (because I have the aisle seat) has a tiny bladder. An hour into the flight, he taps my leg. I get up to let him pass. The next hour, he taps my leg again. And again in the third hour. By the fourth hour, I don't even need to open my eyes as I feel his finger approach my leg. I begin to get up for him.

"Don't get up...look out the window..."
It's a most spectacular electrical storm - beautiful but for the fact that the plane lurches every time lightening strikes. The Texan isn't alarmed, he just needs to go pee again. I shut my eyes tight and remind myself that I can't die now. Not after such a fabulous vacation, not before I give everyone their presents (especially that Apple Airport Extreme I got my dad - it's fucking heavy and I haven't carried it all this way only to have it vapourized in a freak accident), not before I get to live out at least 3 of the 97 resolutions I made on my holiday, to make real change in my life even though I'm getting older & have watched several of my hopes die and no longer have the same zest I did at 21 to dream those audatious dreams...

I don't remember much after that except a lame joke cracked over the announcement system about it being mildly windy. I sigh with relief and start scripting Ryan Seacrest's piece on my 'gripping escape from the jaws of death'.
And then there's a sound that chills me to the bone. It's a sound no one wants to hear on a long haul flight that's full to capacity. I've gravely misjudged the manner in which my doom would befall me but it's too late now. I shield myself from the impact but fail miserably as the son of a bitch in 30H turns his head towards me and with all of the life-force contained within him, sneezes.

Subliminal Messaging

2011-06-13T18:08:00.002+05:30

He drove her mad with the time he took answering her text messages.
So the next time she sent him a carrier pigeon.
Two days later, he messaged back: "Yum."

What choice did he have? It carried its own seasoning & everything.

Within the first 25 minutes of this movie...

2011-06-13T17:01:00.027+05:30

...you get the idea that if you've seen a James Dean film and read enough Salinger, you know how things will end. But you watch anyway because the actor on screen is beautiful & damaged and this is really the first day you've had off in weeks. You give in to his demand for attention, hanging on to his face and every lithe movement he makes (do people, handsome people, really choreograph their moves like that?) because if you let go, fear will flood your body, your skin will burn with the dread of tomorrow and your heart will start pounding for all the wrong reasons.
Then he walks into an Indian restaurant in Manhattan and you smile distractedly as he orders a Kingfisher.

Unsubscribe

2011-06-06T22:42:00.001+05:30

I am unsubscribing from New York University's film school email alerts.
I made it to the programme but couldn't afford to go. The alerts helped me pretend I was still connected to that world. But it's been 10 long years now. It's ok to unsubscribe.

My Biggest Achievement

2011-05-28T18:00:00.003+05:30

When life gets super sucky and I feel like I have accomplished nothing in the 32 years I've been alive, I stop and think:

At least I made it past this:
http://blogs.reuters.com/faithworld/2011/05/27/up-to-12-million-girls-aborted-in-india-over-last-30-years-new-study-says/

Ain't my country SOOPER?

Writer's Block

2011-05-16T15:00:00.007+05:30

The ideas wouldn't come so she nibbled her pencil. She gnawed it down to the quick and started on the yellow notepad. Her teeth tore into the pages until she reached the desk. But she didn't stop. She chomped down hard, crunching its wooden legs down to their ends. Then she ate her way through the floor, which became the downstairs' tenant's ceiling. She ate the downstairs' tenant's ceiling & floor and kept on going.

She gobbled the foundation of the building and began burrowing into the ground. Swallowing fistfuls of clay, mud, roots & rodents, she made her gastric way through the earth. She grew larger & larger until her girth drilled a massive tunnel straight through to China. That's where she came up for air.

"I love you, oxygen!" she exclaimed before turning around.
She rolled all the way back, devouring earthworms & fossils along the way. When she finally reached home, she sat back down in her chair, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and brand new pencil.
The ideas still wouldn't come but at least she was full.

What I Do

2011-05-04T10:05:00.006+05:30

Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, everything slows down as I release the word 'Screenwriter' from my mouth. I stretch time, savouring their widening of eyes and the 'wooooooowwwwww' that seems to go on for days.
I do this because the next question will promptly crash my little hovercraft of delusions into the ground.
"What films do you write for?"
"Non fiction."
"Like serials?"
"No...like documentary films."
"Like Big Boss?"

Here, I pause. Because they're right. These films I help make (or 'supposedly' help make, as my mother believes) don't reach too many people. The last time I did something that was broadcast, was in 2007. I know of 2 people who saw it. One of them was my mother.

Still, it's a great job. Someone with a lot of money contacts me and tells me they don't have any money. Then they tell me the subject they wish to make a film on e.g: sewage treatment. I am asked to take a trip for research purposes. Thanks to such trips, I have experienced strange & fascinating things like the inside of a mountain, secret rituals of the Khalsa, Malyalee robots bumping into tables, a duet between Manoj & Shweta Tiwari and a Citibank conference.

Researching for documentary films is a respected profession amongst the 6 people who know what it entails. You're the equivalent of a Harvard PhD in this tiny group. What you say & believe about a particular subject is the gospel truth. You are, in fact Jesus of the film crew. (Or so you tell yourself as they delay your payment by another month.) No need for them to know that your analysis of the Guru Granth Sahib was the result of standing in the karha prasad line at the Golden Temple. After all, the final film will only give you 30 seconds of voice-over to expound on Sikh philosophy. Of which 'The Guru Granth Sahib is the Sikh holy scripture" takes up a whole 5 seconds.

After research is done, it's time for writing. This is a task of many contradictions. A good documentary film writer isn't one who actually writes well. It is one who knows when not to write. In a medium where the hierarchy of communication tools places visuals, sounds & interviews above everything else, the writer must constantly 'unwrite'. Shakespeare would've made an awful documentary film writer.

Then there's the unspoken rule. What you write is never right. Takes a while to get used to the gentle sounds of dismay when one presents first drafts. Contempt, horror & anger will be hurled at you by people who can't spell their own names correctly (or even spell 'correctly' krektly).
"Madam, you have not even written anything about our great Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute For the Hormonally Challenged!"
Who will explain to them that the visual of a building saying 'Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute for The Hormonally Challenged is quite Exceptional' does more than what a 2 page voice-over ever will.

And so you unwrite the script and present the film to your client.
They are effusive in their praise - "This cinematographer has done wonderful work!" "Who is your editor? Simply fabulous graphics!" Your chest bursts with pride or something like it and you eagerly await your pay cheque. You discover they've cut your pay because you only wrote 3.5 sentences in the hour long film.
You make like Guru Dutt in Kagaz Ke Phool and renounce the world.

Then, one day you're switching channels and catch a line that sounds vaguely familiar. You realise this is your line. You cringe at how horrendous it sounds but don't change the channel. You wait till the end of the show for that golden moment - the moment that, if your work was being shown in a cinema hall, would be the one when everyone walks out.
In a sea of names rolling up the screen, you see yours for a nanosecond. It will be gone before you blink, not to return in a hurry, not to see a DVD release or fancy premiere. And so you stretch time again.

Word Terrorists

2011-04-21T15:56:00.003+05:30

I am terrified that when they look back on our time, we will be called the Generation of Cynics. Or maybe that's just the world I inhabit.

Used to be that we chose a cause, believed in it, then acted on the belief. Used to be that idealism wasn't a dirty word.
Seems now that we choose someone else's cause because it delights us to ladle poison on it. We've become spectators, who've relinquished responsibility quite comfortably. We've bartered it away for the privilege of pontificating without leveraging anything.
We're expending our intelligence thinking of loopholes, always loopholes, until there's nothing left to pick and tear at.

The smartest minds I know are angry, blistering and explosive in their cynicism. Using words to a most powerful & terrifying effect. Questioning, not for the sake of acquiring answers, but simply to revel in the micro-second it takes for someone to answer. No one's interested in the answer. It takes too much time, too much effort and frankly we're all too pissed off. We're using words as weapons, play-acting some kind of 'rational' thinking when all we're really thinking is Kill, Kill, Kill.

And we say that cynicism saves. It keeps 'them' honest. It speaks the truth. Think again. Think of how your cynicism is a crutch, your lack of belief an excuse to crawl under the bed (or on top of the soapbox - you prefer). You build armies of cynics and then turn to your own 'god' in the hope that they don't turn on you. But they might. Hell, they will.

Or maybe that's just the world I inhabit.

***********************************

A wonderful piece from The Guardian on someone who's often accused of being a word terrorist but is anything but: Amis on Hitchens: 'He's one of the most terrifying rhetoricians the world has seen'
(Link via Priya Singh)

The Best Opening Lines Of All Time...

2011-04-13T22:10:00.001+05:30

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and the scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants, and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing.


John Steinbeck (1902-1968)

Plan B

2011-03-27T10:13:00.005+05:30

Midway through lunch, Doc got the call she'd been waiting for. The club sandwich, fondled lovingly only moments ago, found itself brutally flung to the side as she stood up with an electric sense of purpose, sending her chair flying across the floor.

She barked confident orders into the phone, "I'm coming. Prep the subject.". But her heart was a toy monkey, all wound up, clapping manically.

No stop lights heeded, no schoolchildren or old men with walking sticks allowed right of way. She bulldozed her way through traffic and within fifteen minutes made a screeching halt at the doorstep of the Institute. Keys still in ignition, she leapt out and rushed past the doors, which magically parted for her. Slipping across the polished floor, finding balance along the walls, she almost didn't make the corner that led her into her lab.

Her lab. Usually a chamber of isolation, tucked away in the back of the Insitute's building. Most passersby assumed it was a supply room full of chlorinated cleaning fluids & wilting brooms. Not today. The lab was humming with nervous energy. Doc's entire team was there, waiting with their eyes on the door for their leader's entry.

She burst in with a flourish and slightly out of breath. Assistant Moxy sprung to her side, shoving a tablet containing the latest data into her hands, while guiding her limbs into surgical scrubs. Doc hurriedly scanned Specimen A's stunning results, her smile widening, then disappearing behind a mask Moxy tied around her mouth & nose.

As she approached the operation theatre's entrance, the corner of her eye caught Dr. Spoote sidling up to her - "So, Doc, this is it, huh? This is your moment."

"Let's hope so, Spoote. I'm very confident."

"Of course you know this could go either way...."

"Let me interrupt you there Spoote. The subject is prepped - we don't want to fry the poor thing's nerve-endings now, do we? Or let me rephrase that - we don't want to waste the Institute's millions now, do we?"

Dr. Spoote stepped aside. Doc strode in, her eyes zeroing in on Specimen A, as she drew every fibre of her being into a nucleus of focussed concentration.

"Scalpel," she said.

The team gathered around her now, waiting for that single cut to begin the rest of their lives. Glory, sweet glory awaited each one of them.

Doc stood there, scalpel perched above Specimen A.
"Hmmm."

The team inhaled in unison.

"Oh dear," she said, "What exactly are we doing here?"

*******

A year and month to the day...

2011-03-23T09:18:00.002+05:30

...the same dream, with the same intensity and the same sense of utter desolation.
I have just found out I'm dying of a disease that is slowly, but with great precision, vapourizing my insides. I am destined for death.
It is perpetually night in this dream, as I wander the hallways of this mansion that's supposed to be my home. There is no one here but me and two others - hired to be caretakers, but otherwise unrecognizable. They provide me with my basic needs - food, clean sheets and a kindly hello once in a while. Time is running out and I stumble from one room to the next, searching for a familiar face, someone who can hold me through the days I have left. But my body is continually weakening and getting progressively bent with each passing minute.
Like the first time, this dream too seemed to go on forever. I couldn't wake from it, I couldn't end the wandering. I found nothing, I just got weaker.
This time, it was too close to home. Just too close.

Boating in Kanpur

2011-03-06T21:09:00.003+05:30

It is early morning and we find ourselves in the middle of the Ganga. We haven't had breakfast yet and our stomachs churn with every inch we gain rowing upstream.
Tiwariji, whose oil-slick of a hairdo violates my nostrils, sits two inches away from me. He has been sure to take a sip of the holy water before getting on.
We pass temple after temple along the ghats. Turn up the volume on your amplified bhajans. I don't think the gods can hear you yet.
The stench gets worse.
"Chaliyega wahaan?" the boatman asks.
"Le chaliye, na."

With every slap of the oar, we are splashed by the Ganga; a putrid mess of untreated sewage. Organic waste, decomposed human & animal remains, chromium, arsenic and the always-in-ample-supply human excreta.
There is a man on the banks angling for fish. And now we can hear sounds of a waterfall...

Kanpur is taking a massive dump in the river Ganga and we have front row tickets to the show. The crows in the box seats are having a field day. The smell of human waste is unbearable and it's all one can do to not gag.
"Yehaan pehle bahut saara soos rahta thha..." says our boatman. 'Soos' or the Gangetic River Dolphin.
"Aur paas chalein?"
"Nahi, theek hai."

We're making bad jokes now:
Holy crap. We're in deep shit. We're up shit creek with shitty paddles.
Ganga hamaari maata hai/ Mooth humaari khaata hai.
The boat turns and the boatman stops rowing. The current will carry us back to Parmat Ghat. It will then courier the toxic sludge downstream to Allahabad and beyond.
"Don't ever drink anything but bottled mineral water in Kanpur," someone says from the back.
Tiwariji points to the floodplains on the other bank. They're growing watermelons there. Reminder to self: Don't ever eat the watermelons in Kanpur."
Try not to go to the bathroom in Kanpur. Try not to die here either.

At Bangla Ghat, we breathe in the heavy air of our colonial past. The British drainage system in Kanpur was visionary, yes, but we've taken it from strength to strength, getting creative in adding newer effluents to this poisonous legacy.
Oh look, a decaying calf floats by. Baby cow, not human.

Time to head back.
Tiwariji disembarks first. He bends down, scoops up the river water, takes a sip and pours the remaining liquid over his head.
We drive back to the hotel in silence. Breakfast is waiting.

Meeting Narender Singh Benarsi at the Golden Temple

2011-02-22T13:18:00.012+05:30

Read my latest post on the music of the Golden Temple and a conversation with one of its senior raagis at the other blog And Your Bird Can Sing.

Tantrum

2011-02-15T08:31:00.000+05:30

Much as I appreciate people visiting this blog, sometimes like today, I wish this was my private nook in the crowded Internet, where I could tuck myself into a corner and spend the day feeling sad, writing ungrateful & wildly incorrect stories about how pathetic the state of my affairs is. To let this sad music playing in the background become my reality and not have anyone see how selfish & sniffling I can be. I want to feel tortured without being reasoned out of it. I want to feel torn without good advice getting in the way. I want my mundane tantrums to take on the epic proportions of tragedy. I want to be buried under the full weight of this hopelessness. I want no one to come to my rescue.

Except that perhaps...I do.

My Zara Bag

2011-01-30T09:16:00.000+05:30

I bought my first big girl handbag recently. It's from Zara - a big girl brand with big girl price tags. It is charcoal grey, with two types of handles. One is the shortened version, where the bag fits tightly under my armpit. The other is a longer strap that allows me to look like a very chic postman. The main body of the bag is like a black hole into which anything & everything gets sucked. Ordinary laws of physics cease to apply in this realm. Only prayer and superhuman rifling through its depths can help you attain what you seek.
In that sense, my Zara bag pleases me greatly.
Although I bought my Zara bag on sale, the world does not need to know that. It gives me the notion that maybe someday I could dress like big girls too. That maybe one day I will chuck those denims and start wearing razor thin belts around my shirts. Those girls look so pretty and their hair never moves.

Two weeks ago, I got called away to a mountain. I took my Zara bag with me. Then I was told to go into a tunnel. Like a small girl, I took my Zara bag with me. Ten minutes into the tunnel, I slipped in a soft, clay puddle. I grabbed the sides with one hand as the other hand gripped my companion's. My Zara bag slammed against the wall. Charcoal grey met wet clay grey. My Zara bag sighed.
Back in my room I tried valiantly with paper napkins to scrape off some of the dirt. But there were these shiny specks that wouldn't come out. They glistened like diamonds, bits of mica from the rocks. My Zara bag had been bedazzled.

Yesterday, I was walking home from watching the Republic Day Parade. I had seen Sukhois do vertical ascents, a woman, with my name, inside a tank and an 89 yr old war veteran, who marched like a 21 yr old cadet. I had not sung the national anthem in over a decade. I marched home with a swagger, my Zara bag slung around me like those sashes around the Rajputana Rifles boys. Swing, swish, swing, swish. Suddenly I felt a tug on one of the shorter handles. I looked down. It was a little pi dog. He looked like he was in a good mood & wanted to play.
"That's what a Zara bag is for, right?" he asked.
"Bad dog!" I chastised.
He was gnawing expertly on the strap now, "What kind of girl buys a Zara bag and doesn't play with it?" he said.
"Man, you're a judgemental dog!"
"Well, you know...life is short. Especially for dogs. I'm gonna get my kicks before this whole shithouse goes up in flames..."
"Wow...that's that famous line from..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah lady. You gonna play with me or what?"

My Zara bag sighed. Really, what choice did I have?

For the love of god....

2011-01-17T23:43:00.001+05:30

....If one more person tells me to find a nice boy and settle down, I will take revenge and find a nice boy and settle down.

Burrowed

2011-01-13T17:51:00.001+05:30

Burrowed under these blankets, nothing will move. Books on the bedside will yellow, their pages slowly turning to tigerskin powder. The tv will explode and for seven leisurely seconds the ceiling will become a glistening cloud of microscopic glass. The radio will speak in hushed tones. Its comforting rhetorical statements blending with the wall paint, flaking off in razor-thin sheets. The cistern will gurgle, Sunday papers left on its lid crackling every time the bathroom window swings on its hinges. A cellphone will blink, just out of reach. There will be invitations unheeded, requests unacknowledged, promises unfulfilled.
Somewhere a shot will ring out. She will burrow herself deeper.

http://tiny.cc/8cg69

Notes from travels V - Karchham-Wangtoo

2011-01-10T09:38:00.009+05:30

There are many reasons why one would drop everything and leave for Karchham-Wangtoo on the first day of the first year of a new decade.
One, to learn how to pronounce Karchham (it's not 'Kaar-chum', it's 'Kur-chhum') and Two, to learn that Karchham-Wangtoo is not a hyphenated proper noun like Jolie-Pitt but two different villages in the Kinnaur district of Himachal Pradesh, 60 kms short of the Tibetan - I'm sorry - Chinese border.
But if you're really lucky, then you'll have a third reason to visit Karchham Wangtoo in the dead of winter when temperatures go down to minus Holy-Fuck-I-Can't-Feel-My-Face and the wind chill factor reaches What-Do-I-Need-My-Nose-For: to see how far you can go in selling your soul to the Devil.

Couldn't You Just Eat That Sky?

Karchham-Wangtoo is the site for a spanking new 1000 MW hydel power project - one of the largest of its kind built entirely by a single private sector entity. It is situated in very tough terrain, nestled within a narrow gorge that seems just wide enough for the Sutlej to flow. Or so you would think. But more on that later.

The road from Delhi to Karchham-Wangtoo is long & arduous. It is especially tortuous if you get motion sickness (you'd better be ready for a minimum 12 hours of mountain driving, not counting the 6 hours of driving through the plains). En route, you will encounter several hairpin bends, high-altitude roads that can only accommodate one vehicle at a time, crazed Himachali drivers that insist on testing this fact in cars that hurtle at you sporting stickers like 'Silent Killer' and the more-than-occasional underage driver in the 11-13 age group.
If you have a driver, who only listens to Miss Pooja's bhangra mixes, then chances of survival become even slimmer.


The Driver Of This Truck Has Not Completed Class 5 - Because He Is Only 8

Such was the treacherous journey that my colleagues and I undertook in order to make a film on the Karchham-Wangtoo dam.
While my driver told us about Miss Pooja's illustrious past (she was a schoolteacher before opting for stardom), I deliberated on how I could make myself feel less like a scumbag for participating in a film about a dam. Big dams are 'evil', they displace local communities and often cause irreparable damage to the environment. So far, things had been fairly straightforward in my mind - Dams: bad, Me: not so much.
But then someone waved a cheque at me and here I was, researching why this dam could be classified as a megastructure. As our vehicle lurched about, keeping time with the turmoil in my stomach, I decided that the only way I could live with myself was if I allowed this trip to be a learning experience and was honest about what I saw, heard & read.


The Main Dam Site of the Karchham-Wangtoo Project on the Sutlej River

Much of my guilt was taken care of when we got out of our car and were slapped straight in the face by the biting cold wind. The weather promised to be punishing. Good.
The work began almost instantly with the group assembling in the line producer's room to get piss drunk. As the vodka warmed our insides, the evening began to play out in the predictable manner of all outdoor shoot drinking sessions.
"Yaar, when I worked with So-And-So-Big-Bollywood-Producer we downed 12 shots of vodka in a single sitting. Then Sexy-Actress got sick and puked in the loo after which her Old-Enough-To-Be-Her-Father boyfriend slapped her & carted her away."
"Yaar, Amitabh Bacchan is sleeping with *insert Young Hot Actress' name*..."
"Arey, even Abhishekh is sleeping with *insert same Young Hot Actress' name*..."
"Bloody corruption...*grumble* *grumble*..."
Etc.

We retired early. It was going to be a tough week ahead.

*******

"First things first, this is a run-of-the-river project, madam." That is what everyone told me. This meant that the project did not create massive catchment areas which drowned villages & settlements. The river was merely diverted along a gradient & made to gather enough momentum to create electricity when it hit the turbines downstream. The water was then returned to the river, almost as if nothing happened at all. 'Simple and elegant, creating virtually no disturbance in the river system'. I tried to breathe easy: could it be that not all dams are all evil, all of the time? It was beginning to look that way...specially since the fish wouldn't talk to me.

Excuse Me Sir, There's A Hole In Your Himalayas

Someone turned my attention to the imposing mountains towering over the river and said: "Can you believe there are 44 kms of tunnelling inside that mountain? Isn't that remarkable?"
And it was. It really, really was. When you looked at the scale of what human beings have been able to do: to tame the mighty Sutlej and make a mountain bend to their will, there was something awe-inspiring about it all. But it was also terrifying. The word that kept coming to me as I entered the tunnels was 'Audacity'. The audacity it takes for human beings to 'tame' nature and make it 'bend' to ones will was not easy for me to reconcile.


The Powerhouse Inside The Mountain: But For Lack Of Cellphone Signal, Perfect For A Bond Villain's Lair

Inside the tunnels it was like a Hindi Belt convention. Hardly any of the skilled & unskilled labour were from local areas. Most were from UP & Bihar. There were no reported labour strikes, no disgruntled workers' movements. There was also a lack of trade unions. I saw men working in deep, cavernous & claustrophobic environments, doing 12 hour shifts of backbreaking work in very dangerous conditions. I learned there had been more fatalities associated with this project than had been admitted to in press releases.
These were not exceptional facts. Every construction site in this country looks & feels the same. I have seen my share of building & road constructions and read enough articles & op-eds about our nation being built on the backs of the poorest of the poor; but to witness it in the production of a dam so massive in scale & economics was more than a little depressing. Before my week-long trip was over, there would be two more fatalities on the site - that I would know of.

More Tunnel, Less Talk

All this while I was also acutely aware of being the only female, not just in my all-male crew, but also on this mountain where there were 9,000-odd construction workers, engineers and managers: none of whom were (discernibly) women. I was always the odd one out. I was also menstruating.
Readers, have you ever menstruated in the Headrace Tunnel of a major power project? Well, I wouldn't recommend it. For one thing, these tunnels were only prepared for one kind of flow - that of the Sutlej. For another, these tunnels did not have anything else besides tunnel.
When discretely asked what one did when one needed to go, my producer informed me that I'd have to walk along the length of the 17 km tunnel until I reached an unlit patch and just 'go for it'. Kindly, he offered to stand guard and so I set off.
(To those who have never been inside a tunnel, I'd advise singing loudly to oneself to prevent any kind of freaking out. It also doesn't help to imagine the engineers suddenly turning a knob, drowning you instantly in a bazillion cumecs of river.)

Upon reaching an unlit portion of the tunnel, I did the needful and turned to go back. That's when I realised I had nowhere to dispose the tampon. Suddenly I was confronted with a terrible choice: Wrap the grotesque item in paper and carry it back in my handbag. Or leave it wrapped there neatly, hoping someone would clear it before the waters carried it into the billion-crore rupee turbines that could not withstand particles over 0.02 mm.
I made the choice & it wasn't pretty but here is what I plan to say in my press release: In my own small way, I helped Nature get hers back.

Tampon Tunnel: Girl Goes Vigilante

So we turned back. We had achieved our goals. Besides, our crew had not eaten non-vegetarian food in over a week. It was time.
I braced myself for the long drive & prayed that there would be no mishaps on our way back down. Our driver had benefited greatly from having done nothing but sleep for the entire duration of our trip and was now fresh as a daisy. He turned the volume of his car stereo right up. For the rest of the way, an amorous singer implored the lady with the 'nasheelee aankhein' to let him take her 'San Fransisco te Fresno' in his Mercedes Bhains.

Pitstop: Fagu

Fresh snow had fallen the night before. Everyone regressed to the age of 6 & jumped out of the car to go play.
Having never seen snow before in my life, I reconsidered my decision to vomit from motion sickness. Grinning foolishly, I jumped into the white fluff and instantly sank 2 feet. Took two people to help dig me out.

Surprisingly, Maruti 800s Do Very Well Here.

I was beginning to enjoy myself, a fact which troubled me greatly. Thankfully the road from Narkanda onwards became real shit and everyone was miserable again. The next 6-8 hours were spent in sheer agony. Naturally, upon reaching the plains, we made a beeline for the first Domino's we could find. As my city-bred insides gratefully ingested the plastic pizza, the vestigial shards of my Karchham-Wangtoo experience began to slip away. No more clay on my shoes & no more wet nose. When the wind blew, it did not try to tip me over the side of a mountain.

Now I have a cache of recorded interviews & photographs and I must spin a story. In the past, I've used words and images to further the agendas of clients who've asked me to script for them. But this one's not about weddings, holiday destinations or cooking recipes. This one's big and the truth - whatever it is - has consequences that boggle my mind.
I've never been more confused in my life. I am not looking forward to this at all.

Moral Dilemma

2010-12-05T21:25:00.003+05:30

So you're broke. So broke that your bank has changed its name and moved to an undisclosed pin code just to avoid you. And you look back on a long & checkered career and question every passion-induced decision you ever made that helped dig the grave your bank balance finds itself in.

And then, just like that, the seas part, the heavens open up and there is placed before you an offer so tantalizing that you don't stare directly at it for fear of burning your corneas.

It's an offer that promises to wipe out all your financial woes. One that signals a new phase in your life. It gently whispers in your ears - Take me! Take me! So you extend your arms towards it...

But suddenly, fate bitchslaps you and you realize that there is a catch. This offer is linked to some not-so-great corporates, where 'not-so-great' is a euphemism for 'those people who skin puppies for coats', which is a euphemism for 'their constructions displaced millions of impoverished Indians'.

Now poverty nips at your ankles while guilt wraps its fist around your heart.

What do you do?

Yes

2010-11-23T21:55:00.001+05:30

It was a mood swing.

lifeplan

2010-11-23T21:48:00.001+05:30

If I took up pilates, it would strengthen my core. This would ease up the pressure on my spine, thus alleviating the excruciating lower-back pain I suffer from. In time, this will lead to a writing job that will win awards, which will in turn ensure that I find the perfect man and have interracial babies. Eventually this will result in a lower BMI & I will successfully escape my genetic disposition towards diabetes & the chronic inability to read a map.

I'd Avoid This One If I Were You

2010-11-08T11:14:00.001+05:30

I started blogging at a point in my professional life, which one might politely describe as a 'pregnant pause'. I was hoping that the result of the seemingly never-ending gestation period would be a spectacularly well paying writing job. Instead, what popped out after hours of yelling, screaming and bloody mayhem, was this blog.

The momentum was brisk, the writing came fast & fluid. The mind, numbed by hours of watching television, was ready to indulge in creative pursuits. It was unselfconscious, it was honest, it was fun. Quality standards met most of the specifications of its sole reader, who coincidentally happened to be its writer.

It seems now that the blog has reached that point in its life when it wants to stick its head in the oven: not necessarily to annihilate itself, but perhaps to see how it'll all turn out. It's not the best way to go about business, hoping a sexy firefighter (the kind that only exists in American sitcoms) comes and rescues it, but its the most fun thing this blog has done in a while.

Yeeeeaaaaah. So. Like. Whatdja wanna do? I don't know, whaddooyou wanna do? I don't know.

Ok, my television is dying on me. Let me get up off this bed and go slap it on its side.

Migraine - 9.1.2008

2010-10-25T10:48:00.001+05:30

She felt the first stabs of pain ten minutes away from home and braced herself for the evening ahead; all the while cursing her luck as well as the sea of harsh headlights she had to drive back in. By the time she reached home and ran to the medicine cabinet the pain had progressed from a vague dullness to a living, breathing, pulsating entity coursing through the electronic networks of her brain. As she took off her shoes and had a sip of water the nausea began rise up in her throat. She made a beeline for the bedroom and wasted no time in getting under a thick blanket.

The darkness descended but it was already too late. Soon the pain would form thick boulders that would descend on her skull and pound everything to pulp. Somewhere, she'd read that providing adequate supplies of oxygen could help alleviate a headache. So she began to inhale deeply, ‘Breathe In, Breathe Out….Breathe innnnn, breathe ouuuuut…’ she chanted. In all her years of attempting to meditate, she’d not once managed to fight distractions for more than five minutes. Now, for the first time ever, an hour had gone by and the cycle of deep inhalations and exhalations had not lost its rhythm. The pain, however, was getting worse.

Her entire body was heating up. When she put her hand to her forehead she could feel the hammering veins. She could do nothing but ball up into foetal position and try to block out any sounds or specks of light that leaked in through doors and windows. It was time to try another technique. ‘Imagine yourself in a happy place.’ The beach. ‘Feel the sea breeze on your body.’ Uh-huh. ‘Hear the sound of the waves. Let it soothe you.’ She saw herself, ankle deep in saltwater, wearing a light blue shirt three sizes too big, fluttering in the wind. Waves washed up to her feet and then fell back. She tried desperately to let the sound calm her but all she could do was look around frantically, appalled at being the only one on the pristine stretch of sand. She searched desperately for a kindred spirit to come and share in the moment, to come and hold her so tight that she would no longer feel the pounding in her head. The intensity of longing made her throat tighten up. Instinctively she felt her bones squeeze in, in an attempt to banish the extreme sadness of the moment. The sudden tensing of muscles in her neck sent a shaft of red-hot pain northwards. In complete agony, she let out an audible moan.

Someone opened the bedroom door. The sudden brightness pierced through her shut eyelids. The voice asked if she was ok. She groaned out the word ‘migraine’ but didn’t have the energy to respond to further questioning. The voice thought it better to leave her alone. As the door creaked shut again, she saw strange images appear out of nowhere. A circle roughly sketched out in the blackness. A human figure standing, in profile, on the circumference of the circle. Then another and another until the entire circumference was covered with human figures, radiating outwards like spokes of a wheel. Each figure a progression of the previous one – a man in graduating stages of movement, the sum total of the images signifying a running man. Like a flipbook creating animation out of still images. The imagery overwhelmed her to the point of exhilaration and she realised that her pain had now become so intense that it was allowing her to travel across unknown dimensions. She wondered how long this would last. The euphoria was exciting but the torture had to end soon. She’d always been one for ‘keeping the faith’ and now used this belief to ride it out bravely.

Intermittently she felt her body tiring of the fight. This headache, this migraine, was reaching epic proportions, squeezing the life force out of her. It was in moments like these that she often found herself repeating the mantra of ‘this too shall pass’. In her delirium she began to contemplate the essential nature of her beliefs and how she sometimes felt too weak to carry their burden (faith is a boon, but often, she reflected, one just wants to stop, to give up). Perhaps, she thought, this is why what begins as an individual quest for spiritual truth eventually ends up as institutionalised religion. Us mortals, she reasoned, needed the faith of others to keep us from falling when we could no longer muster the strength to carry on. She shifted uncomfortably under the blanket and smiled weakly – ‘Here I am, writhing in agony, while other parts of my brain contemplate the intricacies of organized religion.’

Outside there was a clap of thunder and even though all the windows and doors were shut, she was convinced she could smell rain. She imagined its freshness wetting her brow and cooling her body. Suddenly she needed to feel light and airy. She kicked off her blanket and attempted to sit up. Her head swam but there was also something new - a distinct lack of pain. She felt battered, as though she had just emerged from a boxing match. The migraine seemed to have scuttled back into its corner, leaving residual grumbles and threats of returning another day. She was winded and knew she hadn’t been declared the winner either. She also knew that tomorrow would feel like something out of a horror film with her walking around the house like a zombie. But right then, all she heard was the rain and she knew the worst was over. She hadn’t been knocked out yet.

The Hunt for Weapons of Mass Destruction

2010-10-04T23:54:00.016+05:30

Agent P had been happy living the semi-retired life: waking up late in the morning, having leisurely cups of coffee, reading the horoscope and closely studying her stretch marks. She had reached a stage in her career where the days were mostly hers except for the rare occasions when Command Centre called her in for a special consult.
Like today.
"Agent P. We have information."
"Awesomeness."
"Information about the missing weapons of mass destruction."
"Really! You mean they're real?"
"We (cough, cough) don't really have that information."
"Then what information do you have?"
"There are rumours that the WMDs might be in your sector."
"What? How is that possible? I thought their elimination was virtually complete."
"Heh. That's what we thought too. Not the case."
"Well. What do you want me to do?"
"Find them. Smoke them out. And Agent P?..."
"Yes?"
"We're counting on you."

******

Agent P set out. The streets were eerily calm.
"If they're anywhere, they'd be here." she thought, recalling how earlier, WMD's had been openly brandished at traffic crossings, "...pulling at my clothing, asking for a rupee."
But no need to worry anymore. There was nothing left here.

Nothing left, that is, except the Horses

Agent P knew she'd have to conduct a thorough sweep of her sector but she was confident that it was clean. Sure, this place had seen some dark times. But those days were gone now. The city had been sanitized overnight. "Oh that lovable lion!" Agent P thought fondly. No WMDs here for sure. The good Agent plodded on.

Behind the Panels: What the Drone Attacks Left Behind

"Hmmmm...what about that biological WMD, from down the road?" she thought, "Wait, I have some images of it from the last reconnaissance mission!"
She scurried to unearth them.

The Sabziwala: Or is He?

With lightening speed, Agent P sprinted to the secret location where the above WMD had often liked to sit & hum sad Bollywood tunes (the coordinates of which she'd secured, not with a little arm twisting of the local Aunty Brigade's head honcho).
Now when she returned to the spot, she found: NOTHING.

Nothing, that is, besides the Dog

Agent P was beginning to doubt Command Centre's suspicions. She was surprised at how little faith they had in their own ability to eliminate those pesky warheads. "Maybe, they've been misled by the fake WMDs - decoys, red herrings and all that. Heheheh. "


This may look like a WMD but don't be fooled. The presence of the Quadriped makes all the difference.

At some point Agent P realised that it was creepy to laugh alone in a crowd so she decided to move on. It was time to take the Metro.
"I really don't understand how any WMDs can get through THESE many personnel," Agent P murmured to herself. Of course, she was referring to the Red Brigade. And unlike the WMD's they were friggin everywhere.

Blotches of Red Everywhere

But ooh look! So shiny & new everything was. So clean. So airconditioned.

We love this, so shut up

"Aah, with better-than-phoren trains like this, who would want to bother with WMD's?" exclaimed Agent P as she confidently strode into the Women Only coach. As her body swayed with the gentle motion of the train, she began to feel sleepy...sooooo.....suhleeeeeppppyyyy.

And then - snap!

"What the faarck! I believe someone has attempted to hypnotize me into abondoning my mission.... NEVER!"

She proclaimed: "I will proceed by bus. For that is the best way to find WMDs - and see the sights."

So she did - but not on the famed HOHOs that everyone was talking about. Partly for investigative reasons and partly because, well, she didn't think the term HOHO would be appropriate to use in mission reports.

Turns out, it was great decision, because look! A real WMD!!


"But I was just going back to my village!" HA! A likely story

Agent P got off and followed the WMD (because they can walk - shut up). Past the thick foliage of the urban jungle...

Past the cutely-plump-now-but-prime-candidate-for-cardiac-arrest-later young boy....

Dodging the perilous traps that the captain of the Red Brigade had promised would be taken care of.

Yo Kalmadi, you missed a spot

Vietcong-inspired Installation Art

And finally stumbled upon this:


Long shot of Terror Groups determined to ruin the CWG

"Dang! I have them in my grip," exulted Agent P as she got ready to speed dial the Command Centre. "Crafty little buggers eh? The perfect disguise: construction workers. Respect."
Within minutes (well, half an hour to be precise) the cops were on the scene.Within minutes after that, the WMDs were dispatched to the railway station & put on trains to nowhere.

All Izz Well. Kinda, Sorta...We..eee..lll

Agent P smiled contentedly as she looked upon the scene. Order had been restored. Her sector was now clean. (Except for that dirty police fellow digging his nose & leering at her from a distance.)

What could possibly go wrong now?

******
For more adventures of Agent P (well, just one more) click here

Reminiscing

2010-09-26T00:46:00.004+05:30

I may be over-reaching here but I do believe John Lennon knew my heart before I did. His music did, at any rate. For the longest time I carried his songs with me wherever I went and like a UN interpreter, they had the ability to translate emotional experiences into bite-sized chunks my mind could easily digest. I told no one.

I grew older & did the things I was supposed to do - scrape past the big exams, get a job, be reckless with my heart etc. When I was 28, I willed my circumstances into buying me a ticket to New York. Incredible things had happened to me on the inside. No one knew on the outside.
For some reason, even as young as 10 years old, I had hitched my hopes on New York City. As if it were the promise land. What does a 10 year old Indian girl (pre-cable television, pre-Internet) want from New York City? I really don't know. All I had was a withered, worn out air-ticket with the letters JFK etched out next to my name. When I was one my mother had carted me along when she visited her sister in the States. The ticket, which she'd allowed me to keep, had grown into a myth that I could barely contain.

New York City was everything I'd imagined and I could hardly stand it. I went numb. I would walk the streets of Manhattan everyday. Penn Station was the imaginary pole to which I tethered myself, stretching the imaginary rope as far as I could, as I wandered around. There were the crazy Doomsday roadside fatalists, the pavement artists, the musicians, the flirtatious doormen, the snobbish salesgirls, the nice salesgirls, the Bangaldeshi umbrella vendors. My crazy would have fit right in there. But I told no one.

And then one day my friend took me to Central Park West. We stood outside the Dakota Building for what felt like eternity. Wasn't that long at all, actually. I didn't really want to stand where John Lennon was shot dead. We crossed the street and entered the park. It's funny now, looking back I have to remind myself that my friend was with me. It played out so differently in my head. I walked into the park, walked down the path and came upon this:


Strawberry Fields Memorial to John Lennon: Central Park, NYC

There were a few benches around the Imagine mosaic. Not too many people - a backpacker with a tiny boombox playing Lennon's songs, a balloon vendor, a father explaining Lennon to his son, a vagrant and me. The numbness inside turned to something else and began to swell. Lennon's music had always been my permission to feel. Now I was here. He was all around. And no one knew.

I sat until sitting there lost all meaning. Until it became just another bench in just another park and it began to get dark. I guess my friend & I must've walked back to his car, we would've stopped by for dinner somewhere, then driven straight on through to his home in New Jersey. The heartswell would have settled into numbness again by the time we reached. We would've both sat on his balcony and puffed our cigarettes. Him inhaling smoke in his corner & I, exhaling, in mine.

What's Your Poison?

2010-09-13T12:16:00.002+05:30

I sit in a roomful of people chanting. Eyes shut, palms together in absolute concentration. They are keeping time with each other. Pitches that began on different scales have now homogenized into one mesmerizing incantation. I am at the back of the room, constantly tucking and untucking my legs beneath me uncomfortably, until I too start swaying with the chant.
This group, congregated in upmarket South Delhi, practices a form of Buddhism. It's a faith-based practice that I've observed from the periphery for over a decade, watching my sister go through the motions and gradually become stronger & stronger in her belief until it became interwoven into & inseparable from every aspect of her life. I, meanwhile, have consistently resisted it. Today I have been invited to attend a discussion meeting by a dear friend of mine.
After the chanting is over, ladies from the Women's Division of the practice begin to read passages from prescribed texts, then discussing & interpreting it in their own way, applying the teachings to their own experiences. It is powerful to hear how faith moved them out of personal hells into a more hopeful place.
These are privileged people - we are privileged people. At least, materially speaking. We are all educated to a fair extent, we're aware of the smorgasbord of faith-based options that lie out there. Yet, we choose to spend our Sundays here. Chanting, studying philosophical texts and reconnecting with our insides.
Afterwards, some of the members ask me how I feel. They impress upon me how the practice has revolutionized their lives. They interpret my resistance as a pit stop on the way to becoming a true believer. Although their words convey that they don't wish to coerce me to join, their reluctance to understand the nature of my resistance & accept it, begins to alienate me.

Unlike several people who are now part of this practice, I have no catastrophe that needs solving. Nor do I feel completely lost for answers or devoid of hope. Over the years, I have developed my own little system of faith (yes, yes, evolved after undergoing certain 'catastrophes') - one that I find very difficult to explain to others, one that is a combination of the mystic and the very earthbound rationale that accompanies intense introspection. It's a mish-mash of many different ideas I picked up along the way. It requires the stringent discipline that most faiths require - especially when ones circumstances are truly in the crapper and none of the sunshiny promises of 'keeping the faith' seem to be making good. So far, so good. As much as I can tell, having a system of faith which doesn't begin & end with the individual self, has not killed me yet.

In short, I don't yet understand how being part of this particular practice (or any school of organized faith) will benefit me any more than what I'm doing now. At the same time, I can't understand how people go through life without following some system of faith.

****************

It is Eid in India. More importantly, it is Eid in Srinagar. On this day of religious importance, certain political leaders have decided to carry out a peaceful rally through the streets of the city. Thousands end up converging at Lal Chowk. As this peaceful rally progresses, pent up rage is deftly channelized (or let loose) into violent intent. By lunchtime, images of burning buildings fill television screens, the way black smoke is filling up the beautiful Kashmiri sky.
One wonders: Did everyone do their Eid prayers before leaving home to join the angry mob?

****************

Someone built a temple. Someone broke the temple, murdered innocents and built a mosque. Then someone broke that mosque and murder followed again.
Someone set fire to a train. Before we could know who or what or why, a city - no, much more than a city - was in flames.
Three years on I am in a cab being a driven by a man, who wishes to take me through a ghost-town, razed to the ground because it was inhabited by a religious minority. I don't know why he thinks it's a tourist spot. He's hardly trying to highlight the tragedy (whose echoes I still hear in these abandoned galis). He seems quite matter of fact about it all when he says, "No Muslims came back.".
"Like the pest-control guy," I think, then stop. I don't know anything about this man or his life to judge him.
Here in this city, development & religion are strangely interlinked. I have heard about this phenomenon, now I am seeing it first hand. To the residents, it is a matter of mere, unquestioned routine. To me, it is sinister.

*******************

Meanwhile on Twitter, where I live out this other life, there are strong, very persuasive & highly well-informed voices that question religion & the idea of God. Their absolute certainty (seem familiar, this certainty?) confuses me. With the result that I no longer know what I thought I knew. What does religion mean? How does one define God? Here, religion sounds (to me) like a needless organ - like the appendix - that's now gotten infected and needs to be done away with. No relevance, no importance, no requirement any longer. Banish it now and stand by for world peace, gender equality, alleviation of poverty & all-round freedom from general acts of human stupidity.

I walk the periphery of this group too. Of course it is ridiculous for me to infer what being an 'atheist' means from a microblogging site that forces ideas to be condensed into 140 characters.
Perhaps, I am too lazy or too uneducated to know better: whatever the reason, I don't belong here either.

******************

I am driving through Orissa. Deeper into the villages, one finds that religion is not a matter of choice or opinion. It informs how people live, behave & get from one day to another. There is extreme poverty here and very little faith in the State as a machine that makes their lives easier. The articles of India's Constitution (that document the rest of us hold so dear, so indispensable to our society's functioning. That book, which is occasionally twisted & misused but is inherently true and - yikes - 'good'.) mean very little here. The instruments of the State built on this book also hold little meaning (especially when this law is often invoked to exploit & undermine them).

The only law here is the law of religion. These gods, goddesses and mythology are machines that make lives easier. When all else fails, it is this faith that people turn to, to get from one day to the next. It is this faith that they perceive as the harbinger of good things. And yes, it is this faith that probably gets twisted & misused as well.

In this context, I struggle to find the relevance of arguments like "Yes, it is a convenient belief to have but is it true?".

*******************

At around age 25, I began to seriously study my life & the world that I had built around me. By age 28, my building projects seemed to come crashing down for lack of a solid foundation. It was - to put it mildly - a complete, tectonic shift in all that I knew to be valid.

The idea that I was the primary mover & shaker of my life was something I held dear. But was I to be the only mover-and-shaker? I wasn't so sure anymore. Mostly, I realised, because I was exhausted. I could no longer understand how one could possibly do this job of living one's life, absolutely alone, while crazy things beyond ones control kept happening. Who's got the remote? I thought I did. Don't I? Do I? Can I change the channel please?
And so I chose from a menu of 'truths'. I went down the list and decided to pick & nibble from all the items available. A little bit of reading (yes, some self-help books too), a little bit of therapy, a little bit of Vedanta from my college days, a little bit of syadvada, a little bit of science and a little bit of what the atheists & agnostics say. A LOT of what my own instincts were telling me.
As I said, I've come up with a system that seems to work for me. The journey that I have undertaken to develop this system has led me to believe that 'faith' lies somewhere between convenience & what the combination of my mind & heart says.

For me, it is tiring, meaningless and eventually dangerous to find & live by one practice or one belief system that promises to 'apply to all'. I'm just not built that way. So now, because I have the luxury, I shall go out searching some more.

...to my girls...

2010-09-01T13:13:00.000+05:30

The girls met at 15, 15 & 16.
They giggled, wept and held hands through their 20s.
At 30, they exhaled
And became Shakti.

Hat Yogini Shakti -11 by Gogi Saroj Pal http://tiny.cc/lcm8q

(*Dear D & N, I picture us at age 105, dancing pagan dances around pagan fires, still laughing our sagging, wrinkled asses off. Much Love.)

Notes from travels IV - Orissa

2010-08-29T23:51:00.014+05:30

"Orissa? What happens in Orissa?" asks my cousin.
I shrug. I don't really know. And this worries me. In a couple of hours I am to catch a flight to Bhubaneshwar to find out everything a viewer of BiggAss Network's travel channel would want to know. I have less than 5 days to do this. I am shitting multiple proverbial bricks.

Bhubaneshwar:
As a Delhiite, the first thing I notice about the capital is its roads. Bhubaneshwar scores big. Good roads. Also great traffic, in that, there is none. Waiting for the traffic light to turn green, the cab driver turns to me and says: "Sorry madam, office-hours crowd." There are all of seven other cars on the 4 lane road. It now dawns on me why my Oriya friend, who claims to be an excellent driver, nearly crashed my car while driving in Delhi. She is an excellent driver. In Bhubaneshwar.

Orissa instantly reminds me of Goa. Except instead of booze shops at every turn, this place has temples.

Having been scarred in childhood by the long lines at Tirupathi and the insane trek to Kedarnath (walking barefoot on icy cold, stone floors only to be assaulted by Brahmins), I nurse a healthy distrust of temples.
However work, being my chosen mode of worship, necessitates that I enter one for research.
I bypass the temple that humans actually frequent (Lingaraj - beautiful I'm told but not open to non-Hindus, which most of my shooting crew will be) and choose instead to visit the Rajarani Temple.

It takes my breath away. Small, unpretentious, clean and absolutely unloved.
Considering the affection that Oriyas have for temples, I'm quite surprised to find that the only people visiting are the ones in the photograph above. College girls tying rakhis on boys that they really want to drag into the empty sanctum sanctorum and bang the brains out of.
The place is unbearably spotless for the rakhi-brigade so they leave behind all their plastic filth.
So far, I've been a silent witness to their mating rituals. But now I begin to chase them down the long pathway to the gate. By the time I've caught up, I've realised that I'm the outsider and that righteous rage would no go down well with these hygienically-challenged youths.
I put on my most frightening friendly face and walk up to the least ferocious looking young lady of them all.
As I begin my moral lecture on cleanliness & the importance of respecting ones heritage, I start to feel the full weight of my age. I am newbie adult, just entering my 30s. As the young lady mutters, "We are sorry ma'am," I feel myself shriveling up right before her eyes.

Still, I'm grateful. If this were Delhi, they'd've told me to shove my Gandhian morals where the sun don't shine.

Cuttack:
I like Cuttack because it has a river. When I'm lost & stop to ask for directions, the pretty ladies smile at me and help me get a rickshaw.
The language barrier is beginning to exhaust me. I am far less patient with the people here than they are with me and I realise I'm a terrible Delhi snob.
I am going from store to store on Naya Sadak looking for artisans who make filigree jewelery. I am told to visit the home of a Mr. John Ashok. He turns out to be a Mr. Jan Ashok.

Mr. Jan Ashok is not at home. His 70 plus mother is though. She is one shiny, happy camper. Warmly welcoming a complete stranger into her room, she offers me the only chair in the house, deeply unhappy when I attempt to sit on the floor with her.
As I sip from the bottle of Slice she has bullied her daughter-in-law into getting me, she proceeds to list out all her medical ailments to me in Oriya.
When she sticks the underside of her foot in my face, I decide to summon up some hybrid of Bengali & Oriya and squeak: "Aami Oriya jaani na!"

Satpada:
The road to the Satpada side of the Chilika lake is my first real brush with the rural countryside. I bless my stars that I have come during the monsoons. Wet, green paddy fields roll by, wet forests roll by, wet goats roll by. It is all too beautiful. I am excited to see the Irawaddy dolphins.

I do not see the dolphins. Two of the saat (seven) podas (villages) are feuding. All boating operations have temporarily been suspended. Perhaps out of fear that one village might send out nuclear subs to sink the other's boat.
I have driven 3 hours and over 100 kilometers for a whole bunch of nothing. Well, not nothing. There's always this:

Puri:
Puri is not my scene. The temple is to be avoided by a mile. The beaches are crowded and littered with broken bottle shards. Sad, because the ocean is simply magnificent.

Like a sniffer dog sniffs out cocaine, I invariably manage to locate the disgruntled & the dispossessed wherever I go. The beach at Puri is no different.
Soon a handbag seller is asking me how much I earn in Delhi, explaining how he never became a constable (despite being a graduate) because he refused to pay a Rs. 50 bribe. Further down the beach, I befriend a bunch of photographers who take snaps of tourists lolling on the beach, only to sell them back to their subjects. The photographers tell me about the dismal state of unemployment and how apathetic the government is to, well, just about everything.
Dismayed and dejected, I drag my feet through the heavy sand and get out of Puri as fast as I can.

Chandrabhaga:
Just as there is Good to fight Evil and Dexter to neutralize pedophiles, there is Chandrabhaga to quell the distaste that Puri leaves in my mouth.
En route to Konark, one chances upon this stretch of untouched beach almost out of nowhere.
The driver is confused by my excitement & pressing need to stop in the middle of the road. "There's nothing here, madam," he says. Precisely.

I can only stay here for five minutes. I am on a clock and a budget. The BigAss Network does not pay for personal quests for eternal peace. I must soak in as much of this exquisite quiet as I can before I leave.
A deep sense of sadness - loneliness maybe? - grips me suddenly. I am experiencing untold beauty. With no one to share it with.

Konark:
Yes, yes, beautiful temple. Startling triumph of architecture, geometry, astronomy, art blah blah blah.
But have you met Mr. Santan Beura, local guide? No? Please do:

"Please see madam - Kamasutra."
"Please see madam, polygamy."
"Please see madam, lesbian lowe."
"So sad madam, you have come alone. No point of seeing all this."

Athagadh:

I've been told it is one of the last few forested, hilly regions along the Eastern Ghats that is Maoist-free & totally safe.
Still, driving through the roads lined with thick forests, I can't squash the irrational fear inside me. What if someone jumps out of that thicket with an AK47? In the next instant, I am completely ashamed of myself. Of course not, you idiot.

So it's interesting when the next evening I am introduced to Vijuda (name changed). He is a Black Cat commando & a CRPF man. Warm, extroverted & surprisingly talkative. He has served as the bodyguard of Rajiv Gandhi & KPS Gill. He has been part of the team that responded to the 2002 Akshardham attack. He was stationed in Manipur & Punjab at the height of the insurgency. His friend & fellow soldier was killed at Dantewada.

15 minutes into our conversation and he makes sure to nip my hero-worship in the bud. He is completely devoid of any nationalist fervour. He has put his life on the line several, several times. But not for some lofty notion of 'India' or The Nation. It's a job, he does it.

Warming up, he speaks of 'reality'. Of how villagers in Maoist-infested areas are terrorised routinely by the armed forces. He does not absolve himself of the guilt of killing innocents even though he was 'under orders' (pre-emptive murders of youths to prevent recruitment into terror groups). He speaks fondly of many ugravaadis, who after 'office-hours' are the same as him. Fighting because they were told to.
I sit there talking to a man who admits to have taken numerous lives, many of them innocent. I try not to romanticise the moment but cannot help notice the fire in his eyes as he speaks.
His 'service to the nation' has rendered him barely human in his own eyes.

Leaving:
I leave knowing at least part of the answer to the question: "What happens in Orissa?"
A lot does. Silently. Away from the disinterested government machinery, in the villages and the tribal nooks & forgotten crannies.
It's a place of incredible, unspoiled beauty and that makes up for the horrid flight back home.

The Delhi snobbery is rubbed out of me partly by my experiences over the week and partly by the 20 minute wait at the baggage-pick up's conveyor belt, where the same blue mailbag is going continuously round & round & round.

Scenes From A Beauty Parlour

2010-08-13T09:54:00.005+05:30

Scene 1: Threading

- Tch Tch, madam, you are coming after so many days.
- Really? I was here a month ago.
- Accha? Lot of growth you have madam.
- Hmmm.
- You must be very busy?
- A little, I travel for work sometimes.
- Married?
- No. You asked me this last month also.
- You should get married.

Scene 2: Facial

- Hello madam, seeing you after so many days.
- I was here a month ago.
- Accha? You should get gold facial.
- Just the usual please.
- This chocolate facial is also very good.
- Really? What does it do?
- It makes the skin very soft. Removes impurities.
- And the gold one?
- It removes impurities & makes the skin like butter. Soft.
- Just the usual please.
- Madam, lots of tanning you have.
- That's my real skin colour actually.
- You want skin whitening?
- No thank you, the usual please.
- Married?
- No.

Scene 3: Haircut

- What do you want madam?
- Layers. Don't cut it too short.
- No.
- What do you mean no?
- It won't look nice.
- Look I've had this cut for a while now, I know how it looks. I like it.
- It doesn't look nice.
- It's okay, just do it please.
- Fine.
.....
- This isn't what I asked for. It's too short.
- But it looks nice now.

Scene 4: Waxing

- Hello madam, after so long you're coming.
- (.....)
- Real tattoo? Sticker?
- Real.
- Hai! Did it hurt?
- Yes.
- My husband's mother also has. Family tradition. She was five.
- That's nice.
- She wants me to quit my job & stay at home. But I can't. I want to move out of that house. I need my salary.
- What does your husband say?
- He doesn't say anything, only. He's afraid of his mother.
- Arranged marriage?
- No. Love marriage. I fought with my parents to marry him.
- So he doesn't want to move out?
- Why would he, madam, he has all the comforts of being his mother's only son.
- So what will you do?
- I don't know madam. I get migraines everyday. I can't eat or sleep.
- You must never leave your job.
- No madam, I won't quit, no matter what that woman says.
- Good. It's important for a woman to have financial independence.
- You are married?
- No.
- Why not?

Skippy Badgerow

2010-07-10T13:23:00.002+05:30

"Skippy...
...Skippy...Beaugereau?...
...Skippy Badgerow."

She woke up with the name Skippy Badgerow playing jump rope in her head. Her REM cycle had been unkind, sweat had dribbled continuously down her neck in the night, soaking those sheets not of Egyptian cotton.

Who was Skippy Badgerow? And did he dress well?...

The answers would not come easy. Till then she resolved never to eat rabbit or chew on a human heart.

Idea for Story

2010-07-08T10:01:00.000+05:30

Take me to St. Loo-ee

Toilet humour.

A loo story.

Not kosher. Or else it'd be a Jew Story.

A tale of relationships flushed.

Tag, I'm a F*&$%st!

2010-07-07T13:43:00.006+05:30

Recently, I was challenged (on this blog & in other spaces) on where I stand in the 'battle' of gender equality. I was asked to pick sides - Was I a feminist or not? Last evening, grumbling & irritable at myself for not knowing how to answer this, I attempted an angry post part-blistering, part-petulant.

It was horrid.

Then this morning, a rather charming blogger tagged me as part of IHM's 'My Sins Against Gender Stereotypes' thingamajig. I was to list out 10 things that I've done in my life which go against prevalent notions of gender roles. So here goes:

1. Am an absolute lover of gadgets & love unraveling the puzzles of technology.
2. Am enthused by physics.
3. Have done 'highway driving'.
4. I ask to be paid as much as my male colleagues.
5. I work the same shifts as male colleagues (periods or no periods).
6. I expect men to share housework duties.
7. I sometimes travel in autos after 10:30 pm, drunk. In New Delhi.
8. I have earned significantly more than the man I lusted after.
9. I refuse to marry just because I'm getting older.
10. I plan to take care of my parents as they grow older.

Where this list places me is irrelevant.
We're all stuck between shifting notions of gender roles, these days. The men are confused (does she want me to open doors for her, does she not?), the women are confused (do I support the banning of burqas or not?) I've never had a man block my upwardly mobile, professional aspirations but I've never worked in an office where sexual harassment did not creep in, in some form or the other.

Am I a feminist or not? Yes, I am. If being one supports an idea of freedom of choice, no matter the gender.
I feel equally outraged at the French ban on burqas as the Iranian laws that force women to wear them. I feel that those who commit heinous 'honour killings' are as trapped by skewed gender notions as the ones who were killed.
I find human trafficking abhorrent, yet don't agree with a blanket ban on prostitution.
I don't believe that rape is the worst thing that can happen to a woman.
I also believe that men are wonderful creatures, crucial to the cause of gender equality.

To me feminism is not about which side of the fence you're on. Because there is no fence. Never was.
To me, being a feminist, means bringing the feminine experience out of the closet. It is to talk, listen and to understand what a woman's world looks & feels like.

So don't be afraid of the word 'feminist'. Chances are, many of you rational thinking people already are one. You really don't have to roll your eyes every time a woman talks or writes about her unique experience as a female living in an unequal world. If you're a guy, don't exclude yourself from those spaces (I for one would love to have you participate). If you're a woman, don't be afraid to jump right in. This is not a scary, angry place that can exist without men. Far from it. It is a world more complete than the one we know now, where everything is finally in its rightful place, as it should be, serene, peaceful and empowering of oneself & the other.

Shucks, it might not be a battle after all.

How To Write A Bad Poem

2010-07-03T20:33:00.001+05:30

As banks shut,
the staff rolls out,
in biker gangs
of blue shirts & striped ties.

(Take a sentence, any sentence. Hit the enter key every time you blink. Poetry.)

Twittervada - How Twitter Helped Me Gain Inner Peace

2010-06-13T09:57:00.007+05:30

There is a story about the ancient sage, Adi Shankaracharya, that my Indian Philosophy teacher loved to tell us undergrads.
Once, on one of his many book-signings across the land, Shankaracharya was confronted by one of those annoying followers who only follow you to make wise-ass comments on everything you say.

"O Wise Man," said he, "If you were in a jungle and you came upon a man-eating tiger, would you run away?"
"Why, yes, @Disciple67456, I would," said @Shankar_ARox.
"But why? You only said everything is maya no? Then even the tiger is maya. Hehe."
"That may be so, idiot child, but so is everything else. Which makes the world my material self lives in, real for now. So, when the tiger gnaws on my ankle, it may be maya. But unless I attain moksha right about then, it will still hurt like a bitch."

Disciple67456, suitably enlightened, went on to RT Shankaracharya's words to all his tweeps. But what relevance does this story have to me & my inner peace? You see, being a Twitter whore has helped me understand the material world a little bit better.

* Hari Om Twat Sat*

1. Fresh as a freshly powdered baby bottom: When we sign up on Twitter, our profiles are pure. We can be whoever we wish to be - funny, confessional, depressed, suicidal, attention-junkies, newshounds, stalkers, leaders, individualists or cult-members. There is no desire to acquire followers. There is no desire to create virtual bonds with unknown people. The fact that our neighbours, relatives and friends are on our lists is good enough. Ah the innocence, sigh....

2. The New World: However, if your pure soul is unemployed and has access to too much free time & broadband, it begins to uncover the cliques that exist on Twitter. Soon, the Dalai Lama has been unfollowed, replaced instead by Shit My Dad Says and the descent has begun. (Which is ironic, since this 'descent' is misinterpreted by the Tweeter as an ascent up the Twitterati ladder. People, who abandoned their budding careers as rockstars to become bankers will identify.)
At this stage, as with any stage in life, one has a choice to disengage and not get sucked under the veil of illusion...

3. Part Becomes Whole: So this Tweeter has spent a couple of weeks/ months navigating this bewildering soup of 140 characters. She's sifted through thousands of Twitter profiles and what remains is a list of brilliantly funny, raging & sarcastic buggers. The idea that Twitter is a vast universe full of endless possibilites (a notion held right at the very beginning, when signing up) has now been whitled down. The Tweeter becomes further myopic. She begins to believe that Twitter, as a whole, is a brilliantly funny & raging place full of sarcastic buggers.
Ignorance.

4. The Switch: Deep within, the tweeter is always aware that this is not real. That there is a world outside Twitter, where she is a more complete person. More loving, giving & prone to random acts of kindness (also capable of tremendous feats like giving flesh-and-blood hugs). Yet, she disregards that inner awareness. She begins to change. She begins to unleash her negativity. The more she descends into the hallucination, the more popular she becomes.
She now makes a fatal mistake.

5. But You Said You Loved Me: The Tweeter begins to believe what the 'voices' on Twitter are saying. After all, she is being discussed in third person by strangers and her brain vomit is now being tracked by some of the most respected writers she has admired in the blogosphere. The illusions of grandeur know no stopping. She believes she has discovered the meaning of love. Worse still, she stops reading books.

6. The Fall: Then something stupid happens. She becomes an object on Twitter. Others begin to sexualize her, vilify her, worship her. They, equally ignorant in this mayalicious world of Twitter, have lost the ability to see beyond the DP. (People who humiliate security guards performing safety checks at malls will identify). She realises that no matter how many times she is retweeted, she is in fact alone and this, in truth, is not reality. Bummer.

7. Enlightenment: She puts on her pants and goes for a walk. Outside.

*Hari Om Twat Sat*
---------------------------------
Read also: 7 Deadly Kinds of Twitter Followers at 42
So Much To Say at Oculus to Oculus

All Is Not Lost Yet

2010-06-06T18:16:00.002+05:30

In the best tradition of rebel artists & revolutionary writers through the ages, one brave chap at SDI Subtitles has decided to take on censorship & subvert its oppressive forces. In a country where 'sex', 'shit', 'breasts', 'penis' and even 'screw' are bleeped out or reworded, this new age Che refuses to be cowed down:

As seen on Scrubs on Star World, this afternoon:

Dialogue: Don't be such a massive jackass.
Subtitle: Don't be such a massive prick.

Shopping

2010-05-30T10:38:00.002+05:30

I am over 30. I went shopping for clothes.
I learnt that boys are embracing the lungi-cum-chuddee look and that girls only wear clothes that require instruction manuals.

Awesome prize for anyone who guesses its gender.

Hindsight

2010-05-25T12:05:00.027+05:30

24th May 2010, Monday:
11:30pm
"By the way," she continued, "I'm STILL not your whore."
11:27pm
"Sorry to disturb you at this hour," Static texted, "I thought about it. And my answer is no."
11:20pm
Static checks her bank balance. It's abysmally low. She hasn't worked in nearly a month. She hasn't written in almost as long. Next month's rent. Next month's rent. And oh ya - next month's rent.
9:15pm
Phone rings. She picks up.

"Hello?"
"Static! How're you?!?!? It's me, Chutiya Misra."
"....."
"Hello?"
"Yeah. What's up?"
"So? Have you heard the latest about me?"
"Vaguely."
"I'm in Delhi. Working with Fantasmorgasmic Films."
"Ok."
"So, I have a job for you. Only you can do it. Also, no one else was free."
"What."
"I need you to write for the InternationallyNarcissistic Channel. Investigative documentary. Thrill, intrigue, shock, tears. Blood."
"......................"
"Subject: Mangalore crash."
"What?"
"Yeah man! Think about it. First on scene. Beating MyMomma'sAnMP Productions to it."
"Let me think about it."
"Money no object."
"I'll let you know."
"Ok. And by the way, all's forgiven."

23rd May 2010, Sunday
4:15pm
She lies sprawled on her bed, watching the news. A young boy of 13 is in shock. He has a mike thrust in his face. 'Beta, your parents and siblings perished in the crash. How do you feel?'
He cannot speak, he cannot cry, he can barely stand. He is of no use to the reporter.

In deep anguish, Static tweets.

7th Jan 2009, Wednesday:
10:41am
Email exchange: Static to Chutiya Misra "If I'm reading this correctly, you want me steal SuperMoneyful project from under Esteemed Colleague's nosehair?"
1:22pm
Email exchange: Chutiya Misra to Static "I have bought your soul for pittance. Go forth and kick Esteemed Colleague in the groin."
1:46pm
Email exchange: Static to Chutiya Misra "I won't do it, you mammoth turd."
2:01pm
Email exchange: Chutiya Misra to Static "Don't lecture me on professional ethics, slut. I own your ass. I am King of the Universe. Hahahahhaha."
8.14pm
Email exchange: Static to Chutiya Misra "Give me my money, bitch. I'm outta here."

13th Nov 2008, Thursday:
12:00pm
On recce for the ThisWillWinAwards project. Chutiya Misra & Static check into hotel.

Chutiya Misra: Should I book one room or two?
Static: Errr...what?!
Chutiya Misra: (wink, wink) One room will save money. One bed, hehe.
Static: Yeeeeeaaah. I don't think so.
Chutiya Misra: Oh ho! OtherIntern was more fun. Why not you?
Static: Because I'd like my own bed. Oh, and I'm not your whore.

Ain't Unemployment The BEST?

2010-05-19T10:41:00.001+05:30

Two weeks since I had me a job. Two weeks of doing nothing but playing House Frau and becoming One with the Downloads. Two weeks since anyone spoke to me in the language of pay cheques.

They say it's a phase. I dunno. Is brain atrophy a phase?

Ain't Geert sexy?

Lost But Looking

2010-05-13T23:29:00.000+05:30

Wh...where...am I?...

Ma'am, just lie back down.

Where am I?

You're in the Intensive Care Unit. You've been in an accident.

What?...

Ma'am please you need to lie down. Your body's been through a lot. No cause for worry now, but you need to rest.

But I...It's coming back to me...I've lost it....

Lost what, ma'am?

I...this thing...it was alive. I held it in my palm. Like this, see?

What is it? Can you describe it?

I don't know...what to call it. It's mine. All purple and gnarly. Bruised but beautiful. And alive. God, I'm so sorry I've lost it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Please! Ma'am, you have to calm down. Are you in pain? I could give you something for it.

No! No...I need to stay awake. Alert. I need to find it. I can't go home without it. People....people are waiting for me. They're depending on me.

Breathe, ma'am. I'm here to help you. Nothing's so lost that you can't find it again. Here. Take my hand. Now think. Where could it be? Where did you last see it?

I don't know, I don't remember.

I got you, ma'am. Now think harder. Don't you worry about a thing, I'll take care of the details. Just give me a clue.

I gave it...passed it around so much...it had such strong rhythm. But it's weaker now...

So it's an instrument? It makes music?

Oh yes, beautiful music. But I never learnt to play it well.

No worries ma'am. You know what they say - it ain't over till the fat lady sings. And I'm not singing.

Thanks Nurse, you're very kind. But don't you have other patients to take care of?

Uh-huh. Look child, look to your side - is that what you're looking for?

Huh? What?

The monitor...those strong strokes. Stronger than ever.

Is it...did you fix it...?

Yes, we did. Now close your eyes. Get some rest.

Diff of Op

2010-05-13T10:06:00.000+05:30

My mother and I pretty much disagree on how she brought me up.
I say she did a bang up job.
She says I'm unmarried.

No Place Like Home

2010-05-05T10:35:00.002+05:30

Last week 23 year old Nirupama Pathak died. Under mysterious circumstances, they said. Smothered, not suicide. 3 months pregnant, others said. Choosing the wrong man was her mistake, it was reported.

I believe her biggest mistake was going home. Because, as it turns out, women - girls - like her have no home.

Home is where a woman returns to replenish her soul. It's a place where she knows she will be loved no matter what choices she made out there in the real world. Home is where her wounds are soothed, where she puts her feet up and allows those who claim to love her to wipe the worry lines off her brow. Home is where mothers, fathers, siblings, partners and children rally around & promise to protect her against all odds. Home is safe.

I went home to my parents yesterday. They don't understand many of my choices. We've fought emphatically and disagreed in obscenely loud silences. We are not what Karan Johar would call strictly functional. Yet, when I enter that door I know this strange family of mine will defend me, not do me, to death. Honour for them, is having me as part of their world.

The tragedy is not that this beautiful young thing died along with her unborn child. It's that she was throttled by those who never thought of her as their own. That she had the misfortune of being born in a home where labels trumped her heart. That 23 years of living & loving meant nothing at all, in the end.

And the biggest tragedy of all: Being born to a mother who never had a home either.
That girl never stood a chance.

Really, people...Part III: Ad Nauseum

2010-05-03T23:41:00.003+05:30

I love Indian advertising. The Bajaj bulb ad ("Jab main chhota ladka thha..."), the Fevicol series, the Happydent ad and Vodafone pug? Good stuff there. For the most part.

As for the rest...
Forget the rampant sexism (Tanishq wedding jewelery ad anyone?: the archetype of the independent Indian woman being lured by bling, like a cud-chewing cow...also commented on by fellow blogger).
Forget the ridiculous fear-mongering (fear of sunlight, aging, rice, singlehood, ad infinitum). That's staple.

Because lately, there's been even more insidious shit going on. For some reason we have turned on Africans and it makes me cringe right down to my toe nails. The new Sprite ad shows two ditzes in a jungle. One of them with a handbook on how to deal with African tribals (because, God forbid there should be any other type of African), which he proceeds to do with a jhingalala type Vyjanthimala dance. I don't know how this ad ends because I can never see it through (if one must be racist & stereotype, I'm hoping the tribals turn cannibalistic and eat that porcine motherfucker).

I thought this ad was the most abysmal low we could sink to. Until I saw one so disgusting that my brain retched out any memory of the brand name. I do know it's for a lemon drink (tried searching for the ad online. Failed). The ad shows an African man (again, loin-cloth'd, hut-dwelling, cave-man type) in the desert, parched and trying desperately to collect water in some kind of pot. Hours go by and he manages to get a few drops. He lifts the pot above his head to take the much needed sip. A passerby (cave man 2) enters frame, distracts thirsty cave man 1. Cave man 1 misses his mark, water spills onto dry land and disappears into it. The ad ends when Cave man 1, enraged, chases Cave man 2 around the one straw hut that stands in the desert. Cut to look-ma-I'm-funny tagline and big graphic of beverage bottle.

It's bad enough that we reduce an entire continent to a caricature, that we're ignorant about its culture & people, but to mock its misfortunes and worse still, to use it to sell some lame-ass, over-priced synthetic lemon drink is something I simply cannot stomach (Not feeling well, madam? Nimbu paani?)

Here's a concept, then: How about an ad for a brand of luggage. Luggage so solid, it survives terrorist attacks at railway stations & 5 star hotels. Hahaha...look at that goofy Kasab-lookalike wasting his bullets on our faux-leather finish...that'll show him.
Buy that bag wontcha?

Bit much? Ya. It's late. I'm being stupid. That's what happens when I watch too much TV.

A Day At The Mall

2010-04-25T19:50:00.003+05:30

I'm writing this post because my cousin brother believes that one day blogs & tweets will be held up as historical documents, chronicling where we have come from as a people, giving perspective on where we are headed.
Much like Mohenjodaro, my blog is then. This thought delights me.

Therefore, I feel it is my obligation to write about my day at the mall. Not just any mall, but Ambience Mall. To non-Delhiites, this won't mean much. And truth be told, this mall isn't even in Delhi. It's in Gurgaon, which is in my favourite Indian state, Haryana (I jest, surely you sense that).
This is Ambience Mall.

It is very big. It is so big that I had to shrink its image to the smallest permissable size on this blog. It is so big that within its folds of fat, it can hold several football fields and in fact does hold several sporting venues, a brewery & a kiddy amusement park. It is so big that you could include a visit to it in your exercise regime & get a solid cardio burn (which will then be rendered redundant as you speed-walk past the food court). In short, this mall be big.

Now, unlike some of my friends, I am not a mall hater. In fact, I've developed a bit of a mall 'habit', if you know what I mean. I dig the air-conditioning, the polished floors, the yellow lighting and assorted food/beverage smells sneaking up on me as I turn a corner. I like walking past material objects I can rarely afford, because on days that I can, I forget that life is about self-awareness, self-love and trying to reach a higher truth. I have clocked enough hours to be an official mall-appreciator.

Oh but Ambience Mall. It is the strangest mix of crassness & creativity, ugliness & quirkiness, pappiness and awesomeness. It looks like it was put together in a hurry. Like some fatcat in a fatcat boardroom said - "Time nahi hai yaar, budget nahi hai yaar. Jaldi khatam karo yaar, kiraye pe chaddaao yaar." It looks unfinished, unthought of and a little dirty. It's smug in its awareness that airconditioning will get us past the front door. The BMW showroom will do the rest (it's a great microcosm of urban Indian society, this BMW showroom. The untouched, pristine flooring within and the grimy glass windows, pock-marked with all the nose-rubbing & convertible-induced drooling).

The fact that very few visitors can actually afford its merchandise is immaterial. Ambience Mall, like many of its kind, has become a picnic spot. That's alright I guess. Except, looking at all the stuff makes me kinda mad deep inside. It makes me irrationally crave the ugliest bags that Louis Vuitton could possibly come up with (scam of the century, that LV is) and then hate myself because I can't own one. To deal with my rage, I head to the Food Court to eat my feelings but then sight the brewery and get smashed instead. The booze gives me the courage to walk into the exclusive Golfworx, where I see people playing a virtual version of the most outdoor of all outdoor sports, in tiny, darkened cubicles (and they have caddies!!!!!). The salespeople there try to sell me Rs.11,000 shoes though I do not play golf. I walk out.
Luckily, Ambience has made provisions for bowling (another sport I do not play) and boozing, just next door. I am walking in when my mother calls and tells me that 3 malls in Saket (all adjacent to each other) have been evacuated because of bomb threats. It seems, the crowd that accumulates at such venues on weekends is too good for terrorists to resist. That still does not deter from my goal of not-bowling because everything is so shiny and new. I cannot leave. So I watch Delhi's Bowling Team (they look official, t-shirts and all) play. Then get bored.

Walking out, a large building adjacent to the entrance is sighted. It has several chimneys spewing out dark grey smoke. I am informed that this might be where all the power to run the mall comes from. It stops me in my tracks (Mentally. Physically it's too hot to stop. The outside world is not, unfortunately, airconditioned) and sums up my impression of Ambience Mall:

That was an awful lot of energy to bust for a bunch of people not buying a BMW.

She Came In Through The Bathroom Window...

2010-04-22T11:58:00.005+05:30

Over the last few days The Beatles have popped up in the most interesting of ways. On Twitter through random folk, on a fantastic art website called Across The Universe that I am absolutely in love with, then there was the American Idol Beatles week and a crazy episode in a sound studio.

Apparently, it was all a way to get me to start a new blog. So...tadaaaaa....presenting And Your Bird Can Sing (http://aquaticstaticsings.wordpress.com/). It's a music blog about all things that make me go hummmm in the night. It's only 2 posts old (yup, one of them's about the Beatles) but I'm very excited.

So do drop by...

(Also, if you could suggest some music blogs that you like, let me know. Will add them to my blogroll on the site.)

Crikey!

2010-04-20T23:48:00.003+05:30

I may have scared Billu the Blog Burglar away...

So an Ode.

Twas a shorte yet sweete affaire
When ye did venture into mine laire
Withe stealthe ye hastened
To steal, not complacent
To write thine own trash, eh?

And so do accept mine thanks overmany
I pray, thou dost not returneth
But if ye should come
Tis a promise, I'll hum
A merry tune, whilst in Purgatory ye burneth

Two Balloons - 16.10.2009

2010-04-20T23:12:00.006+05:30

Two balloons float up into the sky. One red, one blue.

The blue balloon glides like a cat when high. Folks on the ground worry how it drifts across the sky, seemingly without a clue.

The red balloon freestyles when high. For most people, it all looks a little pointless. Two wayward globes making their way across vast expanses of nothingness.

But up where the two roam, there is so much to see. There’s white, feathery cloud bits, the stray bird, the just-out-of-reach blueness. And the magnificent view below.

It’s nice, even important, to know that the bustling happens down there, while here in the stratosphere, there’s nothing to do but fly, strings sometimes intertwined, sometimes undone.

The Greater Good (or What's Your Point Sister?)

2010-04-18T00:44:00.005+05:30

'Nuff said about shit writing I think.

Truth be told there's been a lot bothering me lately. My over-eager participation in all things Twitter, the need to up the Twitter Gods (oh, there's a club...) and be the wittiest chick on the 140-character long block. The need to be snappy, sensitive, brazen yet not short-sighted, politically aware yet not an activist, to shock without offending, to offend without alienating.
The urge to regurgitate whatever comes to ones mind, no matter how inane, how irrelevant and how selfish. I have succumbed to it all.
I've jumped in the deep end and found - it's way more shallow than I thought.

Forget the psychological difficulty I'm having coming to terms with my alter-ego on Twitter/ FB or even this blog sometimes. This, for once, is not about my head.

My chief discomfort with what's happening to me online comes from what I believe to be good writing.
I have been clever on Twitter, even had a minor celebrity quote me once. Strangers have wanted to connect with me and read about my day. I like my writing online. It's forced me to stretch myself (I never ever thought I was funny. Now with all these virtual opportunities, I am pushing my own limits). My language skills and confidence have improved. But is my writing great? Not by a long, long shot.

I am, in fact, suffering as a writer. I'm getting lost in the crowd. The more lost in it I get, the more I want to be part of it. I am trying to stand out by submerging myself, hair curlers and all. I'm getting scared of writing the way I really want to. I'm scared shitless to confront the truth that I have nothing to write about.

I've spent the day watching Dexter. It is brilliant. Brilliant like Californication, MASH and some of my favourite documentary films have been (my references for good writing tend to come from TV, since I work in it). All day long, I've compulsively gone from episode to episode like an addict.The idea is brilliant, the acting superb, the direction exceptional. That's not what has me hooked though.

It's the writing, which is great. By great, I don't just mean snappy lines, ironic plot twists or complex characters, although it has all that. What makes it great is its courage. The writing has the guts to not remain in the realm of the superficial (which it could quite easily do since its premise is strong enough to base a series on). It digs deeper, it goes into uncomfortable spaces, it crosses the line - but not simply to create a stir. It could have been a TV show about a cop-by-day, killer-by-night. Each episode could've been a cat-and-mouse tale with the appropriate car chases and I have no doubt, it would have been successful enough. But that the writers chose to go into Dexter's mind, play with his unique psychology, use it as a comment on who we are as people, use it to jog our ideas of right & wrong....that just blows me away. There's something in the writing that connects with the most primal part of me and makes me hunger for more. They could've taken the easy route like so many of us do with our catchy tweets and cynical blog posts. They went for it instead.

Most of my favourite books and films have been products of brave writing, where writers have pushed themselves beyond language, story, narrative, rules and the need to be 'successful' & popular (and nothing seems to get more success online than irreverance & cynicism).
They've pushed to dig for something more. They've not been driven by the need to impress at all costs. They've not simply relied on their ability to twist grammar to their needs. And they've realised that if they don't have anything of value to say, it's best not to say it at all.
(One may argue that the definition of 'value' may differ from person to person. Here's where I drew the line for myself this evening: I tweeted about a zit on my forehead. It wasn't a clever haiku about a zit, I was not using my zit as a metaphor for anything. I just needed to tell the world I had a zit. Any 'value' in that? I think not. And yet, that's the kind of horse-shit that I see all around me, including on news channels etc...but that's another rant)

I salute these writers because it's not easy to dodge all the potholes and pitfalls on the route to ensuring that ones work is experienced by society at large. To maintain your own voice in the din, to not sway when one half the room loves you and the other half ignores you. To know when to hit that Publish button and when to log off without a word.
To understand that the opportunity to write is a profound privilege and that the one of being read is a greater one still.

I guess my point is, I don't want to be just another wooden puppet out there, churning out words and sentences chosen to elicit a specific reaction. Ideally, I want to stop caring about the reaction completely (ya right, a voice inside me says, delete your comments section then). That may not happen immediately. But I eagerly await that day.
Who knows, by then I just might have something to say .

In Defense of Shit Writing

2010-04-16T22:25:00.006+05:30

The post below is unmitigated shit. I know it. I knew it as I was writing it. It felt wrong but I couldn't stop...sort of like when you eat that slightly off mayo sandwich on a hot summer day. You repent after it's done but that doesn't prevent you from spending a significant part of the next day on the crapper.

Why don't I delete it?

Because there's no shame in being mediocre. At least not when I'm mediocre. I want the post to remain online, in the public domain so that I can maintain perspective. To remind myself that sometimes I'm a bit crazy and all over the place. That sometimes I do things without caring too much. That I'm only blogging, not curing cancer or building cryogenic engines.

That I spend too much time explaining myself after.
My therapist is on holiday. That might be it.

And might I add...Dey-AM, Sendhil Ramamurthy is smokin' hot.

Turn Left At The Improv Blog

2010-04-16T17:15:00.003+05:30

Ladies and Gentlemen!...
She's come all the way from Couch-In-Front-Of-TV...She's fresh, she's eager, she's a SHE! For the first time EVER on this, or any other, stage, please give a warm welcome to....Mizzz Aquatic Static....

(...cough...cough...)

(Big swig) Wow. This is such a dream come true. I've spent so many years watching stand up on SNL, Leno and Lok Sabha TV but I never imagined I'd be up here, attempting to perform a standup blog. In fact, if it weren't for a lethargic download at home tying up my bandwidth, I wouldn't have made it out here at all. So special thanks to Airtel as well.

It's pretty intimidating being up here actually. Especially since I have no jokes. Also my segueways are pretty crap. No "Speaking of all those unexplained infernos lately, what's up with that Modi huh? (Narendra, not Lalit)..." or "A rabbi and Modi walked into a bar...(Lalit, not Narendra)"
I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say and mostly came up with rants.
So I compiled my list and here's what I've gotten so far: PMS, menstrual cramps, Shaadi.com, Ranbir Kapoor's career choices and my mother.

Ummm...Miss Static? The gentlemen are walking out...

O no! Er...lemme see...BREASTS, farts, beer, God of War....wait TENDULKAR! That's right...back to your seats guys. I would've let you go but in this great country of ours, when the men leave, they take the car and the ladies with them. God forbid, should the women just walk into a club alone...
So as I was saying, Tendulkar. Yeeeeah... don't know much about him so back to me...

Besides being unfunny, another reason why I've shied away from stand-up blogging for so long is because I can't deal with the heckling. I'd like to give you a live demonstration right now. Any haters out there in the audience?

You suck!

I understand, sir, that you expected to see the live telecast of KKR vs. Mumbai Indians on a giant screen and got stuck, instead, with me. But there's no need to hurt my feelings. And more importantly: Why can't you LOVE me? What's wrong with me?? I try so hard!
(And that's a heckler I rehearsed with before getting on stage.)

Why then madam, you ask, are you up here in the first place?
It has come to to pass recently that I have become loved by a fairly large group of unknowns on the internet. This can be as gratifying as being loved by one or two close friends or relatives. A retweet on Twitter or a 'Like' on Facebook can gladden my heart almost as much as a phone call from a school buddy or a Get Well Soon card from a neighbour. Being loved by an unknown is also less stressful. There's very little one needs to do to receive validation. Mostly, just logging in will do it.

Yes, you cannot fall asleep in the arms of an unknown Twitter Follower or open joint bank accounts with a blog commenter but what really matters is staying in the spotlight. Lovers will leave, family will disown and friends will either betray or move to another city.
Only FB friends and Twitter followers will remain. And even if they don't, there's plenty more where they came from.

(Mizz Static...the bar shut down a while ago. The guests have all left. We're pulling down the shutters now.)

Finally, there's the freedom to spew nonsense. I once thought of writing a book but the publishers wanted it to have a point. Catch up with the times, editors. Nonsensical self-indulgence is where it's at. Today I tweeted about how my toe was turning purple and 3 new people started following me. That's a best-seller right there.

(Madam, please)

Fine. I'll wrap it up. You've been a great audience. Just don't throw stuff at me.

____________

And since I've suffered blog theft recently, I must say that the Modi references may seem similar to other RESPECTED bloggers' tweets but I swear, I wrote mine before I read yours, youknowwhoyouare.

New Shit Has Come To Light

2010-04-13T11:13:00.003+05:30

It has come to my attention recently that one loves not with the brain, not with logic, not with intellect, but with the heart.
Dammitall.

(...Yeah well, that's just, ya know...like, your opinion, man...)

Yeah YOU

2010-04-12T23:04:00.001+05:30

To the Gentleman stealing ideas from my blog: Trust me, sir, there are far better writers in the blogosphere to pilfer from. Having said that,
I'm on to you.

I'm watching.
I'm everywhere.
So be afraid.

(What's tragic is that you get more traffic on your blog than I do...why then?)

Slim Pickins

2010-04-07T00:27:00.008+05:30

31 and single. And here is a brief history, in dialogue, of why that might be:

2009
Me: I believe that marriage can be a beautiful thing, where two individuals come together because they are destined to teach each other karmic lessons of love...
Man: Yeah I know what you mean...I've noticed couples start looking like each other after a few years of marriage.
*****
2001
Me: Why can't we go out for dinners and movies in public like normal couples do?
Man: Because I'm your boss and I say so. And listen, I want that 'How Cement Mixers Work' script on my desk by five.
*****
1996
Me: My favourite part of a man's body? His eyes.
Man (Well...boy, really. He was 16): What colour?
*****
2009
Man: A writer for TV, huh?
Me: Yup!
Man: Saas-bahu serials?
Me: Err...no. Non fiction.
Man: But why not? I watch those serials all the time, they're great.
*****
2010
Me: Remember that awesome conversation we had about life, love, feelings, emotions and puppies?
Man: Yeaahhhh...
Me: So...when I told you how I felt, what did you think about it?
Man: Dunno man, don't remember. Had some brilliant maal man...
Me: But I told you important stuff about me and you!!!
Man: Sorry man...drag?
*****
2003
Me: Hullo?
Man: Hey!!! Where you at?
Me: Ummm...I'm with AnotherMan.
Man: Faaaccck!!!
Me: Are you drunk?
Man: Fuck man, I love you man. I just love you. But I tell you, man...I gotta tell you this...
Me: Yes?
Man: Don't ever fall in love with me, ok? It'll ruin everything.
*****
2005
Man: Gotta light?
Me: Nope.
Man: Go ask that other dude for a light, no. Here, take the cigarette. Go light it.
Me: Ok.
(Cigarette lit, triumphant return)
Man: Fuck! That guy didn't even look at you once.
*****
2003
Man: Writer for TV, huh?
Me: Yup!
Man: You know, you should do an MBA.
*****
2004
Me: If you want us to have a future then I don't want to hear about other women ever again.
Man: You mean you don't want me to tell you?
Me: No, I mean NO OTHER WOMEN if you want to continue with me.
Man: Yeah...about that...I don't think so.
*****
2009
Man: How much money you got in your account?
Me: Errr...don't remember...
Man: Let's go to the ATM and check it out.
*****

(Doomed to a life with cats or bullets dodged? - who knows....)

The Texture of Injustice

2010-03-30T18:33:00.002+05:30

On the 23rd of March, I made & then reversed an electronic transaction of a fairly large but not catastrophically huge amount of money. Even as the store owner handed me the 'Transaction Void' slip I had a niggling feeling that I was entering into the black hole of Indian banking.
I was right.
On the 29th of March, I called the bank's customer service. The first lady I spoke to blew me off by saying that the servers were down, which is code for : Fuck off please, can't you tell I'm playing Freecell? I called back again and got a heavy breathing gentleman who assured me that the servers were in fact, working.
I then lodged a complaint at the bank's (one vowel, one consonant in alternating series) customer service and got a request number (to numerically assure me that someone somewhere gave a damn). The Heavy Breather told me to xerox the void slip, write a letter and fax both these pieces to the bank's Mumbai branch. I expressed my displeasure at having to fork out the money to fax these documents and then hung up.
The next morning I discovered that the fax number HB had given me didn't work.
I stomped in the heat to my nearest branch. All I wanted was a fax number. It took me an hour and twenty five minutes to get this number in spite of the bank exec calling HB back and threatening him with dire consequences (he just transfered her to another department, which transfered her to another department which informed her that my case would be resolved on the 19th of July. Finally after some more passive aggressive banter, she had a number in hand).
Perhaps it was the kindness of her heart or my dark, murderous glance, but she agreed to fax the letter from the branch itself. She failed.
Near tears, she asked me to return to my fax guy and keep trying from there.

I could've socked her in the face but it wasn't her fault. I could've tracked down HB and grievously harmed his ballsac but he's just a call centre guy. Short of planting RDX at the bank's headquarters, I realised, there was not much I could do to get my money back except spend the day trying a bogus fax number from Chopra uncle's shop. The helplessness was excruciating. The apathy of a corporation too huge to touch was killing.

And this is just a very privileged girl taking on a bank that will eventually capitulate to her demands and return her money, an amount that can't really break her either way. This is, in all probability, the maximum extent of 'injustice' I'll ever face.

But the frustration I felt will remain for a while. And the next time there's a headline of children dying of starvation in Bolangir or a story about the survivors of Best Bakery, I'll remember this moment, magnify it by a million and then, just barely understand the real texture of injustice.

Give Me Your Poor, Downtrodden (M)Asses

2010-03-29T10:18:00.005+05:30

The Kumbh can be an entirely moving experience, it can be one of communion, reconnecting with one's spiritual self, of finding solace in truths higher than our mundane routines can offer us.

As you can imagine then, it attracts its fair share of looneys.
Case in point: the man in the above photographed billboards.

This person is a crusader. He is here to save every downtrodden, stamped, stomped and spat upon upper caste Hindu that ever walked the earth. You may be familiar with this long-suffering demographic. They've seen so much prejudice, suffered so much at the hands of those evil minorities, they've been screwed over so often by the communal and caste-driven democratic process of this nation....
...that now they - led by aforementioned crazy sadhu - want theirs back.

He's erected massive billboards all along the National Highway 45 from Roorkee to Haridwar. Each one follows the same template of panic and branches off into individual whiny messages fueling hatred:
The Hindu religion is in PERIL!!!! (because)....Hindus don't have equal opportunities in educational institutes/ job markets, they aren't schooled in their religion from an early age, they don't have financial advantages over other minorities, they're being corrupted by the evil forces of secularism and of course, they are the only victims of terrorism.

Now, I've done this trip 4 times in the last 2 months and these billboards are beginning to have an effect on me. As a persecuted Hindu myself, I feel the pain this man is talking about. I think back to all those times when I was politely denied a job the minute people heard my last name, or when people refused to hand me the bill in a restaurant every time I was accompanied by a male Hindu. I have cried silent tears on being denied my graduate degree at the end of three years in Delhi University just because I did not appear for my English subsidiary exam. And when I visited the Levis store 24 hours after their sale had ended, management refused to extend it JUST because of my religion.

So, as I drove into Haridwar this time, I gave serious thought to joining this dude's cult. I took out a pen and paper to note down details of his website/address/crazycult name. I was all ready to take up the saffron robes. Then I saw crazy sadhu's name:

'Ananth Shri-blah-blah-blah-Acharya-yadayadayada-Swami-saywha'?!?!-Maharaj'

I knew then & there that I couldn't enlist. Because this broke the one cardinal rule of cult-joining that I live by:
'If you can't spell it, pronounce it or even recall it - you can't join it'
Damn.
So close I was.

Too Lazy...(Twotes from Twavels - Rishikesh/Haridwar)

2010-03-28T10:42:00.003+05:30

....to blog. Too exhausted to have integrity of any kind. Too in love with myself to resist making a post out of my tweets. Too unoriginal to give them even the minimum required spin. Copy-Paste, how I love thee...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
28th March 2010

...and followed up his #epicfail with 'hummey SAB jaankaari hai'. Hey. Ram. 6 minutes ago via web

Our driver lost his way 4 times: getting out of Delhi, entering Haridwar, Locating Rishikesh and getting back into Delhi. #truestory 16 minutes ago via web

and if you're going to have 24,000 verses of anything in a song, then switch up the melody once in a while, wouldja? 18 minutes ago via web

I now know all about the Luv-Kusss story because a squeaky manchild from Gorakhpur decided to cut an album with all 24,000 verses of it. 18 minutes ago via web

20 hrs straight in vehicle on UPhighway that Mayawati didn't build, most of it stuck in Kumbh traffic with driver who digs Ram Kathas. #hell 20 minutes ago via web

Kumbh once more 6:13 AM Mar 27th via web

Sleep Deprivation Phase Three: In which an innocuous statement like 'that haircut suits your face' is misinterpreted as'You calling me fat?' 11:54 AM Mar 26th via web.

@_vasu : ya man...and i have a killer road trip tomorrow...but i shall overcome. 11:48 AM Mar 26th via Twitterrific in reply to _vasu

Sleep Deprivation Phase Two: In which she accidentally switches to Times Now but is too exhausted to change channel. 11:46 AM Mar 26th via web

Sleep Deprivation Phase One: In which she makes the fatal mistake of snorting a cup of black coffee. 11:43 AM Mar 26th via web

fuck. follow friday falready? 11:24 AM Mar 26th via web

John Lennon was right when he sang 'I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink' #lamelyricsthatseemprofound 9:50 AM Mar 26th via web

Goodbye

2010-03-24T23:19:00.009+05:30

Look at our house.
There's water seeping in through the concrete. The paint is peeling off. The flowers in the wallpaper are falling to the floor, shriveling up into a dry heap.
The windows are caked with greybrown grime. No one can look out, no one can look in. The bolts have long since fallen off, the hinges have rusted into paralysis. Can't push them open, can't pull them shut.
The air is dust. Every breath we take is punishment. We can't see for the haze all around us.
We had a cat once. Or was it a fish? I know we had flowers, maybe even a garden. Big, yellow chrysanthemums. Can't find them anymore. What are we tending to then?
Sometimes I think we might be hamsters in a cage. Running on that darned ferris wheel, endlessly, thinking we're covering vast expanses of land. Thinking we're getting somewhere. Except we're in a tiny cage, barred in - going nowhere, playing the same song again and again and again. And it's the worst song you've ever heard. Cacophony in syncopated time.
Remember when we danced standing still? When we cooked without heat? We smiled crooked smiles at each other - or was it our teeth chattering in the cold?
Remember when we closed our eyes tight shut and tried to wish each other away? Only to frantically unwish it in the fraction of a second before we reopened our eyes?
Remember how we waited for each other? Seemingly forever. At the time.

Right, so. I've done a load of laundry. The pantry's full. The bills have all been paid.
Now I have to go.

Apologizing: For Dummies

2010-03-22T18:39:00.002+05:30

When our mummies and daddies were teaching us to say 'Sorry' and 'Thank you' to gali-waley-Uncle & next-door-Aunty, many of them neglected to explain the finer nuances of these niceties. I'll save the 'Thank You' for another day...
...Because saying sorry, to steal a page from Elton Uncle's songbook, sometimes really does seem to be the hardest word.

An apology incorrectly made can cause more damage than good. Therefore I've prepared what I feel is a comprehensive of Do's and Don'ts in the aftermath of a blunder that needs to be atoned for:

1. Inflection:The tonal quality of your apology is of paramount importance. Before you craigslist 'vocal coaches near Shalimar Bagh', let me assure you, you don't need the chops of a Groban to do it right. 'Sorry' is a word that's said slowly and with deliberation. Not to be barked out in an 'eat my shit' tone. If you choose the latter approach do not be surprised if the Wronged One throws you a swift one-two in the 'nads.

2. Prefixes and Suffixes: Sorry is often accompanied by words either preceding or succeeding it. Choice of these words is indispensable to an effective apology. Words like 'Really', 'Extremely' and 'So' are great when used before the sorry. The word 'Fine!' and 'But' are counter-productive to the apologizing process when used before and after the sorry, respectively.

3. Facial Expression: All veteran Fucker Uppers know that a solid sorry is only complete with the appropriate sorry face. This does not mean channeling the Olsen twins (circa 1990) and making poochie faces. An insincere apology can be spotted from a mile away - especially if your eyes wander over her shoulders to catch the umpteenth rerun of the friggin IPL. The apologizer MUST channel the adult in him (hard, but worth the effort), look deep into the eyes of the Wronged One and take responsibility for being a champion bozo.

4. To the Pros: Some smarties amongst us figured out long ago that the best away to reduce time spent in the doghouse is to immediately apologize. They've got the inflection, prefixes and facial expressions down pat. However, they are eventually recognized as repeat offenders and much like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, get a rather gory ending.

5. Intent: And so we get to our next essential point:Apologize only when you mean it. Only when you acknowledge that your actions messed someone up. If you don't get it, save your breath for when you go hunting for new friends.

6. Sorry isn't a standalone word: Just saying sorry without conveying what you're sorry about makes no sense. The bigger the mess, the longer the discussion must be. Sorry boys - try to stay awake.

7. Sorry cannot be replaced with expensive gifts: This does NOT however mean that it can't be accompanied by them.

8. Sorry cannot be said via email or sms: Do not - I repeat - do NOT use the internet or a pager to do your dirty work - unless you are trapped under a 20 tonne truck and have just enough life-force left in you to text the Sorry template to the Wronged One.

9. Sorry cannot be conveyed through Third-Party: Saying sorry through beloved sister, mother or best bud is wrong. If it's done through an ex-girlfriend, that's even worse. There's no excuse for third-party-apologizing unless there's a restraining order against you; in which case you've made bigger messes than the one you're apologizing for.

10. Follow On: An apology means nothing if your subsequent actions don't back up the apology. "Sorry I frolicked with Seeta" does not work if you're out partying with Geeta 2 weeks later.
----------------

PS: One will notice that this blog assumes that most of the apologizing will be done by men. Since, it is in this blogger's experience that 99.93214% of the times it is in fact the male Homo Sapien who fucks up (and since said blogger is only 0.06786% imperfect), this post has been tailored accordingly.
For those who disagree, two words: Jesse James.
For those who still disagree: Sorry.

Why Didn't I Think Of That?

2010-03-17T01:46:00.008+05:30

Disclaimer: This could be perceived as a pretty mean-spirited post. But it's 2am and my misguided sleep-soaked brain thought this was funny.

So it's pretty well established now that while I think I'm an alright writer, I don't really believe I'm all that.
And like every writer who puts themselves out there, I'm often confronted with examples of genius so astounding that it's all I can do to not spontaneously combust from jealousy.

Below are a list of blogs I found on the internet. I must confess that I haven't actually read any of them, so dazzled was I by the sheer brilliance of the titles: (cue drum roll)

Where the Hell i Kept My Halo
Care Your Personal Computer
etc. etc.
The piggishness that is My Life
OUTCOME OF A MENTAL ACTIVITY
Me me and more Me
helloxcuseme
Anything & Everything
Mukul's blog (actually I read this one - it's not by Mukul)
nuthin...much
MY BLOG WITH THOUGHTS OVER EVERYTHING
For all my fellow human beings
Life Sure is a Snoozefest
My Effusions
My Memoirs of Mesmerizing Memories (eh?)

Inspiring. Methinks if I were to rename my blog, I'd probably call it: P's Profusion of Profundity.

And if that doesn't float your boat then there's the My Lifes, the Random Thoughts, the Scribbles, the Whatevers and my personal favourite -
Blog.

Birthday Blog

2010-03-16T10:08:00.019+05:30

When I turned 25 I realized life was short.
By 30, I realized that there was no point trying to micro-manage big things like career graphs and finding a drug & alcohol-free life partner.
So as I turn 31 today, I have come up with a short list of things I can do to make this world a better place; things that are in my control. Sorta.

1) Learning to flirt: I am the world's worst flirt. I used to behave like a 6yr old around men. Now I manage adult behaviour when attempting to charm but dissolve into blubbering foolishness when the charm is redirected my way. The key is to find a way to display the full spectrum of my sizable IQ & EQ without becoming a simpering git.

2) Not discriminating against people who can't discriminate between 'Its' and 'It's':
That's right. I judge people by how they spell. And I'm ashamed.
I must learn that the path to world peace does not rest on humanity's ability to spell the word 'piano' correctly.

3) Raising my voice against South Indians appearing in Fairness Cream Ads: Because, really, someone must take cognizance of this travesty.
Having endured the taunts of 'Oye Dravidian' growing up and having learnt to love my dusky Bipasha-esque hue for what it is, it is abhorrent to witness Deepika Padukone and Genelia D'souza peddling their Death-To-Sunlight potions.
May their newly un-melanin'd skins shrivel up in the tropical Bombay sun. May the colour of their upper arms not match that of their toes.

4) Ending the scourge of the 'Summer of 69' playlist in Delhi pubs: I don't know how I'll manage this, but I do believe the world will be a better place if the following tracks are permanently banned in Delhi's watering holes: Summer of 69, Hotel California, that Linkin Park track where everyone screams 'and in the end, it doesn't really matter', 'Roadhouse Blues', 'Comfortably Numb', 'California Dreaming', 'That Thing You Do' and anything by Def Leppard.
I will, however, allow 'Smack My Bitch Up' to remain on the playlist, unharmed.

5) Getting the perspective right: There will always be someone older, uglier, stupider, more cruel and insensitive than I am.
And there's no shame in using the weakness of others to make oneself feel better.

(Except when it comes to economic disparity, caste divide or racial bias. That just makes you a Nazi. Or Mayawati).

(World Domination and Dessert)

2010-03-09T09:38:00.001+05:30

Trying out a new shade of potty for my blog template.
So uninspired I am.
Life must move.

The Golden Girl Globes

2010-03-07T23:03:00.009+05:30

So I'm turning 31 in 10 days and I don't really feel old, whatever that means...but tonight I realized I was definitely not the same person I was at 18 or even 25...

Because I stayed up late (by my standards) to switch channels between the Golden Globes, the Filmfare & SAG Awards. More than halfway through I began to get the feeling that my overriding takeaway was going to be 'Wow, that old guy/woman looks FABULOUS!' Meryl Streep, Sophia Lauren, Paul McCartney, Jeff Bridges, Rekha, Shashi Kapoor - and I'm thinking 'What is it about this evening? How come they're all looking so good? Can't all be about the Botox'

And then I realised it was me. I was the one with the problem. The lens had shifted. Or gotten more cataract'd. It's like my hormones had automatically begun to disqualify the 30-and-unders. Worse still, it was beginning to appreciate 'character on faces' and 'wisdom in eyes' over tight bums and bad attitudes. It was all about the dignity now and I was like Huhhhhh??? When did this happen? When did I become unshallow? When did I begin to measure 'success' in terms of inner peace vs. ability to score weed on weekdays?

When did I become the girl who switches channels from tight close ups of Neil Nitin Mukesh to see Betty White and her Golden Globes?

Winter's leaving....

2010-03-04T20:06:00.005+05:30

Took this snap from my cellphone as I was walking back home this evening. A pathetic effort to capture how gut-wrenchingly divine this city can be as winter says goodbye...
There's a cool breeze blowing...in a few weeks (or days) that'll be gone.
The neem trees are shedding and if you're lucky, like I was, there'd be a gush of wind just as you walk under one of them. You'd be consecrated by a yellow shower of leaves that'd make you so batshit happy that you won't help but look up.
And just as you do, the magnificent moonlight will reach into your chest and grab a hold of your heart so sweetly that you'll wish it never let it go.

WTF?!?!?

2010-03-03T15:56:00.002+05:30

Where are my comments?
Are people deleting comments off this blog?
Is that even possible?
So many questions.
Call the cops.

Girl Crush

2010-03-02T22:40:00.015+05:30

Dear Madame Sarkozy,

I am unclear on how to address you - Your Excellency? Your Eminence? Ma Cherie?
You see, I have a little girl crush on you. And it came out of the blue.
It was a full moon and I was nursing a semi-broken heart. In my naivete I decided to watch a little film called 500 Days of Summer. I won't bore you with the details, the royalty cheques might give you a clue to what happened next.

Your husky, almost-not-there voice filtered in through the speakers of my beautiful white Mac as two very Caucasian actors kissed each other on screen. The girl didn't really love the boy and would go on to irrevocably damage his idealistic heart - but that's not important. See, the thing is you began to sing and I forgot everything else.

Let's cut through the bureaucratic bullshit. I'm totally in love with you. I can't understand a damn word you're saying in spite of having studied French for 6 years in school (Mrs. Swaminathan had a good heart but she ladled sambar on all her French pronunciations). But I don't really have to do I? Can we get together sometime? Maybe when Nick is pulling an all-nighter (wink, wink). I know I'm not the President of anywhere and I'm not Mick Jagger but I do bring a certain exotic je ne sais quoi to the table (which, incidently is spelt the same in English and French).

We don't really have to do anything much. You could strum your guitar, wear that white linen shirt you wore on the pants-optional cover of No Promises. You could sing Quelq'un M'a Dit - it's my favourite song. I could just sit there and hear you make love to the microphone (how that husband of yours manages to get any work done with you around, I do not know). You could do that gravely little laugh you do at the end of Le Plus Beau du Quartier and I swear, I could die happy.

You see, till this afternoon (when I illegally downloaded two of your albums - forgive me Carla, I come from a Third World Country where we don't have money to buy CD's but have pretty decent broadband) I was madly in love with a boy, who wasn't good for much else except walks in the moonlight. But the more you sang, the fainter his memory became, replaced instead with all those images I found of you on Google.

However, reality is such...sigh...you strum your guitar seven seas apart, you belong to a man who scares women into discarding their burqas and you frolic with the likes of Nelson Mandela.
Who am I but a simple albeit voluptuous girl from New Delhi, India. Neither rich nor particularly gifted at anything except illegal downloading activities.
I have nothing to offer except humble efforts at resurrecting my knowledge of French. Right now, all I've got is:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

XOXO
AS

Back in the Day

2010-02-27T08:46:00.010+05:30

The only reality show on TV was Krishi Darshan.
Blogging was what happened to Malyali noses in Delhi winters.
India, China & Brazil were on the brink of becoming superpowers...wait, they still are.
People had friends made of flesh & blood, not inch-high FB pics.
Taking a flight was something 'rich people' did.
Relatives from abroad would return with bagfuls of Marks & Spencers, Benetton & Sony Walkmans...and we'd be excited.
Sony Walkman - the era of 'Don't Run Too Fast Or The Tape Will Get Jammed in The Head'.
McDonald's was the classiest joint in town.
50p could get you a whole mess of stuff.
Boys didn't put more product in their hair than girls.
Sting, Tracy Chapman & Bruce Springsteen performed in Delhi and the roads were blocked for miles. Now the Backstreet Boys come and go and there's barely a rumble.
People were famous because they did cool stuff. Now there's Rahul Mahajan.
Traveling acrobats, snake charmers and folk singers would roam the streets of our colony - remember the tiny ferris wheels & bioscopes?
The Bioscope: long before cable TV crowded our brains.
We laughed out loud, not LOL.
It wasn't cool to diss Indira & Sanjay Gandhi.
It wasn't cool to diss Vajpayee.
You could see a film and still not file for bankruptcy.
Cricketers' jerseys were not walking billboards.
Good handwriting was important.
Air hostesses were rude but spoke English we understood.
Girls had bangs called 'flicks' and wore shoes called 'Baylleez'.
'Mile Sur Mera Tumhara' was not a marketing ploy.
Anil Kapoor was famous for being hairy and teaching us incorrect math ('One-Two ka Four, Four-Two ka One').
Sundays were all about Ramayan, Mahabharat, He Man and Molu.
America was cool but the USSR was our friend.
Games were played outdoors and had weird names like pithhoo and four-corners. Wii was just a sound one made on those tiny ferris wheels.
Avatars were things we prayed to, to pass exams.
South Indians did not have wedding sangeets.
We thought the glaciers would be around forever. Then we didn't. Then we did.

Deportation

2010-02-25T08:42:00.015+05:30

Bitch, you've got a cold heart.

What did you expect? A handshake & complimentary fruit basket?

Is this really necessary?

Here's how it's going to be, sir. In exactly 5 minutes, you will be boarding a plane to an undisclosed location. When you land, you'll be escorted by Immigration to their back office. You will let them scan your luggage . Any citizenship documents pertaining to this country will be destroyed.

You're indicting me for a murder I didn't commit----

Let the law of the land be the judge of your crimes, sir. As I was saying, your passport will be put through a shredder and all data of your resident status deleted.

How much you must hate me. Can these cuffs be loosened? They're killing me.

Officer, uncuff this man.

What's this?

A declaration giving up all ownership rights to this property. Sign at the bottom.

I'm not signing anything.

Sir, that would not be in your best interests.

Fuck you. This isn't over.

I think it is, sir. You see this weapon in my hand? It's surprisingly easy to use. Takes less energy to push back against the trigger than to knead dough. In less than a second, a bullet could smash through your skull, cause a holocaust in your cranium and exit the other side without leaving a goodbye note. Sign those papers.

You never gave me a chance to---

Officer, escort this gentleman to the plane. We are done.

2010-02-23T09:14:00.000+05:30

Shit. I'm becoming quite the debbie downer, aren't I?

Dying

2010-02-23T08:32:00.007+05:30

Last night I dreamed I was dying. Not fast and painlessly, but slow. I'd just found out that cancer was ravaging my cells and that my body was gradually, yet uncontrollably, heading towards its own destruction.
It was a long dream, it went on for hours. I walked around the city, unrecognizable, barren and desolate, weeping desperately. I had friends around me - no one I recognized but people who said they loved me. I had a week left to live.
All I knew in this dream was: I want to live, I want to live, I want to live. I want to experience love, I want to give and receive it. It's the one thing I have not done in this life near enough and I can't leave without.
Yet, what do you do when something beyond your control is eating away at you, regardless of what your desires may be?...
Not a fun dream, I can tell you that much.

10 Things I Love About Nancy Botwin

2010-02-22T10:09:00.007+05:30

It had to happen. There had to be a post about Weeds. It's been all I can think about, this past week. I've obsessed over it endlessly (people have rebound relationships with other people, I have them with TV shows) and then last night...Last night, I ran out of episodes to watch. Bang in the middle of season 4, at a fortuitous and very telling point in the story. But more on that later.

Weeds is a super-duper hit show in the US that revolves around Nancy Botwin - a suburban mom, raising two sons single-handedly after the love of her life drops dead while jogging. To make ends meet and sustain her lifestyle, she begins to deal drugs, specifically (that's right) weed. Just one of the reasons why I absolutely adore her.

Nancy Botwin is my absolute favourite.

First of all, she's friggin gorgeous. Man or woman, you can't really escape that. I love the stuff she wears, so on the count of fashion, she gets my vote.

Second, she always looks so surprised, so well meaning even as she goes around fucking up. I feel strongly connected to that feeling - "What? What? What just happened? Did I just do that?"

Third, she loves her family, her sons to death BUT that doesn't stop her from doing what she wants, even if it puts herself and by default them, in extreme jeopardy. It's behaviour that would have most women's groups up in arms, but it's also real. Women aren't always these self-sacrificing creatures who live just for their families. Real women are as selfish, stupid and reckless as men - equally capable of making bad choices. I'm not saying that's something to glorify, but it's nice to see a 'real' woman character emerge from the cesspool of television.

Fourth, Nancy instinctively gravitates towards danger and I LOVE that about her. I love how her eyes light up every time there's a scary assignment for her, how disappointed she is when she's told she won't be making drug runs across the Mexican border.

Fifth, she knows what she wants and she gets it before logic and ethical doubts can get in the way. Nancy, I think, is one of those rare women who scratches her itch before she stops to think about consequences. She needs money, she gets it, she needs a lay, she gets it. Not like me - agonizing days, weeks and months over plans and blueprints and strategies to get what I want. Only to learn I never had any control over the situation in the first place.

Sixth, Nancy rolls with a fun crowd and she sucks them into her crazy adventures. I've always been a follower but secretly I'd love to be that charismatic leader, who doesn't need to 'do' much but manages to attract people to her fold, people who'll go along with her hairbrained (but always colourful) schemes. Nancy makes drug dealing looking like fun. Again, not something she'd be elected Citizen of the Year for, but you know what I mean.

Seventh, she is so goddamned classy. It took me 3 seasons to realise that MY GOD, this woman is a criminal. She is doing bad things, selling drugs, having people killed, being a shitty mom. She might just be the smoothest bad guy around but you'd never know it - because she barely believes that about herself.

Eighth, she's got a wonderful violent streak. I have a wonderful violent streak. I get it.

Ninth, she makes deviance look normal. We're all deviant - I know I am - and it's so bloody okay.

Tenth, she sees the light. Sort of. Or at least at the point in season 4 where my episodes ran out. She looks out over the ocean and realises how stupid her choices have been. Choices - not things that 'just happened', not things she 'can't help', not things 'beyond her control'. She gets it. She owns her poor choices. She does not run away or make excuses. She's no role model and she accepts it.

Right now, as I write, the next episode is downloading into my computer and I can't wait to meet up with Nancy again. She makes sense to me.
Of course, I know she's just a manufactured character on TV. I know she's not real.
I know.

Song

2010-02-21T08:57:00.002+05:30

Some days you just wake up and the perfect song presents itself to you and no matter what is happening in your life, it makes all the difference between a good day and a bad.

The Things I've Been Doing...

2010-02-19T11:15:00.005+05:30

Having one's heart broken opens up a lot of free time that would otherwise go in planning babies and EMIs.
I wish I could say that I devoted this time to working for world peace, learning to use nunchucks, writing a one-act play about the joys of menstruation or composing a symphony for the upcoming Commonwealth Games. But no.

What I did (besides bawling) was watch crap films like Valentine's Day & My Name Is Khan and then review them on Twitter (I couldn't even muster up all 140 characters). I even cried a little in both films (when Eric Dane turns gay and when stereotypical black kid starts singing gospel, respectively).

Next, I hung out with a cousin and interfered in his relationship. I'm hoping he'll still talk to me.

I have also been watching the TV series Weeds obsessively. Last evening, I took the show's title a bit too seriously and let the lines between reality and Hollywood fiction blur. It was interesting. I attempted to climb into the screen and introduce myself to Conrad (no one can say 'What the FAACK' like him. No one).

Finally, I took an hour long walk from Vasant Vihar to my home. Throughout, I had long, imaginary conversations with the Classy Rejector...mostly suggesting how he could sodomize various members of his family. The traffic drowned out my rants and by the time I was home, the endorphins and cathartic yelling had done their job.
So, I had me a nice Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream. Cone, not cup.