A-musings

C’est La Vie – or not

2012-01-27T15:29:00.000+05:30

Dorestaurants that aim to bring new cuisines into a city bear the responsibilityof making sure that the diner’s experience is anything but disappointing?Afraid so; but very few live up to those expectations…

Ihave never been to France.It’s on my bucket list, but I am not working on my bucket list at the moment. However,I was willing to travel to Seven Hotel to their restaurant called C’est La Vie.Well honestly, I was surprised that the place is still open, considering no onehad been talking about it for a while. But instead of relying on my instincts,which is what I should have done, a bunch of us drove out to Outer Ring Road toeat ‘French Food’. It was an exciting moment for all of us. And as we brushedup on the five French words we knew to identify names of food, the restaurantand café brought a smile onto our faces. It was cute.

Andthat was the end of our fabulous journey.

Themenu at C’est La Vie was anything but French; except for the Duck Parmentierand a few dishes here and there. They had chicken nuggets on the menu and stuffthat we only cook frozen when unexpected guests drop in.

Butwilling to forgive slighter misgivings, we ordered a bottle of wine which camewith a free cheese platter - cheese being slices of processed cheese and a fewslices of brie that didn’t look or taste too fresh.

Andthen there was the Chicken Pappiti – neither of us knew what that was. A fewpieces of chicken were rolled and stuck with toothpicks and looked a littlelike bacon wrapped chicken and served with fries. They weren’t bacon wrappedchicken. It was more like chicken tossed in a kind of vinegar and pan-fried. Thefries were good, especially with a bowl of ketchup, and I don’t even eatketchup.

TheWarm Goat Cheese on Bread looked rather rustic, in a nice kind of way. However,that goat cheese could be warmer and I can’t quite imagine the fussy Frenchbiting into large chunks of toasted bread and having crumb all over theirplates and expensive clothing. Some greens were on the side to resemble a saladand hidden underneath were cubes of cucumber and tomatoes.

Ialso believe that the goat cheese was kind of older than I expected.

Idon’t know how the main course tasted because whatever we wanted to order waseither not there or ‘not good’ according to a chef we never saw appear from thekitchen door. The Duck Parmentier was on the top of our mind but not madeavailable to us.

However,the Bisque Soup was sort of edible. Bits of prawn in a nice wholesome tomatobased soup – I ate that to control my growing rage because the Chicken BrieSoup was heartbreaking. It smelt of flour of coconut milk and was so pale than Icould have seen a ghost. There was zero texture and where on earth was thespinach that is supposed to go into that soup?

Thetable next to us was taken and the diners there too were having difficulty withthe food. I realised their problem when one said, “As far as I know, pestosauce is supposed to be red in colour.”

Sadly,much to their disadvantage, they didn’t know that they were in a restaurantthat completely fit their dining profile – clueless.

Nope.Looks like I have to start working on that real bucket list soon.

Poetry is in the pain

2011-12-31T18:04:00.002+05:30

There is a method to the madness

A rhythm that is not quite patented

A picture that talks of many histories untold

That took behind the thin, insecure door

It trickles, from the tank overhead

Through the winding pipes and rusted corners

To the stained plastic bucket

That waits patiently for the results to be declared

Her right index finger carries evidence

Of a few occasional burns

Of splattering oil or boiling water

And even the bite of a mad dog

With that same index finger

She sifts through the black grains

Hoping it has little dust

So as to find just the granules for the first cup

And as the light breaks into the room

Through an undesirable crack in the glass

It dances to a familiar yet distant tune

As she rubs a quarter plate in vengeance

Then she breaks into a routine smile

With cup and saucer in hand

And one browned bitter rusk

She walks over to the ledge

Feet dangling, slurping sounds

A crunch unpleasant, as crumbs gather

On the lap that has held no child

She breathes her first free breath

---- Ends ----

Sleep world

2011-09-20T01:24:00.000+05:30

Sleep world, as I disappear into the shadows

Where haunted memories, like perverted termites,

Gnaw into the corners of my soul.

Conspiracies murmur through the alleys

And lies and deceptions breed without moderation

Only I walk past in silence.

With every fashionable change of heart

Rusts the truth, bit by bit, layer by dastardly layer

And it all crumbles to the ground.

What I know or what I possibly believe,

Is what they’ve been feeding me from the start

Only you stand your ground, laughing.

a complicated equation

2011-08-30T13:52:00.000+05:30

I have oft been called flippant; sometimes, even fake...
I wouldn't discount a silent utterance of 'shallow' either
I can be all of these and more, if that makes you happy
And prove all the rumours right just to make you smile

You can stare at the ceiling and wonder what I am thinking
But no specific thought travels within or without
Unless you want me to think, only to please your question
Then I can think random thoughts to fill those gaps

I can change my statement to prove your innocence
Cover up tracks that you so blatantly disregard
And yet from the corner of your slanted eye
You wonder if you can come about to trust me

It does not matter. At the end of the whole saga
The leaves will fall and touch the ground
Composing a crackling sound as you walk away
A sound only I will hear in my nightmares for eternity

The last wave

2011-08-01T17:36:00.000+05:30

If you can hear me, I am on the other side of the shore
The waters are deep and wild, and death is certain
The tall waves are at war, with each other
Gilding the invisible walls with their saline froth

The bridge I built is broken, my humble apologies
It may not have been strong enough for the two of us
It crumbled into the ocean in perfect silence
But be assured, I built it with all that I had...

I have to walk away now; as the tide rises to swallow me
And you must find another land to make your home
Walk away, step back - the sand is disappearing fast
If you can still hear me, I shall now say goodbye.

He says.. she says...

2011-08-01T17:21:00.001+05:30

If she hadn't pointed it out, I'd have missed this brilliant phenomenon. Have you noticed, if you have cared to read film stories that is, how actors and actresses have this divine habit of saying "I am taking it slow" or "I am waiting for the right script" or "I don't like to rush into films that I might regret later" and so on?

It of course didn't dare to cross my mind that most of the actors who say these exact words are in three words 'not going anywhere'. They have very little scope to make an impact in this glamour-riddled industry. I'd also like to add that they aren't exactly bad actors but shoved aside by doctored destiny or competition. Either they aren't great looking enough (after all, cinema is all about fantasy, no matter how real) or don't have the right contacts (read: they're not on the right couch!). They could be fabulous on screen - intense, passionate with impeccable dialogue delivery and a good sense of timing. But no, they won't make it.

The bad actors with zero screen presence won't make it either. Unless they have a face that can give men something to dream about at night.

But that's the women.

Male actors have it better; well, at least in most cases. Or else can someone explain to me how some of the ugliest actors, who aren't spectacularly versatile on screen either, are called super-stars?
And if they don't make it as lead actors, they become 'character artistes'. But I'd take a character artiste over a commercial hero any day.

Film journalism is bizarre. Very few people actually write about 'cinema' anymore; not the way feature stories used to be written about Raj Kapoor, Satyajit Ray etc.
Today, it's all about what's happening in the actors' bedrooms or at social dos and who's smoking up or snorting the wrong stuff. And most importantly, are they wearing the right clothes and driving the right car or scratching some competitor's eyes out or not.

There sure has been a change in the cadre recently. They don't make men or women like they used to, anymore. Blame the genes and the motivation above all else, I'd say.

Nargis will always remain Nargis. There can never be another one. Madhuri Dixit could look like Madhubala but the enchantment of the actors of yesteryears can never be replicated. It's practically impossible.

But yes, the climb is similar. I bet at some point in her life, Nargis would have said, "I am waiting for the right script" to someone. As for the rest and more, some pulled strings, some did not and got lucky and some just waited at the gates of studios to see if they would get lucky. And then there will always be some actors who could shine and yet, will never be heard of.

I love the movies - in almost any language that I can get my hands on, with subtitles in some cases, if you please. And I love the charm some of the actors create on screen. Sometimes, I want to be like them but in many cases, I want to be with them. But it's a world that's murkier than the Ganges.

It's a good thing I write about food. You know when it is spoilt.

Butterflies

2011-05-18T08:59:00.000+05:30

When you smile, the grey dots turn purple
And with every frown, the stripes of green turn yellow
From the room to street, your rushed countenance
Modifies the little specks of red into something more mellow

And as you walk, a trail of gentle and fluid flapping
Follows and with every wave of hand to say goodbye or a hello
It moves, pauses and turns with you in the revered tranquillity
As the wings murmur your words in a restrained echo

A million of them, in an oath of invisibility, shield you
The movement of your every brow is stored safely away
Like how fairy tales have their happy endings
They spin your chronicle when you stir from day to day

They disappear when only you close your eyes at night
And come to me with their handwritten but unseen scroll
Till dawn they sing, in a voice I have never heard before
And one by one, all the butterflies colour my soul.

“In my room”

2011-04-12T21:10:00.001+05:30

From my window, the view has not changed in more than 12 years. The tree has only expanded to have a few leaves reach into my room. The summer afternoon is always balmy – the furniture is different. Except for the shelf on the wall and the metal cupboard, I can’t remember much of what used to be. But the feeling was the same.

It was in this room that I fell in love, in this room I shared laughter with those who left and with those still around. It was in this room I heard music for twelve hours straight. It was in this room I decided that my life was not going to be mediocre. It was in this room that my heart broke and it was in the very same room I reconciled with life.

It is no longer my room. It is just there, for guests like me.

But in that sunny room that has seen the most beautiful rains and exotic evenings, time has stood still. It’s not just my life or my memories. Concealed behind those walls are secrets – secrets people have thought as they sat on a wicker chair, sipping tea and munching on tidbits. Stories that have been narrated, behind closed door, music put on high volume, lest of all my parents hear.

I have often lain across the bed, with my feet barely touching the floor, reading a book that I shall never part with. I have written words that made sense and most that didn’t. it is in that room I decided who my friends were and who would walk away when the time would come.

I lived in that room with my sister. She of course didn’t like the idea very much.

We have moved on to become different people, crossed boundaries and reached places that will always remain a bit alien to us. We have embraced reality that we don’t really identify with and we have walked the line that looked untrustworthy.

Probably because deep down, I know that room is always waiting.
Here’s to my closest friends (you know who you are!), the artist whose work hangs on the wall, the incessant chatter, music, grins, tears, laughter, pain, chaat, samosas, chai, cigarettes, occasional alcohol, perfumes, and most of all, love.

Here’s to the love of my life. You shall always be.

Don't tell me

2011-03-22T12:41:00.001+05:30

I know what it is about love that makes it so ethereal. A sense of passion that doesn’t quite judge boundaries, a casual smile or a hard kiss – like you really mean it. And really mean it.
Through days of hunger or shame, it’s the only feeling that stays rooted like a virus, feeding you through its sweet venomous fangs. It’s the only emotion that goes past time, memories, history, economics and sociology.
It’s the only concept that makes you quiver, simply at the thought of it. And while you take out the trash or put the dryer on spin, you break into a shy smile, even when no one is watching. You can think of him, standing in a queue and touch him in your head and visualise the spot near his mouth, the one you’d often miss when you’re with him.
You’d mean it – every bit of it.
And when you fight, throw things at each other and call names that you had sworn yourself off, you’d still love with an aching heart. You’d want to, in the middle of the most ridiculous argument, want to break up and never see his face ever again. And you’d probably walk away because you’re done.
And then, after much water has passed under the bridge, the feeling will rekindle itself – rise from the ashes, just like the phoenix, lick your wounds and plant new feelings in your heart. Just that, they won’t be new – you’ve known them all along, you’ve wanted it. Deeply. Incessantly.
You’ve wanted to tear through the lines of division just to see him smile; even if it were for the last time. And of course, the one kiss.

The devil walked

2011-02-28T23:16:00.000+05:30

His rook had a chewed top and was twisted to an unknown shape
No one could tell the difference between the squares anymore
The knight was harvesting bitter fungus under the broken chair
As the queen lay, broken hearted, next to the virgin tape

As the folds of the window louvers contained the sun no more
Harsh light played games with the webs and linen in the room
Some voices ran back and forth, in whispers, now and then
At midnight, the moon caressed gently the tattered drape

The attic smoothened out the rough edges at its corner
And pristine sheets on the bed were made night and day
A faded jug of ice cold water with lime to beat the summer heat
Till the afternoon drooped and twilight placed a kiss on its nape

From the shadow appeared a depressing and forlorn figure
That shuffled its feet and dusted off the mud of the night
A mournful song resonated through the abandoned streets
As he walked by, calling out, through the folds of his cape...

A story in four poems

2010-12-19T11:41:00.000+05:30

Poem 1
In this heart, you lie alone
Rotting and hurting from the deep wounds
That won’t travel any further
But adamant in its stance...

Poem 2
The journey that ended a few miles ago
Seems faded underneath a line of dust
Some words travel back and forth
As you sort them out into neat boxes

Poem 3
From a distance, the sun waves goodbye
As a gap opens up beneath the surface
A long lost memory restrains itself
From being remembered once again

Poem 4
Slumber that comes ever so sweetly
Transforms into a square bitter pill
Like routine, you suffer the harsh swallow
And disappear into the aorta that’s still beating...

4

2010-12-13T02:21:00.003+05:30

Forgive me my mistakes
That's all I ask
As the night clears out
I'll put back on my mask

Srijit Mukherji's Autograph

2010-10-19T13:51:00.004+05:30

For those who know Srijit, and right now plenty of people will claim to know him better than they really do, his directorial debut carries an undeniable stamp - that of Srijit Mukherji. Autograph has his expressions, his nuances, his lines and even his sense of humour. It even reflects his taste - with the poster of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind - stuck on the wall of an apartment.

Starring two people,(Indraneel Sengupta and Nandana Sen) who should not have really been in the movie, the actual man who takes Autograph to a different level is Prosenjit. The 'banglar' hero, the man who, after years of acting in loud T-shirts and scarves around his neck, has come so far that he's almost believable. You want to reach out and touch him. You want to tell him how you think he's fabulous. He wasn't always fabulous.

Autograph, which is Srijit's story, is about a young aspiring film-maker who pulls off a fabulous film only because his vision never betrays him. In the process of course he loses pretty much everything that he would have perhaps held valuable at some point - love and self respect to begin with. And that young film-maker doesn't really give a shit. The problem is, the actor couldn't pull that off. If Srijit was playing that role, he would have, in a heartbeat. Instead the director chose to play a cameo, appearing as a driver in a dream sequence.

Nandana Sen, the leading lady, needs to retire or do something about the four inches of makeup on her face. Her whole persona is contrived, which is perhaps something the director couldn't really do anything about. A graduate from Presidency College (despite being obsessed with Antigone, which is pronounced rather badly in the film) cannot be traipsing around the room in bizarre cut-off tees and saying stuff like 'yay' - even in 2010! And as for the 'aspiring film-maker', there is something inherently wrong with the way he throws his dialogue because I can't grasp the fact why you'd be shrieking a question to a person who's less than three feet away from you. Mind you, he wasn't shouting, he was shrieking and that too, badly.

The cameraman of course deserves a hug and an award. He's made the film look as stylish any Indian film can be. It has the right kind of shifts, light, fade off and barring a few strange abrupt cuts, each frame is worth staring at!

I want to come back to Prosenjit. I used to hate him. He looked like a wannabe Aamir Khan (even though Aamir has done equally bad films) and couldn't pull it off.
I stopped watching movies with him in it and then altogether all kinds of Bengali films because he seemed to be in most of them.
And as he says in the film in question, "I am the industry!" Prosenjit really became.
But now I get it. I saw Chokher Bali - not really the best film I've seen. But, despite Aishwarya stealing the show, it was Prosenjit I couldn't ignore. Then there was Khela. The film hasn't done too well I hear. But I loved him in it.
And then there is Autograph. A flawed man who is not beyond love and respect, a super star who loves munching on apples and looking at his own posters, single malt and cigarettes - Srijit clinched the deal when Prosenjit said yes to playing the lead.
And for that, all of Srijit Mukherji's friends are entirely grateful because after him, many cowards will nourish the courage to chase their dreams, no matter what!

The Golden Song

2010-09-26T23:24:00.002+05:30

Once upon a time, in a rather disturbed universe, there was a story teller. He travelled far and wide, telling tales to anyone who would lend him an ear.
And when he was too old to travel, he settled in the far corner of the planet, alone, amidst the trees that never tired of his voice.
One day, he went for a long walk. And as he reached a river bed, he saw long stretches of dark mud that was wet from the water and gleaming in the sun.
The story teller picked up a twig and for the first time in his life, began to write. He wrote a song that ran into a hundred lines.
And as soon as he was done, the song turned into a golden bird that flew away instantly.

The bird flew far and wide, dropping a feather every now and then. She would fly by day and rest at night - whenever she found a branch that could shelter his tired wings. And she would sing the story teller's song.

And as people slept in their beds, they would dream of a bird with a song in her heart and the song would bring unknown tears to their eyes.
The song spoke of a time that was innocent, when people understood the values that were innate. A time when no one would hurt another person or kill out of hate.

Years passed by and the song travelled across the globe - never changing.

And after ten years, the feather the bird had dropped turned into wondrous trees that bore deep green leaves and flowers that were so fragrant that people were intoxicated by its smell and colour.

Soon, the bird's journey was over and it returned home.
The far corner of the universe where the storyteller resided had not changed. Only he had turned old, barely able to walk.
And as the bird settled on the storyteller's porch as the frail man poured his evening tea, she turned to him and said, "I have done your bidding. Your song is in every heart now. You are now free."

The storyteller closed his eyes and smiled. "For every story that I have said and the only song I've ever written, I owe you everything."

The golden bird spread its vast wings and took the old man under them. "Then we are both free."

And as two spirits escaped in a sigh from a world that continues to remain tortured, a slight blink of hope reappeared in a few bodies across the universe. And with every drop of blood that was shed, a soul re-entered the universe with the promise of love and peace.

such it is...

2010-09-17T00:23:00.002+05:30

They say I live in the past. Wrapped around its little finger, I swing my life around memories that are either dark, clouded or crystal.
What do I do with a present that has no familiar aroma. No old dusty corners I can stare at and smile at for no reason.
What do I do with a future that seems to belong to someone else?
And what on earth could I possibly do with a heart that seems rather useless?

And what on earth do I do with a reflection that I no longer recognise?

F***, what’s this?

2010-08-27T13:59:00.004+05:30

My friend, Nandini Mehra, updated her Facebook status message recently. And here’s what she had to say:

Four million people homeless. Thirty-three trapped miners sing the national anthem and smile for the camera. Two new planets are discovered. They're very far away and very hot. A man skins an animal alive for its fur. Ishaan chases rainbow bubbles across the grass towards the baby pool. Claps his hands when he finds bubbles don’t burst, they float on water… at least for a while. The world makes no sense to me today.

The world makes no sense to me either.

It was a rude awakening, things were changing too fast around us and some of us, the not-so-savvy ones, were being left behind. Advertisements made fun of those who didn’t really have the latest version of mobile phones or weren’t ‘with it’ when it came to job interviews, didn’t know the latest pick up lines and were basically still figuring out our surrounding.
The 70s children – we the unfortunate souls – got left behind by a railroad of ambitious brains that woke up one morning as said, “Nothing works without more money or more technology.”

What happened to us? We chased our dreams and found glass mirrors with pretty pictures on them all around us. These were not the same dreams we had initially set out to chase.

What happened? What really happened?
There is nothing to curse about modernity. It’s good for every step we take towards the future. But when did lose ourselves? What did we trade in return of shiny new technology that seemed to make everyone’s lives simpler?

My friends, who were with me, through the years, judging me and then changing their mind, but never leaving my side, we are stuck. Rather desperately in a situation that no one trained us to get out of.
Dear Nandini, sorry for stealing your ‘status message’. Your one statement triggered a torrent of thoughts in my head.

After thought

2010-08-17T16:37:00.000+05:30

Seriously. It happens. Some of them can break your heart so subtly that it takes years for the cracks to show up and more time for it to actually disintegrate and cause you enough pain. And by then, you can only laugh.
And sometimes, you just want to kill yourself; not because your heart is broken but because you've been served - well and proper.
But most of the times, you just laugh.
You could also turn blind.

The ritual

2010-08-15T20:20:00.002+05:30

He's been at it for a while now. 20 years to be precise - ever since he was 15. He would walk up to her door and wait there a minute or two and walk back. It was a ritual. A ritual that was his alone. He was rather proud of it.
Even as time melted and things transformed into unrecognisable shapes, he would walk to her door.
She knew. But did nothing.
After all, he was of a different caste. But that little diamond stud on his ear always pulled her heart strings. But she was not allowed; it was against the rule.
And as she walked out that door one final time, looking back only to see her father pat his wife's shoulder ever so lightly as tears welled up in her eyes, she remembered that solitary bystander, at the tea shop, staring. Call it theatrical, but it was even raining that day. The border of her heavy red Benarasi was drenched as the umbrella kept her perfect hair in place.
The long car swallowed her and flew off.
But he was just so used to it. The ritual never stopped. Every day, at 6am, he would walk to her door and stop to pay his respects.

On this 30th birthday, his mother gave him an ultimatum. Bring a wife home. He took a taxi to the brothel nearby and spotted the prettiest girl and asked her if she would marry him. He was rich enough. She said yes not quite understanding why the dialogue had even taken place.
A few months later, after carefully constructing a past the prostitute never really had, the two were married. She was to never go back to that neighbourhood, that was the only condition. She readily agreed; a promise she has never broken.

Where will you go for your honeymoon? everyone asked. He picked a rather exotic place; I would have taken 'her' here, only if she were mine. They went for three weeks; quite unheard of in those days. After all, a holiday at the beach resort was terribly expensive. But he didn't mind.
His wife had a very good time. She was, as he found later, rather well behaved. She knew how to cook, clean, look pretty and even hold a conversation. She almost went to college, she had confessed to him later. They tried to become friends.

Two years after they were married, he was asked to take up a job in another city. That was impossible. It would change everything - the ritual was not to be taken lightly. He tried explaining to his employers and asked if an alternative could be worked out. No. He had to go. And go he did.

The new city was not new to him. As he found later that 'she' too lived there. Not too far away from where the company had given him a flat. There is God, he told himself.
His wife made the flat as pretty as it could be. And never spent an extra penny than required. She would cook for him, pack his lunch, wash his clothes and wait for him.
Am I in love? she asked herself. But how is that possible? Wasn't it love that pushed her to make some very damaging decisions? Wasn't it love that tore her apart from her family and even her two-year-old daughter. Wasn't it love that taught her how to measure everything against money.
Yes, he is rich and that is good enough for me. As long as the money keeps coming in, I will play the perfect wife. But then again, her eyes would constantly move to the fancy clock on the wall each time he was late.

We need to have a child, he told his wife. Otherwise, people will question us.
We will, only if you want, she politely replied. She couldn't bear the thought of having another baby. What if she lost this one too?
Well, I don't care, but I think we should get one. Maybe adopt a child. That would be the sensible thing to do, he told her. But if you are not ready, I will not ask you till you are, he assured her.

He had found her house. It was a small apartment, ten kilometres from their place. What do they call that place? A chawl, yes. Why does she live here?

He waited one day - just for a glimpse. And also to make sure that he was in the right place. And a glimpse he got. A cotton sari draped her slim body, her long hair, which was now much shorter, formed a tiny bun at her nape. Her skin was as fair as he'd remembered, but did not glow like the moon anymore. Her red parting was fading away and the tiny bindi on her forehead was almost like a life support system.
Why is she here?

And after 20 years of silence, he walked up to her and stood in front of her.
She was not ready to meet him; she was never ready. Looking up to see a familiar face that had aged very little with time, she asked him if he was well.
A rather odd question he thought.
Yes he was well. Now married to a rather lovely girl who cooks for him.
That is a good thing, she assures him. She too is doing fine -her husband lost his job a year ago but they are not pushed to the borders of poverty yet. She works in the morning as a teacher. They are saving up to buy a flat, that's why the cheap accommodation.
Yes, he understands.
Asking him to come by some day for a meal, she takes his leave. Her husband will be waiting for his evening tea.
He lets her pass, watching her walk by him and stopping for a second only to fix her hair.

He walks out of the compound, to the end of the lane and sat in his car. It was all too confusing. But he drove off anyway, the wife would be waiting.
It was just after 8pm, when he reached home. She was ready with tea and snacks. Sitting down with the cup, he looked up at his wife of the last five years. She is truly beautiful. Reaching out, he touched her hand as she passed by. Stopping suddenly, she looked at her husband. He looked tired but happy.
Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? he asked. I haven't really taken you anywhere since we got here.

My impatient self

2010-05-29T19:12:00.004+05:30

I've seriously begun to question my patience. And while a whole lot of people jumped at this opportunity to advise me as to how I should meditate, join a gym, do some yoga, take long walks etc, to calm my erratic mind down, I refuse to any of it.
What I really need is to go home, which I am in a while but it just seems so far away. I've been constantly missing things of the past - memories that can always be reenacted. I miss eating out with my friends, having long conversations, lapping up drops of rain and extremely nonsensical stuff that I am very good at.
Has it ever happened that you find life moving too fast but nothing really seems to happen?
I think i am at that bizarre stage where I am finding it hard to keep pace but am always wondering what is really going on. I have very little to account for... Damn it.
In 2 1/2 years, I will be 35 years old. And very little to show for.
Some of the kids from the past are coming back into my life. And they are doing so well for themselves. Sometimes I wish I never left that - should have perhaps continued working for some more children who could do with some help.
I miss those couple of years with Zana and Ross and the whole film-making process. I can never really relate the whole experience in words. It was rather fantastic.
I've been impatient since then.
Jobs have come and gone, and I am actually, finally, doing something I really enjoy. But even so, at the end of every day I wonder what have I really done for that day?
I miss true Bengali food - the stuff that's made at home. The ones we don't have to worry about because they might be doused in oil. I miss my grandmother's luchis, something I haven't ever been able to get out of my mind. I miss the aromas of mutton curry fluttering into the dining room from the kitchen and we'd know that something good was coming up.
I miss my cousins, my sister - things that people think of much later in life.
Is that God's way of telling me that I'm running out of time?

I can't put up with crass conversation anymore. Earlier I'd at least pretend to be polite. Now, I can't handle it. And I get that in some form or the other all the bloody time.

I miss meeting interesting people. I do meet them at times. But I can't really dare to pick up the phone and ask them if they'd like to meet up for coffee. Do I really have questionable social skills?

I am constantly walking back home and making up my mind that I don't want to go out that night. And eventually, when it's time to hit the sack, I'd think, "damn I wish I went and got Sushi today."
Life is bizarre and so freaking unpredictable that it's predictable.

Harima is on my list. I want to go there as soon as I can. I am missing it.

I need to figure out a way to channelise my energies. It's not happening. And yoga won't do it - so don't go there.

It's a small craving

2010-05-19T18:05:00.004+05:30

Albeit the bleary eyes (when single squares look double)that come from reading too much content, I was tucking into a story on Menorca - a beach destination in Spain. The weather outside (in Bangalore, not Menorca because I am not there) is worth the long walks that I've been avoiding for a while. And despite all the lovely things that happened today, I was forced to think of things that ideally, I don't find very appealing.
Do you crave for fame?
I asked myself that. And while it's easy to wave my hand in the air, I do feel a bit of thrill when someone says they've read something I've written and more so if they've liked it.

Now I ask you: Do you crave for fame?
Every day I look at at least 20 photographs, all being scanned to put on the dreaded Page 6. Pretty faces, boring faces, repetitive faces and I wonder - Do they all want to be on that page?

What do you crave for? A midnight snack where you don't have to watch out for the calories? Or maybe a late night movie alone, coffee and cigarette in hand? Do you crave for silence when all you get is a conversation or do you crave for the neon lights as you walk down a dark alley.

I think my mother would crave for some closure. I can picture her staring out the balcony door, looking at her plants, wondering what her two daughters are up to.
I think the immense volume of pain in her heart has transformed into something so intangible that even I cannot reach out to.

I think my sister would crave for freedom. Ironically, she has it all. She is free from so many bonds that she doesn't really see it. She lives her fancy, Utopian life and perhaps never thinks of us - not unless she is forced to.

I think my father - whom I haven't seen in nearly 8 years - would crave for some closure too. A closure of a different kind. I can imagine him, stuck in some godforsaken city, doing something that he thought he was never meant to do, and praying for the eventual.

I think I crave for just one thing. Every day. And that craving won't end soon.

And yes, I crave for Menorca - among other places.

Dining out? Fine then...

2010-04-12T22:29:00.004+05:30

Even the non-foodie cannot resist the simple dal, rice, pickle and papad - red rice, brown rice, white rice. Yellow dal, black dal, sambhar - any style. India is united by two things (a strictly personal opinion) - music and food. And with food, it's connected to the rest of the world.
I put forth a simple question today to my friends. What cuisine comes to their mind as the preferred one? The answers were random and from all over the globe.
Chinese.
Thai.
Italian.
Japanese.
Lebanese.
Greek.
Mexican.
English.
No French, Spanish, German or Dutch.

And one food to bind them - Indian.

Many of us haven't been to any of the countries that serve the above dishes. I've tried dutch food and there was a over ration of bread in all their meals. I tried some of their traditional dishes too and like all countries, there was nothing fancy about it. It was simple, made with love and totally delicious.
I think except for the French (who like to be a bit snobbish about everything) every cuisine has this series of 'home stuff' that anyone can enjoy. What better way to unite the world.
Food has no religion. If you don't eat meat, eat the vegetables.
We brought religion into food. And that is something God wasn't expecting us to do. I am quite certain about that.

My earlier post, about fine dining in India literally becomes redundant.
We all want comfort food. Be it at a fancy tight upper lipped joint or at a 'holler across the room' place - we all want to go home feeling happy.
We don't like making reservations most of the time. Many of us like to make sudden plans and walk into a restaurant. We aren't all uptight about that. And I don't see why restaurants should make us feel that way.

I've heard of European restaurants and some in New York that require a reservation at least two weeks ahead - when was the last time any of us did that in our country?
Unless we're planning a big wedding reception or a lavish party to tell our peers that we can afford the best wines for a soiree of 150, when do we call more than 24 hours ahead and actually book a table?

I like my country this way.

And what is most interesting - all the favourite cuisines that my friends shared with me are available at the smallest of joints in our country.
Lebanese food sells for peanuts near Cole's Road. Zak's have done it brilliantly. It's authentic, a little rustic and delicious. Why would I want anything to ruin that?
Harima, till date, has the best Japanese food. And if I can afford that, why would I pay more for something that's close but quite not there yet.
You get the real Tibetan food at a hole in the wall joint off Brigade Road.
Chinese - you get it all over the city. From the North Indian Chinese to the South Indian Chinese to I am quite certain, even Hyderabadi Chinese.
And in Calcutta - Chinese is now part of the local cuisine. You have ilish maach and chicken chowmein (say chowmein, not noodles please)
And Indian food - well, point in any direction and you'll find a decent enough place to eat at.

You won't always find the real stuff on menus lined with gold paper. You find them in kitchens where the cooks, and not always the chefs, make it with love.

What more can you ask for?

We are far behind when it comes to fine dining. There are rules in that game and not everyone is ready to play it. There is strategy, combinations, experiments and a certain percentage of exclusivity. To be a fine dining restaurant, you need the b***s to sell something that a guest will never find anywhere else. It requires confident pretense that people buy into without questioning. The rest are crap and that's no secret.

And that is why a few restaurants will never run out of diners and some other will see very few!

And thank you - all my 20 respondents - for making this piece happen.

Show me the money

2010-04-12T08:59:00.002+05:30

A very strong-minded person I know wrote a piece and sent to some of us that discussed how the fine dining culture of the city would disappear fast if we, the patrons, didn't do something about it. And with that article, he brought up an issue that I can't help but agree with. He says that less than 10% Bangaloreans (a statistic he's got from restaurant managers) would turn up as paying customers and I quote: "The owner of the free-standing restaurant noted that while a hundred high-flying socially active people will arrive at a even just a day's notice for a wine dinner that they occasionally host as a business-development effort."
I have always been suspicious of this but 10% is a terrible number.

On the other hand, people seem to be eating out a lot. People who aren't from the high-flying socially active segment. Where do they go? If I walk into a high-end mall, the Indian restaurant on its roof always has people. Regular people. My favourite restaurant has expats walking in and out all the time, even on a Monday evening.
But I would agree with the writer because what he says is true. I have often dined with just two other people where ours was the only table that night.
I think it's time restaurant focused more on the spending crowd than on the visible crowd. The social butterflies are great for PR but they aren't the ones who'll bring in the moolah.

The chef of one Indian restaurant, extremely talented, is rarely seen outside the four walls of his kitchen. He doesn't always hobnob with the 'right' crowd and yet, I have rarely seen his restaurant anything but full.
Indians like comfort food. They will go out one night in six months to try something avant garde. But as something more regular, they will go to places that actually make them feel more at home... And those restaurants never complain about business.

However, if you accepts an invitation to attend a wine dinner at the same place more than once, we're assuming that you are accepting it because you like the food. Then why can't people go back at their own time, with their friends and actually pay for a meal once in a while? And if you don't like the food, why accept the invitation at all. Bad food won't become delectable simply because it's free.

I really do wish people would shun the comfort zone of a few cafes and holes in the city and spend the same amount of money on a new place - it's important to keep the cycle in motion or else, as the above-mentioned writer puts it, fine dining in Bangalore is going to die.

The ad-factor

2010-03-30T21:06:00.003+05:30

I am usually not bothered or motivated by television commercials. It sort of passes by on the screen while I wait for my programme to resume. If it's a good ad, I might laugh with it or nod in approval but it sort of ends there. And I never act upon ads. I guess it's got something to do with my mother restricting television and talking about the 'bad' influence it casts on young minds.
But there is one advertisement that I couldn't shake off my mind. It's no big deal but yet, somehow, I was forced to think about it a couple of times.
It's this recent advert of a mobile company (and I have no clue which) with Aamir Khan in it. In there, Aamir receives a call that he's gotten himself a job in the city. Ta...da! cheerio everyone...
Don't get me wrong, I love Aamir Khan. In fact, he is probably the only actor I have been sort of faithful to, despite all those crappy movies he'd been part of where his acting skills could have easily been squashed by a mosquito swat. But I love him anyway because he's proven that he can improve and be considered more seriously than many other Bollywood stars.
However, in this advert I can't help but wonder why the company didn't actually choose someone from a small town and redo the whole ad, as it is, but with a more realistic touch. Aamir would have been paid a hefty amount for that job but a regular guy, a normal guy, who doesn't look right out of a cute magazine, could have been chosen in his place. It would have been more human and, speaking on behalf of the company, cheaper.

I think that's what bothers me. Skin fairness creams, shampoos that make your hair look like the flowing Niagara (just much darker), hair colour that can make your life more exciting, body sprays that can give you any woman/man you want, cars that can drive for hours without wanting a refuel, lipstick that never goes away even after kissing - I could go on really.
I think of all the ads, only chocolate comes as close as its promise - it does make you happy.

So I ask - we are moving towards a very logically driven time, if we aren't there already. We understand the difference, in most cases, the difference between fake and real. And yet, corporate houses force their advertising agencies to create this vague illusion that only infuriates us.
Why are we so canted towards illusions? Is that the downside of democracy?

The only products I genuinely believe in are the ones that are not advertised -at least not in our country. And I continue using those products, even though I pay a few extra bucks for it.
See, at the end of the day I want the real stuff - not the promise to turn into a fairy princess by popping a pill. That's why they are called fairy 'tales'.

Forget me not

2010-03-12T22:20:00.002+05:30

You're in trouble if you forget when Friday is here. I realised it was Friday twice today. One, when I was submitting my film review (a great time check) and when I saw a friend had graciously put 'TGIF :)' as her Gtalk status message. Or else, I'd have just gone to bed wondering when the week was going to change.

My mother was complaining that she has been forgetting things. I guess at around 60, she is allowed that liberty. I couldn't of course bring myself to tell her that I am forgetting as well - probably as much as she is.
But there is a sort of reasoning behind that, I'd like to think. After all, why would God intend us to remember things that don't need to be remembered. For instance, do you really need to remember the car that sped past you without warning last week? After all, those aren't happy thoughts.

Forgetting or the 'Block out mode' which is what I like to call it inside my head has such fabulous benefits. You can forget bad moments,pain, betrayal and insults that you didn't get at the time and by the time you could, you'd forgotten.

The downside however, I believe, is quite nasty. You forget names and worse, faces. No one wants to be stared at as you check your RAM to figure out if you recognise the programme before you. I'd hate it. As for me, I am quite blessed there. You see, I remember people I'd met 10 years ago (not their names maybe) and within a few minutes would even get their names. But, they don't remember me. So, as I try to figure out when I'd met the person last, he, or she, is looking at me as to wonder if I am truly, like I claim, from this planet.

So, I have decided to give that whole 'hey I know you' grin only if I see a person taking long strides towards me, in recognition.

Forgetting is truly strange. You could tell your girlfriend that you'd be busy one weekend and not be able to take her out. She'd nod - maybe not in joy, but she'd nod anyway. Come Friday, she's forgotten all about it. She calls you and tells you about the dinner reservations she's made for the both of you. If you tell her, "but baby, I told you I was busy? Did you forget?', she's snap back, 'forget?!?! You never told me...'
That conversation could go on.

I love forgetting things. It sort of absolves me of things. And with that, adds a whole lot of guilt. I can forget to wish a friend. If I call a day later and be earnest about it, I've had it. So you say, I tried calling you, but you weren't unreachable. Actually don't bother making those excuses. If friends can't handle the truth - they can talk a nice long walk in the woods.

I remember when one of the guys I was dating forgot to tell me he was doing drugs. We went out for a really long time. And in all that time, he couldn't remember to tell me even once. I don't blame him. I think he forgot about it when he was sober, which was of course a rare situation and I was too stupid to understand the difference.

Forget.
Don't forget.
The choice is yours and so are the consequences.
Have a good weekend... It's the weekend, isn't it?

Dream free

2010-03-03T22:41:00.002+05:30

How desperate are you - To live, to breathe, to make friends and to survive – with each passing day?
I am desperate.
I want it all. I want the good life, I want to see the world, have a few friends I can really count on and see them as much as I can, brush my hand over a field of poppies if I can.
I want to run along valleys and eat fresh cheese and drink rose wine out of a real goblet. I want to spend many hours sitting on a cold beach, staring at the waves or traverse miles of snow clad mountains – without a trouble.
It happens everyday – in my head.
It’s the most beautiful antidote to the reality we live in. Close your eyes and you’re instantly transported to any place you want. A picture from a travel magazine and you can be there, a scene from a film and it can happen to you, a page from a book and you could be in it.
Fantasy.
That’s what they call it. The cynics will label it as a daydream.
To me, it’s my reality.
In It’s Complicated, Meryl Streep’s house was mine. I baked in the same oven – wonderful warm muffins, served with lavender ice cream – and watered the same plants in her kitchen garden.
In Lord Of The Rings – I’ve travelled the exotic locales of New Zealand and in Harry Potter, I went to Hogwarts.
In the Red Tent, I was a woman out of the Bible – nomadic, matriarchal.
Now come the side effects.
People think I am insane – and that I belong to another time and definitely another planet. Most will not admit me into their social circle for too long because after a I point I do appear mad.
Switching off from what’s happening now and moving away to what’s really happening inside my head can be quite a torture for others, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!

Lifestyles of the writer and reporter

2010-02-06T23:18:00.002+05:30

With choices comes confusion. It's something little I learnt today. Even in this day and age, when options are aplenty and freedom even more, young people are still wondering what to do with their lives. 10 years back, when we started working, we were constantly battling with disapproval from parents and lack of real options. A graduation from a good university in the US that offered the perfect course was limited to browsing through the brochure that came for free.
But today, travelling abroad to study isn't an impossible dream. And yet, most dreams are jarred because there's too much candy in the jar.
I meet doctors, lawyers and even a politician once who'd said that they wanted to be writers. By writer, they meant journalist. They wanted to pen the truth - follow evidence and write something that would be read by thousands. They wanted to feel powerful from a very different perspective. Of course, none of them really could imagine a life with less money, officially at least. And scamming in the media is not really known unless you've crossed paths with a crooked journalist or two.
What however is relieving is that as younger journalists come into the picture, racketeering is slowing down. After all, how far can a con job really go?

I am not a qualified journalist. I did not go anywhere where theories were laid before me and I was to blindly follow them. Every single line I've written on print has been a lesson on the job. Words you can use or not, libel, plagiarism - it has been quite a process.
Feature writing, which is what I do, isn’t an easy job. You can’t just be a reporter and get away with it. What you need is an added qualification – you have to be a writer. You must know your words well and where to place them. And you must know how to formulate a story. It’s not that I have figured it all out but the path that takes you there can be quite interesting.
Writing, I believe, is innate. You cannot learn to become one. You can take millions of courses, which will make you clinically precise. But you will always lack the depth and connect if you weren’t born with it.
Then again, that’s what mainstream journalism is all about. Facts – the clearer the better. I am not sure how accurate fact checking in Indian media really is but it’s important to get your facts straight, even as a reporter.
Lifestyle journalism is on its way to glory. No longer (barring a few scrooges) does it get the narrowed eye look for old reporters who wonder why this particular beat even exists. And if you want to be part of any of the segments of lifestyle journalism – be it fashion, food, travel – you have to have your finger on the pulse of all activity. Read. There is no substitute for studying to keep abreast of what’s going on. International news portals are a great way to pick up trends, changes in writing styles and even for plain inspiration.
If you’re doing the same thing for a few years and continue to enjoy it with equal passion, you’re set. Just enjoy yourself and let the words flow.

A quote hanger

2010-01-14T09:01:00.002+05:30

"This is part of a longer article that I read last night. It's written by Michael Kinsley a columnist for The Atlantic. His article, called Cut the story, said many things. Of that, this I thought would bring some violent nods from fellow writers...

Quotes from outside experts or observers are also a rich source of unnecessary verbiage in newspaper articles. Another New York Times story from the November 8 front page provides a good example here. It’s about how the crackdown on some Wall Street bonuses may have backfired. Executives were forced to take stock instead of cash, but then the stock went up, damn it. This is an “enterprise” story—one the reporter or an editor came up with, not one dictated by events. And the reporter clearly views the information it contains as falling somewhere between ironic and appalling, which seems about right. But it’s not her job to have a view. In fact, it’s her job to not have a view. Even though it’s her story and her judgment, she must find someone else—an expert or an observer—to repeat and endorse her conclusion. These quotes then magically turn an opinionated story into an objective one. And so:

“People have to look at the sizable gains that have been made since stock and options were granted last year, and the fact is this was, in many ways, a windfall,” said Jesse M. Brill, the chairman of CompensationStandards.com, a trade publication. “This had nothing to do with people’s performance. These were granted at market lows.”

Those are 56 words spent allowing Jesse M. Brill to restate the author’s point. Yet I, for one, have never heard of Jesse M. Brill before. He may be a fine fellow. But I have no particular reason to trust him, and he has no particular reason to need my trust. The New York Times, on the other hand, does need my trust, or it is out of business. So it has a strong incentive to earn my trust every day (which it does, with rare and historic exceptions). But instead of asking me to trust it and its reporter about the thesis of this piece, The New York Times asks me to trust this person I have never heard of, Jesse M. Brill.

Freedom - It's free

2010-01-10T20:38:00.003+05:30

Large wooden louvered doors would lead us out into the corridor and then down the stairs into the landing that has even been mentioned in history. You walk out of that college, grasping a piece of that history between your index finger and thumb - hoping to do something sensible with it.
And yet, we walk out doing exceptionally inconsequential things that alters the course of nothing. For years, we follow a routine of some haphazard kind - meaningless. And yes there is pressure, for at least 10 years of your life, and you can't do anything to curb that. Unless you are born with a silver spoon delicately placed between your teeth, you will be made to feel to guilty for your existence - unless you're using wads of cash to shut people up.
So anyway, like me, you'd have wandered around, hoping to find some people you like and some like-minded people to work with - do something that's driven with passion and sense. And you find the one thing that a hundred others would kill to have.
Once that ends, like me, you'll wander around a bit more - doing things that don't make sense, to anyone and especially, to you. So you choose something that's easier. Find a boyfriend. Romance can keep reality out of your head for a while. Once that romance doesn't work out, you wallow and move on. Everyone moves on. Some move on to better things and some, like me, choose nothing over nothing.
Eventually, about eight years later, you'll be doing something that will definitely make you money (not enough though) but you won't find that 'G" spot - the thing that makes you grin, glad and go.
You'd be told various things because at the end of the day you're earning a living for someone else. You're earning on behalf of a large conglomerate that, trust me, wants to talk about everything important but drives you to believe that only the 'fake' survive. Incidentally, the people who've been used to represented the 'fake' segment are real by themselves. Even with all their silly smiles, they are real people, with real dreams, broken hopes and a real story to tell.
From wanting to be a poet for a newspaper at the age of 10, I've perhaps evolved to a stage where I'd like to write something that makes more sense to you - and to me.
There will be no advertisers to be afraid of because I don't have to pay anyone for this. This is my story - for you. To you. In your name. This story will be different from many others I've written.
From spending time alone on one rain-driven evening to raising toast to a sibling who's tying the knot thousands of miles ago - I want to know it all. I want to know your story.

money train

2009-12-04T00:05:00.000+05:30

You need money to make your dreams come true. Something that no one told me but perhaps should have – many years ago.
I am constantly meeting people who are doing so much more in life. It’s not easy to quantify and I do hate to put a number to things – but I see more smiles on their faces, and to be precise broader smiles.
So is it actually the money that’s making them smile? I do hope to God that it isn’t true. It would sort of crumble all other hopes that draw inspiration from those big toothy smiles.
So in a way, I am glad no one told me that money is what makes your dreams come true.
What do I want? At 32, I should know. The thing is, I know. But can I do it? Yes I can. But how is the question? That is the biggest question.
Can I give it all up and say hey, I am going to do it? No I can’t. Too many strings attached - and that, I can’t deal with.
Do I see a light? Yes I do. It’s bleak but I assume it will get stronger over time. Would I, then, give it all up and do what I want to do? In a heartbeat.
Life is actually pretty simple – we just screw it up for ourselves. Someone told me that it costs nothing to be nice. Of course it doesn’t. But being nice comes with its consequences. Would I rather have a grumpy person beside me who is nothing but honest or would I prefer a smiling cheery face who is perhaps faking it from the word go? You tell me.
So I come back to ask - do you need money to make your dreams come true? Yes, especially if you’re sort of swimming with baggage. Ironically, baggage can also keep dreams at bay. Much like garlic for a vampire.

What have you been reading?

2009-11-30T23:26:00.002+05:30

Growing up – I always thought there was something wrong with my time. There were two sets of believers – the liberals and the conservatives. And I am not talking of political parties. There were the ones who’d be okay with women wearing what the hell they wanted as long as there was no obscenity involved. And people knew what obscenity really stood for, and not some warped ideas that should have never been encouraged in the first place. A woman smoking would perhaps be considered a bit too liberated a thought, but no one really cared much. They judged, but did nothing about it.
The orthodox however were the ones who’d think a girl to be a hooker if she even spoke to man outside her family, or considered getting a job or staying single.

It took me years to struggle with the thought that with the advent of science and development is various segments and degrees, people refused to change thoughts. Were we so complacent with what we believed in that we didn’t allow a new thought even a small chance?
It’s easier today. I meet people who bear completely misguided opinions and do nothing to change them. They have the right to believe whatever they want. For the sake of an amusing argument I might talk, a bit loudly on occasion, stating thoughts and ideas and say “I can’t bring myself to agree with you.” But even so, the respect of another man’s opinions on anything is perhaps important.

When I started out as a writer – I can’t call myself a journalist really – I had different dreams. I didn’t want to become an investigative reporter who followed crime/political/civic stories and reported them. There were and are far better people doing that job really well.
What I was totally appealed by was the fact that India, in all its cultural diversity and expanse, was such a curious nation that they would traverse thousands of miles to understand different geographies. Despite all the socio-economic and religious differences, I have always felt that Indians are very proud of what they have. Yes, we do take it for granted at times but that’s common with what we love. We all complain about it and yet, love it in a very strange way.
I wanted to write about the travels of other people. I could always write about the travels of another person. But how do I bring my thought across to you. How do I tell you that I am like you? How else can I build a connection unless I start with an “I went to…” instead of telling you that “you know, there’s this guy I know who went to…”
I could be an odd one out. I am looking for members for my club really. But when I watch films like Good Night and Good Luck I wonder if we believe in anything anymore.
Do I believe in what I do? Do I believe that what I say will convince even one person into acting upon it?

Opinions of writing are changing drastically across the world. No one really knows if there are any cardinal rules of journalism existing anymore. I thought accuracy, facts, relatively error-free, good writing was all that was required.
Where does the sugar coating come from?
Yes, publication houses need to raise money to pay our salaries so that we continue to keep our jobs to pay the bills. But who decides what we read. It’s funny how in a gathering of more than five people, no one seems to agree with what online and print publications are doing, with a few exceptions of course.
And I love those exceptions.

Write about fashion – it’s a billion dollar industry. But what is more important to you?
Do you want to know where to get a replica of the Prada bag some Hollywood actress wore to a premiere or would you rather want to know how to dress well under $100. I guess both are important – to two different segments of people. The question is, where do I belong? And most importantly, where do you belong?
Coming back to opinions – I have often heard that people don’t read anymore these days. But wherever I go, I hear people complaining that there isn’t much to read these days. The online industry must be booming, with a large population catching up on the news and features online. Then why is an online publication not given ample importance in our country?

You could be working for the top 3 publications in the country and eyes will twinkle when you walk into a party. And by top 3, I am talking of ad revenues earned or visibility achieved. I am not talking of the quality of news. However, if you work for an earnest publication (which I sincerely doubt even exists) that manages to rake in enough to pay salaries because they won’t sell out, you are not cool enough. You’re not with it.
However, the ones who do read you, will always respect you and for that you can be eternally grateful and shove the rest of the world aside.
It could be any category – crime, politics, information technology, economics, socio-economics, industrial, hospitality, food, travel, art, science, theatre, literature, education, environment, civic issues, infrastructure – but the concern remains unhindered. What are people reading? Or rather, what are they not reading anymore? Who decides?

Everybody says I’m fine - The last of the chronicles

2009-11-29T21:06:00.001+05:30

I have a problem. And it's chronic. And yet, I don’t know how to elucidate it. I look at the person next door and I wonder: why God, Why? Why would you put such a person like that on earth? And what did I do to deserve such a neighbour? Didn’t you know by doing so you made one of your commandments null and void?
I look at the one in front of me: And I wonder. Seriously? Aren’t psychos meant for prisons? How can I smile my sugared smile when I know what evil lurks beneath that surface… and how many parallel thoughts run through that otherwise inadequate brain – is there no fear of a slight short circuit?
Or take for instance, the person in the next lane. He is smart. A bit good looking too. But I don’t say that. The others do. So I say he’s good looking, just to keep the others quiet. But he has a strange habit of scratching himself each time he thinks no one is looking. Okay so why do I have to witness that? Can’t he just sneak into the loo and do that? Well I reckon he cannot.
So I have a problem. I am constantly thinking. Worrying. Looking around to see if something unpleasant is going to spring a surprise on me. And then one odd pat-on-the-back nut job comes and says, “Hey, don’t look so sad. You’ll be fine!”
Of course I will be fine. But today, is not the day. Pick another day, boy. But every day is the same – SSDD.

I think I’d make a good recluse –give me unlimited nature, books, movies and music and I am good. And yes, the Internet. I love my blog and I have to update it. So yes, the Internet is a must. And perhaps a monthly supply of wine. I don’t mind going down to the nearest wine to pick up a bottle or three occasionally. Yes, that would be lovely.
But what if, one lost soul comes searching for me because he or she has heard that I lead this perfect life and wants to check it out by themselves? That would be horrible, wouldn’t it? Because then, they would like what I got and want it for themselves. And where would I go? Back to town – back into my cubbyhole? Oh no mister, you aren’t fooling me into falling for that silly trick of yours…

This is the last of the chronicles that I write with your name on it – from now on, it’s all about me…
Now, I shall truly be fine.

eat?

2009-11-22T21:39:00.002+05:30

been thinking of starting a food blog. what say? any suggestions?

Not just another dime

2009-10-29T00:54:00.004+05:30

Someone said, perhaps in passing, that what I do is trivial. Maybe to some. But in that little cubby hole of mine, in which I nurture my dreams, it is nothing but reality.
Someone had said, "What is lifestyle?"
It is always not 2000 plus words of eloquence, where someone only finds a platform to display their count of known words and phrases. It is mostly, at least as far as I believe, a story that could range from 50 words to 2000 but touch the soul that's reading it. Sometimes, being personal makes a difference. I am reaching out to you. I want you to know that beyond all the money laundering, cheating, scheming, politicking that goes on in this vast expanse, there is a life that is beautiful. A life that shows you the lovelier side. A life that is worth dreaming of.

From the time I first stepped into Sonagachhi, gingerly following Zana and Ross and their camera,watching the film unfold before my eyes, finding the truth that we all ignore, to the time where bright lights and luxurious spreads lay before me - it has been an excruciatingly difficult journey. With each passing week, I have learnt something new and most importantly something different.
I have met people I have come to love over the years, those that have moved on and yet remain in my heart.
I have met people who've used that love to gnaw at my deepest self.
I have met people who've used that love to selfish gains.
But all is forgiven.

From the moment I walk into the newspaper office that I truly hold in high regard, I feel a sense of belonging. I love the smell of newsprint or the splash of colour across smiling faces. From the tiny bullet points that assert an idea to a headline that carries within many responsibilities. It's all part of my reality.

I write about things that many won't bother about. Retail trends, gourmet treats and sometimes, a habit that is only lying within. Stories with meaning, stories without time lines. Here, I have seen a newspaper increase its shelf life. And that is no mean feat. Held strong by many others and carried forward by some more, waking up to the paper I work for is indeed exhilarating.

It gets rusty

2009-09-09T17:19:00.002+05:30

I found this old note a few weeks ago. It's about nine or ten years old. A note that we were all made to write about our classmates on a training session at Khandala (or was it Lonavala? back in the days of XIC.
I don't know where most of them really are. Not that they wanted to be my friends - not many people do. Plus I had issues. Plus I was paranoid - trusting, but paranoid. It sort of happens when all you are doing in your early 20s is battling with rumours that people spread only because they have nothing else to do. Or best friends tell on you because they perhaps missed a date. Or maybe let you down/stab you in the back/lie about you simply because that day, and just that day, they didn't find anything more interesting to kill time with. Or maybe they just thought you didn't deserve anything more.
Anyway, a couple of them remembered. A couple of them still do. They make it a point to perhaps drop a line or even make that call, take time out to meet me. Whenever they are in town.
But that life is gone. It's so far away in the past that I can't even look it in the eye anymore. I still go back to Bombay. Hang out with a few remaining friends - the ones who didn't care how I really looked, what I wore or whether I said intellectual words at meetings to prove that I was ready to be part of their circle. These guys are there, no matter what - sort of omnipresent, psychologically speaking.
So for me, Mondegar never changed, and neither did Leo's. Or Tea Centre. Now, I can actually afford more than a few beers. Just that I don't drink beer.

Every time I go back to Bombay, even for a few days, I wish to relive a few of those moments. Walking around alone - hunting, scouting for things that I had perhaps only imagined. Nothing existed. The romance of that city continues to breathe into my lungs thoughts that won't survive a nano-second outside my brain and yet I can't seem to want anything more.

The Reluctant Prince - Part IV

2009-08-29T23:10:00.004+05:30

Gyanendra Singh was pacing up and down in the one room studio apartment. A couple of apartments away he could hear a girl practising bhajans. She did have a good voice, but Gyan was not interested. Everything was going wrong. The man said he would come but he did not. Plus he was afraid that he would be recognised. Plus that girl was truly annoying. What if she'd found out? A fake name like Vijay Singh doesn't go very far. Well it's a good thing that she isn't from some royal family, or else she would have surely suspected him, he said to himself.
I wonder if mother suspects. I don't really care, said Gyan. What really annoys me is the way they're keeping us apart. I can't really tell them that this is not what I want. If only Aditya wanted to take all this up. I would willingly give all my undeserving laurels up.
The sun had risen as far as it could but there was no sign of the agent. His phone rang.
Hi. I am Asavari.
Oh no! It's her! She knows I am staying at a guest house. I have to check out.
Can you call me back in an hour? I am expecting a very important call and don't want to keep the line busy.
Oh okay. Don't worry. I am waiting downstairs. I thought we could catch up for coffee.
Downstairs! Okay, that was too quick.
I will be down in a bit.

Truth be told, Asavari had fallen quite in love with this strange looking man she'd met in the bus more than two weeks ago. But she had no idea who he was and had to find out before matters became worse. So she'd followed him to his motel, found out that he'd booked a car for the festival and which room he lived in. She had to know if he was an honest man. And then, she could perhaps make friends.
Hi. You look really tired. Haven't you slept much? she asked as soon as she saw him. Hanging loose from his gawky shoulders was a deep red kurta. He looked very handsome in it. But in a unkempt way. She wanted to reach out and push a slight lock off his forehead but resisted her temptations.
Why are you here? he asked.
I thought we could go get some coffee? pat came the reply.
I can't go anywhere now. I am expecting a call. I thought I already told you that.
Fine. I'll wait.
Gyan turned around and went back to his room. That stupid girl would be the death of me, he thought. Little did he know that a few weeks later, his foresight would stand by him.
The phone didn't ring for two hours. He was beginning to get hungry. As he walked down to the lobby to go to the restaurant, he saw Asavari waiting patiently on a sofa.
All right, come along, he beckoned her.
She sprung up and followed him. Today, I will make him talk.
What's your name? came the first question.
Vijay Singh, said Gyan. I am 32 years old. Unmarried. I live in Pune. Am here to meet someone for work. That guy never turned up or called back and right now I am so angry that I could kill someone. Will that be enough?
Good lord! You're on a roll, said Asavari and burst out into a laugh.
And in that terse moment, everything changed. Gyan actually looked up at her. She was beautiful. In a very non-conformist way. Her dark eyes would flash occasionally and her mouth had a perpetual upturn that he liked instantly. Her laugh was like the slow tinkling of a thousand bells. And her unruly hair fell on her shoulders without care.
He liked her. Instantly.

My aunt lives in Pune. I often go see her, she said, breaking his reverie. Maybe when I go next I will come and meet you. Would you write your address down for me please?
Not in a million years had Gyan thought that a fake address (belonging to an old school friend) would set off a chain of events that even he and at least 10 others would not be able to control or repair. Nor had he imagined that as he wrote down the address on a piece of tissue paper from the restaurant that someone would be watching them closely from a distance and that Asavari, a girl with the laughter of bells, would actually come looking for him.
For the next few hours, Gyan wove a tale that was nothing short of ordinary. A tale that Asavari was quite content with. He was a small time businessman who was looking to open a shop in Jaipur and the man who promised to show him some properties never turned up. She liked the middle-class Vijay Singh with three sisters who were yet to be married, an ailing father and a dead mother and that he had to be financially stable for the sake of the family. She admired the 32-year old thin, handsome fellow who was willing to put the happiness of others before his own. After all, isn't this what real life was all about?
Yes, this could work.

The Reluctant Prince - Part III

2009-08-26T00:05:00.004+05:30

Finding a liberal boyfriend in a place like Udaipur was worse than finding a a cheap and yet comfortable flat in Mumbai. Asavari had dated briefly in Behrampur, when she went home for vacations, but none of the affairs lasted beyond a few weeks. Tired of searching for the right man, Asavari had actually almost given up. Till she met Vijay Singh. He was a bit clumsy on the bus they first laid eyes on each other. He was fumbling for money in his pocket, she remembered. And she was suppressing a silly grin. He's never really been on a bus has he? she wondered.
Truthfully, Vijay Singh had never been on a bus. So much so, he'd never been to a bus station before this day. But circumstances forced to him to get on this rickety tin vehicle that looked like it would explode at the seams. Very much like Radhika maasi, he thought, smiling to himself.
The girl, standing three seats away holding the railing, is staring at me. Do I know her? Or most importantly, does she know me? he questioned, his arched eyebrows becoming obvious with query. She is pretty though.
Asavari was trying her best to conceal her tattoo with her dupatta. People here aren't really used to forward-thinking women, unless of course they were tourists. A tattoo is an obvious statement of a fallen women, especially the one she was hiding. Finely crafted on her upper arm was the image of a mermaid, one of Asavari's favourite motifs. She was naked of course, except for a few golden locks that fell gently on her breasts, covering them, but not quite. She'd gotten it when she was went to Amsterdam to visit a long-lost aunt. That of course was a completely different story.
Asavari's life was pretty much scattered all over and each tale was complexly ridden with secrets that were either kept from her or she kept from the rest.
Vijay Singh was leaning over his co-passenger to check if his station was near. He found the roads vaguely familiar, not quite used to the topography, something his mother was quite ashamed of.
Incidentally, Asavari and Vijay got off near the main bus station and as their eyes met briefly, she smiled at him.
She must be a hooker, he confirmed to himself, without even bothering to think twice. And almost as if she'd read his mind, Asavari walked up to Vijay Singh and said, I am not that sort of a girl. I smiled because your discomfort back in the bus was rather amusing.
A prostitute with good English. Must be a girl from Bombay, he thought without responding to her.
I don't bite, said Asavari and walked away.
They met again, almost by accident, two weeks later at the Jaipur Literature Festival. It's such a pseudo-place. Fancy, nose-in-the-air writers who don't really write that well but can sell, thanks to their selling skills. Although, Asavari was quite taken in by Jeet Thayil's poetry. They're so beautiful that they're almost lifeless, she'd thought.
Vijay was of course there for a completely different reason. He was meeting a real estate agent at Diggi Palace who had obviously no clue about the festival. And Vijay had forgotten about it. Too much was going on in his head for him to remember.
It's the same girl. Oh lord! Now she'll think I am following her, he thought as soon as he'd spotted Asavari.
Hello there! She said, walking up to the young lanky fellow. There was something charming about the way his hair looked perpetually unkempt.
Umm... Hello, said Vijay Singh, without really looking at her.
Are you here for the festival? she asked.
Yes. And no. Okay goodbye, said the nervous youth and walked away.
Okay, he is really strange.
They met each other on the second day again. And this time around, he avoided her completely. It would not look good if the agent saw them talking and reported any thing back home.
So now you'll avoid me completely, said Asavari, walking up to him. I don't bite you know. Plus I think you need a cup of coffee.
Vijay Singh nodded at her and the two of them walked towards the cafe. Can we get two cups of coffee please and a cucumber sandwich as well. Would you like something to eat? Asavari asked Vijay.
No. I have already had breakfast. It is okay. Thank you, he said uncomfortably.
The two of them talked a bit. Asavari told him about how she'd come to Jaipur to meet an old friend who might have a job for her and how she hated living in Udaipur and so on.
Vijay Singh said nothing. Is she going to ask me questions about my past? She is from Udaipur. That's not very safe. She might know me, or know of me. Has she actually recognised me and is just playing, Vijay wondered.
The sun was setting. The second day of the festival was coming to an end. Vijay would be leaving the next day and so would Asavari. She was heading out to Delhi for an assignment. I wonder if she will ever run into me again. I hope not, he thought.
Can I have your email address? she asked.
Email? I have a number....

The Reluctant Prince - Part II

2009-08-24T11:57:00.003+05:30

Aditya woke up with a slight headache. Did I really drink so much last night? he wondered. The melancholic musical night led to a rather obnoxious dinner and the only way to get through was to stop counting the goblets of wine.
What should I do this morning? he asked to no one in particular. I could perhaps jump off the ledge, climb down the roof and then make a run for the airport. My ticket is valid for another month, the next-in-throne Aditya Vikram Singh contemplated.
Hukum. Mandar was back.
Rajmata is calling you. There are some people here to meet you.
Blimey! Already? Getting out of bed, Aditya walked towards his bathroom. He reappeared at the so-called courtroom after twenty minutes. The people were waiting patiently.
Ah son! mother beckoned him, lovingly. Please meet our guests. This is Rampal Singh and his wife Madhumati. And they are here to talk about their daughter's hand for you.
WHAT! was the only word that came out of Aditya's brains, but they didn't reach the tip of his tongue. He was completely taken aback. I am going out mother, we will talk about this later. Nice meeting you. Do have lunch and go, saying that, Aditya walked out towards the stables. I need a horse, he said, again, to no one particular.
Gyanendra was an idiot, thought Aditya of his older brother. I thought he loved playing prince and would eventually become the king. What is this all about him going and dying? It's just not fair. I want the froth lining of beer back on my upper lip, with Amy in tow. That is what I want.
Getting the stableboy to saddle up one of the royal horses, Aditya decided to ride around. It's a lovely day, he decided. Thanks to his training back as a child, he could get on and off a horse with ease, learn how to fence and drink gallons of beer without a hangover, a quality he'd picked up later in college.
How far to the nearest village? Aditya asked the stableboy.
About 25 minutes on horseback hukum, pat came the reply.
Aditya rode off, not really wanting to go to the nearest village.

Back in the palace, the queen's guests were readying themselves to leave. Lunch was not an option, especially since they hadn't brought any gift for the queen as such, not even a token of appreciation. Rajmata was very worried. Frowns had formed on her forehead and took various shapes as she paced up and down the landing of the staircase. Has he become insane? she wondered. At 29, I'd have thought him to be slightly more mature. All these years of 'foreign' education hadn't really worked. Inspector Ghanshyam will soon have to solve the case. Aditya needs to wear the crown by then.
I will have to have a word with him. Only if the king were alive.

Riding downhill through the hilly roads, Aditya stopped his horse for a minute to take a look at the landscape. All this? Mine? Bloody hell. I wonder if this horse will make it all the way to the Udaipur airport.
He found himself a clearing by the side of the road and parked the horse. Getting off, he sat under an unfamiliar tree, lighting another cigarette. I need to send for some more, he thought.
I cannot do this. I don't know why I agreed to even come. I haven't seen mother in the last seven years. I am not even sure if she is my mother. I didn't see my father's dead body and Gyan was gone by the time I was called back. How can they even expect to fill in so many shoes. I don't know the first thing about administration. Why can I not live with my Keats and Byron instead? I should have never come back.
But no one heard Aditya Vikram Singh, next-in-throne, the crown prince, the would-be king, the handsome man who hated wearing anything beyond his jeans, a man who hadn't told a soul of his royal lineage back in London. No one came to his rescue. I am doomed, declared Aditya, loudly. No one was listening to him anyway.

150 kilometres away in Udaipur, she was wondering if she should make a trip to Bombay to meet her agent. He promised to call me sometime during the week. And 'the' week was two weeks ago. What if he took the money and ran, she thought.
Asavari Sinha was sitting in front of her computer and searching for a mail that had actually never arrived. Do they call people for auditions over email? she wondered.
Moving to Udaipur was a really stupid decision. But she had found work, thanks to the various jewellery houses that constantly needed the 'Indian-looking girl' to pose in their jewels. She made enough money to get by. Maybe I should consider a job in Radha's advertising agency. She could pass off as an account executive and then find enough clients who'd make her a model. Lousy option, she counteracted.
It was time for tea. She walked to her miniscule kitchen and put on a kettle. Her mother had promised her a bit of help but that never came and Asavari was too proud to ask. I don't even have a fucking boyfriend, she said. At least the movies would be sponsored.

The Reluctant Prince - Part I

2009-08-23T12:46:00.005+05:30

He stood near the terrace ledge that was sort of hidden away from everyone else. It was his secret spot and no one was allowed to come there. Smoking one of the last cigarettes from his pack of imported B&Hs, Aditya Vikram Singh sighed. Not in relief but in resignation. Two more months and he would be declared the administrator of state. His mother was retiring as the last queen of Mithila. What have I gotten myself into? he asked himself. But no one was around to help him with answers. At 28, Aditya Vikram Singh returned to his hometown after his older brother died under rather mysterious circumstances. I am sure he himself had hired a henchman to do the job, he thought. Being the escapist Aditya knew his older brother to be, it wouldn't come as a surprise. Inspector Ghanshyam Singh had made at least 10 visits to the palace. But they hadn't found the guy. Quite possible, if it was a royal setup.
I wonder what Amy is up to? She would probably be going to the library just about now? he thought. He missed the smell of the campus. The busy streets of London and the non-intrusive life that he had so carefully built over the last 10 years.
Below, people were scurrying around the household, getting ready for the royal dinner. There were to have guests that evening. Ashokaditya Singh, Maan Singh and Virendra Singh and their respective wives. Uncles and cousins from different family tree offshoots. None of them spoke much English and Aditya's Rajasthani was unpolished. Damn, those bloody pretentious blood-sucking dogs, he said aloud.
Hukum. Mandar whispered.
Turning around, Aditya saw their faithful servant standing behind him, at a distance. His head was lowered in obeisance. His hand folded near his chest.
What is it Mandar?
Rajmata is calling you. The guests have arrived. And you are not yet ready.
Aditya looked down at himself. He had draped one of the royal robes that were in his wardrobe. Underneath, his favourite pair of Calvin Kleins.
Go on ahead, he said. I will be there in a minute.
Mandar nodded and left.
Aditya lit up another cigarette and bent over the ledge to look down. The sun was just about setting and its flames licked the hem of the sky in greed. He took to the stairs, not so ready to meet the guests.

Downstairs a mehfil was all about to begin. The musicians were setting up their instruments and tying their turbans, pretty much at the same time. Ragini Devi would soon be here. She used to be Aditya's father's favourite court singer. After his death, the queen would send a monthly stipend to the girl to further her lessons in music and urdu. She knew that the king looked at Ragini as her daughter, which was not a very uncommon practice. There was no cheating or jealousy there, so it made it easier for her to support the girl's endeavours.
Aditya changed into a royal dress. Churidaar, bunched up neatly near his ankle. A long kurta, delicately embroidered in gold and black and a robe that made him feel a few pounds heavier. He was not obliged to wear a turban and decided to skip it. Strapping his Rolex onto his wrist, he took a look at himself in the mirror. Amy would die laughing if she were to see him like this now.
Hukum. They're waiting for you. Mandar whispered near his ear, without being too informal.
Yes. Let's go.

The royal rituals had changed quite a bit over the years. Aditya's father, Aditya Vikram Singh I, was quite a liberal ruler. He believed in education, trade, slight modernisation that wouldn't harm his subjects and above all, had done away with false and ancient traditions.
Unless it was a large and formal gathering, he didn't think a king needed to be announced in all glory. Everyone can see that I've just walked in, he would say. Ironically, that was one of the last things Aditya remembered his father telling him.

Walking down the winding staircase of the rather worn out palace that needed desperate attention, Aditya saw that a bunch of men and women were huddling down on the low divans, waiting for the music to begin. His mother, was on a chair, nearby, looking up anxiously at her younger son. I do hope he gets used to this. His disdain is so apparent, she said to herself.

Namaste chachaji. Namaste tauji. Namaste Maan Singh. Namaste. he wished everyone and then found his spot and sat down. Ragini Devi was clearing her throat to begin her first ghazal of the night. Under the dim ceiling lights made of etched glass and through a fine embroidered veil, Aditya noticed Ragini's nose ring glimmer like a star.

Random thoughts - literally

2009-06-03T23:58:00.004+05:30

Have you ever come this close to saying what you want to say and not said it because you don't really know if you should? Has it ever happened that you looked, long and hard, at someone and changed your mind about him? It's just one of those feelings, isn't it? Inexplicable.
D said, of one of my writings, that it felt like nothing. He said it didn't touch him because the two subjects in the prose didn't reach out to him. Or something like that. D is one of my favourite writers. And I believe what he says. But then again, that piece was a fragment of truth. So perhaps like reality I allowed my detached thoughts to permeate my words. Then is that no mission accomplished? Then why does someone say that they need to relate to it?
Never mind.
I had a wonderful evening today. It was partly on work but that aroma of pepper brie and wine, fondant and the smoked salmon with pear... I couldn't help but forget that I was on work. And amidst all the shiny glasses and the white linen (which is how I typically like to describe Toscano) I couldn't help but think if life could be like brie, especially this one. Smooth to taste, a giddy aftertaste, a slight remnant on the upper palate and of course, a bit peppery.
And a good wine to wash it all down with.
I can't really write about food without thinking of some movie or life in general. Actually, I can't think of it in any other way.
I saw Delhi 6. And strangely, or perhaps not, I really liked it. I like Abhishek Bachchan's slight sense of insecurity in the film. Or his portrayal of it. I like Sonam Kapoor, the brash wannabe Indian Idol. And I like the soundtrack. I like the way ROM let his feeling and his imagery run loose. It's something I can relate to. Even though I have never lived in Delhi.
And all that, amidst all that, I was reminded of one dal baati churma I'd eaten long time ago. It was way too heavy for me to deal with but I had this bizarre sensation of being at home. And I am not from Rajasthan.
Enough of gibberish. Tomorrow is another day and with that, shall come uncertainties I have to be ready for.
Good night my friends. R, K, S, J, Paleth, M (whom I have almost relegated to a distance) and everyone else who are always in my thoughts.

Save the planet and so on...

2009-06-03T23:55:00.000+05:30

Everyone is worried about being asked... So what are YOU doing for the environment? Everyone is thinking up answers. Nice and quick. "I recycle."
"I am going to plant a tree."
"I stopped using plastic long ago."
"I am always careful about using water."
"I don't take printouts unless it's an emergency."
"I only buy organic vegetables."
"I only wear natural fabric."
"I don't use chemical stuff at home."
"I keep computer and laptop usage to the minimum."
"I have switched to an electric vehicle."
"I cycle to work thrice a week."

Everyone is concerned. Everyone wants the planet to survive at least till the time they survive. No one wants the earth to give up on us suddenly. We don't how it will happen. Will it implode? Or will there will flood and we will die painfully?
No one wants annihilation in an expected manner. We all want to perish in less than half a second. We don't want to bear the consequences of what we've been doing to this host that put us up for millions of years.
We will write about it. But no one will say: "Can we stop publishing a newspaper for one day?" That should save some paper.
Or perhaps stop smoking. I am no one to say this. I smoke too. But I want to stop.
No one will say: Maybe today we should stay at home and not take the car out. Maybe we should just go take a walk in the neighbourhood, or meet neighbours we don't really say hello to.
No one does that.
They just talk about it.
As for me. I have to go to work. I have an edition the next day.

ho hum

2009-05-26T22:24:00.002+05:30

300 words of pearls. no words of wisdom. nothing 'intellectual' please. leave your brains (or whatever's left of it) behind please. don't bring 'your' thoughts to work. use others' instead, please. what is amidst? st? st? seriously? like the short form for station? are you serious?
how can u use the word fortitude in an article that just talks about designer wear?
okay, pause here.
you are not thinking straight.
actually, you aren't thinking curves. think curves.
and make sure whatever you write is attested by a known face, please. we really don't give a flying f*** about your opinion. you are just the one who knows how to type and string sentences together. that is all, please.
why are you reading sri aurobindo's savitri? oh we'd highly recommend Bridget Jones' diary. very good diary. please. (like i really needed a woman to tell me when it's the right time to smoke or kiss... like, seriously...)
oh, you're the cocky one we see... that smile... (nod nod) we know - deep down you're thinking you will be smart elsewhere and people will regard your brain to be a considerable contribution the functioning of something. you are so wrong please. anywhere you go, unless you go on your own, someone else is always giving directions.
like you needed us to tell you that.

i like hash. it smells good. i don't smoke it. have smoked like thrice. i like smoking cigarettes too, which is paired with good single malt. and ice, i don't care about the snobs. i like my ice.
i like the smell of fresh tomatoes in pasta or the giddiness from excess coffee or chocolate.
i like the touch of his hand on my head - it's like consolation prize.
so trust me, i really don't give a flying f*** whether you think i'm useful or not. just because you need someone to type doesn't mean i am going to keep my nails trimmed at all times.

your deadline is early. be happy please. you can go home soon and do what you want with it. yes please. yes please. yes please.
and with your typing speed - you have nothing to fear.
yes, you don't get paid as much as you'd like - but tell us, so far what has really worked according to plan? no whining please. this is not your home. and please remember, if you talk to someone too much, rumours will be spread. that's how this system works. thank you please.

ah i see she's getting there too.. the greed of the green. i really don't want it. i want the green in different forms. i want the old life back. the old things to remain the same. i like the way the fresh air skims past my face and doesn't leave any mark. i want this night to end so the next could come, soon. i don't want your fancy words. i don't want to wake up every morning feeling like a yes man. i don't want your kindness.
no thank you please.

the first stop

2009-04-20T21:02:00.002+05:30

Bombay, April 18, some time

This city is my consolation prize. If not home, here is where I’d rather be.
Spending time with a few old friends and some good old memories over some rosé wine and some rather Bengali Chinese (which isn’t very uncommon in the city) I was at peace.
It’s ironic; this city rejects and embraces me all at once. I cannot erase it from my wish list and neither can I go back on a whim. And yet, every time you ask me, this is the place I want to be. If not home.
J says I should come back. And I miss him tremendously. He and I share this strange understanding. We never tread each other’s path and yet, stay connected and concerned. Life has changed for both of us and we, as people, have changed too. But that ‘us’ has remained, the way it used to be.
It was so nice seeing R after so long. I really like the way she’s found her footing. And I have seen her struggles and shared some of the same pain. We’ve both fought for something that was so intangible that often, we’d lose track of what is it that we were fighting for. We’ve given up and regained our trial.
It was nearly a two-hour drive from Cuffe Parade to Goregaon where R was staying. I fell in love with her apartment instantly. There’s nothing fake in her welcome and she didn’t treat me like a guest. What more could I ask for?
I didn’t shop at all. In fact, I barely went out. I just spent time looking out her large open windows, wishing that nothing would ever change. Not in soul at least. I am so against this whole transformation that the spirit of every individual goes through. I think R loves me just the way I am. The way I used to be nearly 12 years ago when we met in college.
Something happens to me when I come here. I can’t explain that something. But the best part is I never really have to; at least to the people who matter.
And I would rather be with the people who matter. If not home.

Homeward bound

2009-04-20T20:25:00.003+05:30

Calcutta, April 20, 8.55 pm

I don't mind the crowds here or even the dust that leaves a strange residue on my nose and between my toes. I don't mind the long standing traffic or the irregularities of life. I don't even mind the pungent body odour that doesn't remember its source.
I marvel at my insouciance – in another city I’d be intolerant, with a speech ready on how the world will never change, simply because of the sheer volume of ignorance towards urban development. Here, everything is forgiven. Here, time stands still. People still beg on the streets and labourers find a decent meal in ten rupees. Here, you are resigned to life. There can be no way out unless you are prepared to battle your way through various social layers that are often invisible but poisonous nevertheless. I have given up everything that I held true and moved to another part of the country looking for something that I have not yet found. Ironically, I have lost much. Words that I once took pride in. passages that were read under the light of a kerosene lamp and remembered – all through childhood and youth. And now, in the dark, without the lamp, I close my eyes, tightly shut, and try to remember a verse or even a line from an old book that still smells the same.
There is something about this city, he tells me. And I couldn’t agree more. As we both would walk down familiar lanes, in the heat or rain, thinking of those days that we never really wanted to move away from, we’d want to return to a place that we know more closely as the only home we’ve ever had.
My aunt says she finds it easy to breathe whenever she returns home after her travels - despite the pollution and the long stretch of stench that follows her into the shower.
And I smile, because I know that I will return and that stench will be mine too.

A point of little concern

2009-04-01T17:57:00.000+05:30

So there was this man I met. Not alone though but I really wished I wasn’t there.
He spoke about youth and politics. I am not really sure how old he really is, but he was very passionate about the youth being part of politics.
Apart from that he also spoke about this whole ‘refrain’ from voting concept in India where the youth of course don’t vote because they don’t want to and mostly because they don’t know whom to vote.
And of course, when most of the candidates are either a stranger to us or of very little good, it’s best that we don’t condone their intent to come into power.
Then again, the whole political nexus that exists in our country can never really allow a different scenario.
There’s very little white money in politics and at a day an age when the so-called youth are busy wondering how to pay their home loan EMIs for their 3-bedroom apartment in a swanky part of a cosmopolitan, the drive to do ‘something’ for the country lies dormant within. Can we blame them?
Now Barack Obama is being used as an example. Only because of his humble backgrounds and of course the fact that he is different in colour, at least as far as the White House is concerned. And let’s not forget his unbelievably moving speech.
There are a lot of speech writers and makers in this country, which we cannot deny.
Coming back to this man – he is (apparently) doing his best to make people at the grass-root level to understand the basic functioning of the country and its people, or something like that. But he isn’t involved in politics because he isn’t sure that an independent candidate like him would cut a difference. Moreover, he doesn’t want to support any specific party.
So, he asks: would we vote for a man who has no right to represent his nation?
And I wonder: Why doesn’t he just not talk?

The big idea

2009-03-31T00:40:00.000+05:30

So where’s the big idea, the one that will clinch the deal? You could’ve been surfing all night, scouring the streets, for inspiration. You could’ve been hunting for it at the bottom of a glass that was once filled with bitter sweet ale. You could’ve been staring, without batting the eyes, at the television where item girls in hot pink dresses sing to a so-called foot tapping number. Or you could be leaning out of your balcony, staring at a lonely kite trying to find a branch, for a moment of peace.
Or perhaps a shutter bug will cross your path; with an interesting tale to tell. Or a woman whose life calls for a retake. Or maybe a child who still wonders why her parents can’t look her in the eye.
But where does this big idea hide?
Is it in some dust-ridden corner where no light trickles in? Is it inside the head that refuses to cooperate most of the time?
I haven’t stepped out to breathe in the summer sun – to see smiling faces go about their way – or drench in an accidental shower.
I haven’t seen life beyond a certain measurement. And as I draw into a close, closing up like a clam without the cheese, I realise that my ideas have died a natural death, mostly because of being ignored for far too long.
But even so, those ideas that managed to stay afloat, purely out of vengeance, don’t have enough steam in their blood.
You could be speaking and no one will hear you. Because let’s face it, you aren’t really saying anything that makes sense.
Who really cares to know if John Coltrane’s music could remind one of a shadowy afternoon in the rains? Or that Michael Buble is for the broken-hearted. Does anyone really care to know why it was important for a film like Juno to be made? Or perhaps how Clint Eastwood deserves a standing ovation for Gran Torino, and how accurate someone was when he told us that it was Dirty Harry walking into the sunset.
Or maybe when on a tired evening, a bunch of soft shell crabs filled my heart with so much warmth that I was finding it difficult to write about it later, without going overboard.
I don’t know so much. Sometimes I feel I forgot to evolve. Living in a world with Franz Kafka, Edith Piaf, Cole Porter and Leonard Cohen, I find myself often retarded. Ironic, I say. No one nods in agreement.

Baby steps

2009-03-22T17:07:00.000+05:30

Your blue umbrella
Circles in the rain
Creating splashes of water
And trickles down the drain

Your wet feet
Make little footprints
And disappear into puddles
Of myriad tints

I watch
I yearn
I cry
I ache

He stands and smokes
Wet rings in the air
There’s no smile on his face
Just an irreverent stare

The white lace at your hem
Plays at your knee
As the rain continues to rage
Till it is all that I can see

words and colour

2009-03-20T19:57:00.002+05:30

i wanted to leave a letter behind
a letter that would speak louder than i did
of how my mother wiped her tears
or my sister smoked in the silence

i wanted to paint a picture
not pretty by far, not in the least
i just wanted to paint what i saw
of the truth that you can't see

nothing much

2009-03-14T17:17:00.002+05:30

she held him to her heart one last time. and then, as the fingers gave way, she let him fall to the side. abandoning him and his memories. it was the last time. he would never call for her again. and she would find her redemption in the death that only she could have caused. to her, he became nonexistent. like she was to someone else. like she would be to another.

the love story

2009-03-01T00:02:00.003+05:30

let me tell you a story she said. of a time long ago.
and there she ended. because she had nothing further to add.
he was being patient, partly out of disinterest. the car was running on ignition and he was waiting for her to get off. she did.
she walked into the apartment building without looking back. fishing for her keys at the bottom of the bag was a good escape plan, she thought. he stared at her walk away and his heart felt a bit heavy. she was a good kid but it had to end. it's been far too long.
she reached her flat and switched on the light. then, she switched it off, walked into the bathroom, found the razor and slashed her wrists. deep enough to kill her over the next few hours. but she did not wince. and as the blood trailed from the bathroom door and formed a misshapen pool near the bedside, she lay on her pillow, looking up at the fan that moved at very slow speed.
the last decade or more was the best, she recalled. she remembered the colour of his shirt when they'd first met, she remembered even the last.
she remembered her nostrils taking in his smell. his smile. his eyes. his kiss.
their first kiss.
it had never ended.
it was always the first kiss.

he drove back, slowly. tomorrow he would leave town. that should simplify things. he knew she would never call him. the closest she'd get was to stare at his online status on her gtalk chat window. that, he could deal with.
it would never work, he rationalised. she was not his type. he did care. but not in the way he'd want to, if he were to make a commitment. she had to understand that.
she probably did.
she'd try to work things out in her life. he trusted her. he had to disappear.
there was way too much history between the two of them. he'd erase it all. it's not as tough as people said. she would be history.

so he lied, she told herself. big deal, she counter-argued. i can live without him. if i could live without him all these years, him telling her was going to make no difference. she could love no one else and that was something she'd come to terms with even before she'd realised. and now, there would be no time to love another.
the pool was getting bigger. she could feel her breath turn cold. it was a lovely sensation. it was like walking on ice - only there was none. the sky had turned purple in her head. this is how she always wanted it to be, she recollected and no one would believe her. now, she wouldn't have to convince anyone. that's a relief, she confirmed. a little wave of cloud formed near her mouth as she reassured herself. it was always him. and she was sort of relieved that there would be no one else.

she has a good smile, he remembered. and when she'd smoke in a dark room, the lit end would form a halo around her; she looked almost ethereal. her pursed lips would be blowing out smoke. she never really inhaled. he could watch her forever. or when she'd lip sync to his favourite song. it was as if she was singing it. she did have a good voice, he said.
when did he meet her first, he wondered. he couldn't remember. it didn't matter. once the night was over, he wouldn't have to think of such things anymore. she would be gone. life is twisted. he had hurt her but he didn't really care enough to turn things around. that would be too much to ask for, he said. it wouldn't work. he was sure.

Millionaire slumdogs and how things change - Saugata Chatterjee

2009-02-20T16:56:00.000+05:30

Yes, everything changes.

The fantastic invisible sweep of time rushes and roars past us every dull and intense second that ticks relentlessly away every day, and all around us things constantly morph. Twin towers crumble, good people die, the good earth turns brown and bare, and old love fades.

And what precisely is your role in the incredible kaleidoscope of change?

A slack-jaw by-stander who barely registers the impact and implications? A commentator spectator who freely critiques but somehow rises above being affected by it all? A fatalist loser who bemoans everything and blames it all on circumstances and other people?

Look around you, you who reside in the so-called mind and knowledge capital of the shining new India. This is Bangalore.

Many of the quiet avenues that used to snake through the wooded shades and fragrant flower-scatters of a thousand gulmohars, flames of the forest, bougenvillias and silver oaks are now shorn of even a single blade of grass, their tar guts upturned by mammoth earth moving equipment, tortured sites full of grime, steel and concrete through which an endless procession of loud vehicles crawl back and forth, utterly indisciplined, frothing with impotent anger and frustration, from the early dusty dawns to the midnight hours, every single day.

We are the victims, you say? The civic governance of Bangalore is sub standard, you claim? Well, you may be right, but does that mean that even as an individual citizen whose real powers to influence matters is way less than what it theoretically should be, we have absolutely nothing to do?

I am re-thinking this premise, my friend. Unfortunately not a self realization case, but prompted by a black incident last Friday, 6th February, 2009. And this time it was not about aspects that affect your life and mine indirectly. It wasn't the death of yet another 100+ year old tree. It wasn't another instance of criminal neglect of any civic infrastructure. It wasn't road rage. It was a kick in the groin. Literally. And it woke me up all right.

So, in brief, this is how the drama unfolded:

A few of my friends and I were just paying our bills and coming out of our regular Friday night watering hole and dinner place in Rest House Road, just off Brigade Road, and most of the women in the company were already standing outside. Some of us outside were smoking, people were happy, there was laughter and jokes, as there were many other people in the street, all coming out, satiated, in the closing hour of the various pubs and restaurants around.

Suddenly from up the street a massive SUV comes revving and speeding, hurtling down, and stops in a scream of brakes and swirling dust, millimeters away from this group of 4 women, barely missing one of their legs. A white Audi, imported, still under transfer, with the registration plate of KA-51 TR-2767. Some millionaire's toy thing, that in the wrong hands can kill.

Naturally the women are in shock. And quickly following the shock comes indignation. These are self made women running their own businesses, managing state responsibilities for global NGO firms, successful doctors. They are not used to being bullied. So they turn around, instead of shrinking back in fear. They protest.

And as soon as they turn around in protest, the car doors are flung open, and a stream of 4-5 rabid men run out towards these women, screaming obscenities in Hindi and Kannada against women in general, fists flailing. Some of us who came in running at the sound of the screaming brakes now stand in the middle in defense of our women, and then blows start raining down. One of the goons make a couple of calls over the cellphone, and in seconds a stream of other equally rabid goondas land up. They gun straight for the women, and everyone – a few well-meaning bystanders, acquaintances who know us from the restaurant, basically everyone who tries to help the women – starts getting thoroughly beaten up.

Women are kicked in the groin, punched in the stomach, slapped across the face, grabbed everywhere, abused constantly. Men are smashed up professionally, blows aimed at livers, groins, kidneys and nose. A friend is hit repeatedly on the head by a stone until he passes out in a flood of blood.

A plain-clothes policeman (Vittal Kumar) who saunters in late stands by watching and urging people to stop, but doing absolutely nothing else. A 'cheetah' biker cop comes in, with our women pleading him to stop this madness, but he refuses action, saying a police van will come in soon and he cannot do anything. Everyone keeps getting hammered. Relentlessly.

The carnage continues for over 20 minutes.

Finally when the police van does come in it is this vandals who are raging and ranting, claiming to be true "sons of the Kannadiga soil", and we are positioned to be the villainous outsiders, bleeding, outraged. How do the cops believe them, especially seeing the bloody faces of our men and the violated rage of our women, while they carry nary a scratch on their bodies? Don't ask me! Yet, it is us who these goondas urge the newly arrived law-keepers to arrest, and the police promptly comply, and we are bundled into the van, some still being beaten as we are pushed in. Some blessed relief from pain inside the police van at least, even if we are inside and the real goons outside, driving alongside in their spanking white Audi. The guy who was hit by the stone is taken separately by the women to Mallya hospital.

Inside the police station at Cubbon Park it becomes clear that these goons and the police know each other by their first names. The policeman in charge (Thimmappa) initially refuses to even register any complaint from me, on the purported grounds that I am not fluent in Kannada and I have taken a few drinks (3 Kingfisher pints, to be precise) over the evening. No, it doesn't matter that I didn't have my car and was not driving, and no, it doesn't mater that the complaint will be written in English. We watch them and the goons exchange smiles and nods with our our bloodied and swelling eyes and realize in our pain-clouded still-in-shock brains the extent of truth in the claim of one of the main goons when he claimed earlier in the evening in virulent aggression: we own this town, this car belongs to an MLA, we will see how you return to this street!!

This was the turning point of the saga, I guess. For we refused to lie down quietly and be victims.

One of our girls, a vintage and proud Bangalorean who is running one of the town's most successful organic farming initiatives, took upon herself to write the complaint, when I was not allowed to write the same. Another Bangalore girl, a state director of a global NGO firm, wrote the other molestation complaint separately on behalf of all the girls. Some of us called our friends in the media and corporate world. Everyone stepped up. And even when the odds were down and we were out, we did not give up, and as a singular body of violated citizens we spoke in one voice of courage and indomitable spirit. That voice had no limitation of language, not Kannada, nor English, or Hindi. It was the voice of human spirit that cannot be broken.

And in the face of that spirit, for the first time, we saw the ugly visage of vandalism, hiding behind the thin and inadequate veil of political corrupt power, narrow-vision regionalism and self-serving morality, start to wilt.

We spent 6 hours next day in the police station. The sub-inspector of police who filed our FIR, Ajay R M, seemed a breath of fresh air inasmuch that he did not appear a-priori biased like others, even though the hand of corruption and politico-criminal power backing these goons was still manifest in many ways: a starched, white-linen power-broker walked in handing over his card to the sub-inspector in support of the goons; the goons got an audience with the Inspector because of this intervention, while we had to interact one level lower down in the hierarchy; the plains cloth policeman of last night, even though he had arrived far too late in the crime scene, gave a warped statement, passing it off as a "neutral" point of view, repeatedly stressing that we came out of a pub and hence were drinking, positioning this as a 'drunken brawl', while completely forgetting to mention the unprovoked attack against the women and the one-sided vandalism and violence that ensued. I guess one cannot blame the low ranked police officer – the criminal connections of these goons must be pervasive enough for him to be careful.

Thanks however to the impartial handling of the situation by Ajay, soon the goons were all identified. The lead actor was one Ravi Mallaya (38), a real estate honcho and owner of a small property off Brigade Road which he has converted into a "gaming" (you know what that means, don't you?) adda. The others identified are Mohan Basava (22) of Chamarajapet 12th Cross, R. Vijay Kumar Ramalingaraju (25) and Shivu Rajashekar (20). All are residents of 12th & 13th Cross in Vyalikaval. Their bravado and machismo were by that time evaporated. It was good to see their faces then.

Of course nothing much happened to them, nor did we expect it. They were supposed to be in lock up for at least the weekend till they were produced in court, but we understand that they were quickly released on (anticipatory?) bail. The car, purportedly belonging to an MLA, also does not figure in the FIR, apparently for reasons of "irrelevance to the case".The media also have given us fantastic coverage and support so far, strengthening the cause.

The goons meanwhile, as an after thought, also filed the customary reverse complaint on the morning after we filed our own complaint: the women have apparently scratched the car! (Why did they not file the complaint the same night, considering they came to the Police Station in the same car? Why was the car allowed to be taken off police custody? Why is the car still irrelevant to the case and not in the FIR? Questions.. questions..).

Is this the end of this saga? Probably not. Are these women, more precious to us as friends and wives than most things in our lives, safe to walk or drive down Brigade Road from now on or are the goonda elements, slighted by this arrest and disgrace, are lying in ambush, waiting, biding their time to cause some of us more grievous harm? We don't know. Is there reason for us to remain apprehensive of future attacks and victimization? Perhaps.

But here is the point.

We stood up.

We believed in the power of individual citizens even in the face of hooliganism, intolerance, corruption and power mongering. Even though many of us have the option of leveraging political or government connections, we deliberately chose to fight this battle as individuals. Sure, these connections have been activated and they have been kept informed, should the worst case scenario unfold tomorrow. But we have chosen to not leverage them. And in every small win we register as a group of individual outraged citizens of Bangalore and India, however insignificant these milestones may be in the larger scheme of things, there is one small notch adding up in favor of what is right, one small notch against what is wrong. And we believe that every such small notch counts, each such mark is absolutely invaluable.

It is the people who make this city, this country, this world. It is you and I, as much as the terrorists inside and outside. And in our small insignificant little ways, it is my responsibility and yours to not shirk from investing effort – not just lip service or any token attempt, but real effort – in backing up what we ourselves believe in. It is so easy to logically argue that everything is corrupt, nothing is worth it, there are so many risks involved. We must not fall trap to this escapist trend. We must not fail to try.

Next time you feel outraged, violated, abused, don't let it go by and add up to your list of litanies and complaints. Stand up and take it to the limit - at least your own limit. Not in the same way as they wrong you, but in the way that every citizen, at least in theory, is entitled to complain and protest. Do not let the hooligans power rant scare you or prompt you into submission. Do not allow the corrupt cop make you give up trying. Carry the flame forward. Try harder.

If are up to it, start right now.

Forward this note to everyone you want to be made aware of this. Post it in your own blogs. Talk about it amongst your circles. And if anyone of you should like to step forward with a word of empathy or advise, talk to me. Comment.

It is not Bangalore that is going to the dogs. It is us. We have far too long become accustomed to let everything go. And the more we let things go without any protest or fight, the dormant criminal and dark elements of the society get that much more encouraged. Every time we turn the other way, the hooligan next street gets incentivized to push the boundary a little further, provoke a little more, try something a little more atrocious. It is time for us to refuse to let this go on. We are responsible for making ourselves proud. Lets believe in ourselves. We can do this.

My name is Saugata Chatterjee. And I am standing up.I refuse to let Bangalore go to the hooligan slumdogs, even if some of them are pets of corrupt power millionaires.

tick tock

2009-01-08T21:53:00.002+05:30

It's that time of life again - when I go wondering, and wandering.
I wonder about him.
I want to wander towards him.
But first, he has to realise that I am there.
Now that, is a completely different concern altogether. I am just glad my brains don't really care of reality.

What's your status

2008-12-31T16:21:00.003+05:30

It's that one chance at stardom, no matter how brief
Different lines, words, feelings
It's so easy to read people, despite what they think

Wishes, regrets, hopes and complaints
In twenty words, give or take a few
Everyone's a poet here, without restrain

We ask after them, make a remark
And the heart fills with pride
After all, this is where camaraderie starts

It's a free world, we aren't paying, yet
People are allowed liberation
Such is the beauty of one line messages

love and want

2008-12-29T15:44:00.003+05:30

He could love you, but he won't.
You don't have the spark he wishes
Or the aloofness he desires.

He would love you, but he can't.

He wanted to love you, but he didn't.
You didn't cry out his name in love
You didn't blush at his touch

He tried to love you, but he wouldn't.

Rape of the dock

2008-11-27T15:56:00.003+05:30

They burned my favourite city. They shot people and threw hand grenades. They barged into some of my favourite haunts and tried to ruin it. In fact, they imposed such a large dent that it will take a while to heal - literally and otherwise.
People all over the city took to the streets - Bollywood, indutries etc. They protested, they raised their hands and said things about our neighbours. They held candle light vigils and prayed. Did they pray for peace or did they pray for the demolition of our enemies?
At the same time, our neighbours were put under tremendous pressure. The country wanted answers, the super power wanted answers. Everyone wanted the guilty to be admonished - and more.
Did we stop to think that the same country suffers too - at the hands of unseen forces? Of perhaps a government gone terribly wrong? Of attacks that they too cannot control? People die there as well - Do we ask?
The recession hit the market. People are losing jobs, prices are falling but not many have the money to spend. Perhaps they don't want to. And can we blame them?
The television channels have had their best moments ever. From the day it started till now, they've explored every possible angle terror can even raise. They've talked to the victims, friends of victims, politicians, diplomats, film actors, social activities, general public. They've run out of questions. Now they're broadcasting the confessions of the terrorist caught alive.
They'll run of those ideas soon as well.
Newspapers haven't done much less either. They've had attractive layouts - coloured with big bold headlines; some actually worth writing about.
Soon, they'll run of ideas as well.
Life will go on. People will continue to die. We will continue to threat and bomb, massacre and slaughter. And we will promise vengeance.
And life will go on. People will still be dying.

right. of course.

2008-11-01T03:02:00.002+05:30

damn. double damn. triple tippled damn. and in this estranged moment i am an inch closer to ending it all. and i dont care if my sentences dont begin with capital letters. i dont care if there is any sense in what i write or say. to him. ever.
but i love him. so thats that. and he is right there. right there. damn. double damn.
a few stolen moments and thats all i can ask for. i dont really care much about what the fuck to do with those moments. i dont want to be far. and i am. and he is looking. in the most strange way. and i love him. he grooves. he straggles. he drinks the way i'd like. my favourite alcoholic of a very brief moment. terse. everything is terse.
and transient.
fucking hell.
fucking hell.
fucking hell.
and thats the end of it all. bon nuit ma cherie. je suis ici. where else?

2008-08-30T18:35:00.002+05:30

I'd given him that name... and now the entire world calls him that. It's kind of always been that way. There was so very little exclusivity between us. And yet, I cannot even explain how much I miss him. I don't think he was ever faithful to me. At least, emotionally he was always elsewhere. It took me more than 3 years to realise why but even so...
Is it selfish, to want to be happy? I didn't really want much but something that could be based on a strong friendship. And what is friendship without trust?
sigh... too much in my head.

Build this city on rock 'n' roll!

2008-08-11T21:21:00.003+05:30

I have never attended a protest that was filled with so much positive energy. About 200 people got together and sang for their freedom... After all, whoever had heard that playing music and dancing was a crime? In Bangalore, it is.
It's difficult to go out these days - while I've never lived in a ghetto or in a Communist country, I think I know what victims of unnecessary policing undergo. Wrap up by 11 pm, go home by half past - it's curfew time! The incorrigible rule of banning DJs and dancing from our pubs and nightclubs has driven most professionals and music enthusiasts up against the wall.
Organised by a group of concerned Bangaloreans, the pavement in front of the Mahatma Gandhi statue on Sunday (August 10) at 2 pm came alive with musicians, DJs, dancers, restaurateurs, celebrities, models uniting to protest against this ban.
I had thought there was going to be this long speech on how the authorities need to change they way they look at 'modern' culture etc.. But there were none, people just sang, displayed banners and mingled with each other.
It was as colourful as any fete - and as serious as any convention can get.
I spoke to some of our DJs and celebs, trying to understand if something like this has ever worked and every will - and they all echoed the same words - give Bangalore its music back.
The media houses were present - and the support extended was quite commendable. Live TV coverage, prominent print articles ensured that their voices reached everyone and loud enough.
To read up on what the media says, go to
http://www.mid-day.com/news/2008/aug/110808dj-artists-musicians-protest-bangalore6.htm
Pic by: Vinod Kumar T

So very little

2008-08-01T01:04:00.004+05:30

No silly, nothing has changed. I still miss you
The momentary silence during a long distance conversation
Preventing words from making an entry, even though I'd like to
Random thoughts that can be shared without hesitation
Despite being afraid of being misunderstood
I know I am holding on to one vulnerable string
That will break at the ripest possible instance
And I die each day, thinking of that finale
And yet, hope for a new beginning in some other form
I cannot walk the same path again. The path exists no more
Yet to God I pray, to turn back time a little. Being selfish I know
But I would like nothing more right now, than to see your face as we talk.

Now I've heard it all!

2008-07-21T00:18:00.002+05:30

When people are pushing 40, have kids, a job they gave up because they wanted to spend more 'quality' time with their family, do they also lose interest in their own lives? I have often wondered about this - considering that many rumours become dishes while chopping that precious potato or twirling the wok that is steaming with a halwa that smells of 'shudh ghee' as soon as you enter the premise.
But the people in question aren't like that, at least as far as spending time in the kitchen is considered. They have fancy apartments because their husbands have somehow managed jobs with a enviable pay package (undeserving nonetheless) and they hold fancy parties where they bring out their best solitaire cut glasses that reflect the smooth golden scotch off the rims. They go out in their fancy cars, wearing rather hideous clothes they think are fashionable and don't realise that showing off a cleavage that lost its charm about ten years ago is no longer the trend.
These people of course have nothing else to do. So one day, a bunch of them decide to get together and cook up a story, probably over baked fish or a manicure. And they decide to talk about me. Yes, ME. I don't remember when was the last time I heard of anyone talking about me. Well I am sure they do and it cannot be all praise. But it's just that very rarely do people bring that back to me. Well this time, it came to me. Probably because I have a few friends who would stand up for me when required (and I never have to ask!) and probably because some people have never mastered the art of keeping their mouth shut even when they know no one wants to listen to them. No, age and maturity has nothing to do with it.
So as per the latest gossip, I am a lesbian. It's actually quite brilliant a story, because I have never stepped back from complimenting a woman who genuinely looks good and pretending to be a snob when a woman doesn't fit my bill of being appropriate enough for my company. Yes, a snob perhaps I am. A lesbian? Hmmm.. it's definitely something I'd like to give a second thought.
My husband had a fabulous suggestion. He said I should call up the source of this comment and tell her how my apartment is empty, I am lonely and that I'd definitely love some company.
But it doesn't end there. This person actually thought/assumed/hoped?/wished? that I hit on her!!! What she doesn't know is that even if I were a lesbian, I wouldn't hit on her. Who finds any woman who can't hold her drink attractive.
And then there was this other woman whom I have never heard of (but she seems to know of my sexual preferences rather well) who confirmed with much aplomb that the entire world (media et al) knows that I AM LESBIAN. Darn, is that why it's so difficult to pick up men these days?
So the third woman who should have figured out her life by now, chose to accept this piece of story and start talking about it.
I am very amused. I love the idea of women being able to establish a relationship with other women and lead normal lives and having the courage to put up with and more often ignore societal hypocrisies and continue to be happy. Sometimes, I even envy them and I do hope that in some life I can be born as a lesbian.
But in this life, I want people to mind their own business.
Oh, and that reminds me. I am also apparently very stagnant in my workplace and am desperately looking for a job - which was of course started by someone whom I'd asked if their magazine was looking for people and if they were paid well.
So, never be curious about other people's companies, work, life... Mind your business (Like I've learnt to) and ignore the fools. They have better company.

the blue door

2008-06-26T16:17:00.000+05:30

Meghna slammed the blue door and her father gave her one of those glares that she never forgot for the rest of her life. Cars have feelings – she chanted inside her head.
At the end of the corridor her five-year-old brother was playing with her colours. He had taken the reds and mixed them with the oranges and created a masterpiece on their mosaic floor. Ma would come and clean it up at some point of time.
She went to her room and stared at her new drapes – they were pink, fading to white with miniscule flowers printed on them. The massive rosewood secretary’s desk with a bottle green leather top was covered with her books. The desk was not hers though. Her grandfather left it and when he died, her room was the only one that had enough space for it. She had adopted it. Meghna went and sat on the chair and stared at Noddy staring back at her. Her tennis shoes were not dirty but she wanted someone to wash them. She liked squeaky-clean shoes; she liked the way the mirror in her room made her look like a super star and she surely like Pete Sampras who was covered with red kisses.
Her bedroom door had a gaping hole where the keyhole should have been. But Baba had taken it out because he didn’t want her to lock herself out.
And now 20 years later, she’d locked herself out.
In fact, no one even heard her.
Her bedroom didn’t exist anymore and neither did the blue car door – but she couldn’t get in. She was locked out – and forgotten.

In circles

2008-06-17T22:15:00.003+05:30

I really do hope there's no trouble. I tried to convince myself.
There's always trouble! He tried to convince no one in particular.

Chapter 1

She was sitting in front of me. I know she wanted to cry but she didn’t. She was trying to restrain herself from going on a confession rampage – but she didn’t really know how to stop. I had stopped listening three minutes in to her monologue.
He had rushed into my head – curses, fights, an occasional hug, rarer smiles flooded my brains.
I heard her words, but he was also talking to me. Words jumbled up and I had no where to go. I don’t remember anymore.
I don’t remember the first the day we'd met either. It was a long time ago – almost twelve years. I remember us being introduced, becoming friends, stealing glances, disagreeing, holding hands – the first time we’d kissed.
But there is so much more I don't remember. I wanted so desperately to cling on to the old sheets of memories, but there was none.
She wouldn’t shut up. She went on talking till it was time for me to leave. I hadn’t even had a shower. Darn, the girl would be waiting for me. I hate being late.
Then she left. She also left a letter in my hand. I’d read it after I got back I told myself.
Maybe it’s the age, but I have been forgetting things. That letter remained in my drawer for the next few weeks to come.
The next time I heard from her, she was getting married – to the man who wrote me that letter that still remained sealed in my drawer.

Chapter 2

I had to see him. I know it would result in nothing – but that crunching feeling wouldn’t go away. I had to see him.
There wasn’t much money left – so the train was the only option. When I reached, the house was covered with flowers. Tall garlands hung from the roof to the ground floor; it looked like a garden. The ugly stench of marigold invaded my nostrils as I walked up to the doo0r and rang the bell.
His sister – I hadn’t seen her in years. She’d changed; with a young boy by her side she opened the door. I don't think she can deal with shock very well because she stood before me for a definite five minutes before opening her mouth.
“You?”
He took sometime to come down – dressed like a true Bengali groom, I was a bit amused, seeing him like that – standing with the pleats of his dhoti in his hand.
But I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t read that letter, I told him. But I want to know how he knew.
She told me your name, he said. There aren’t too many people by your name around.
Where are you staying? He asked next. At home, I told him.
I had lied. I didn’t have enough money to go anywhere else. I’d have to go back to the railway station and spend the night there. My train back was in the morning itself.
I want you to be happy, I lied. At that precise moment I put a curse on him and marked it with a circle so there would be no escape.
But I couldn’t say anything else. I turned back and left. I didn’t even say goodbye.
I stood at the corner of his lane for a long time, wondering where to catch the bus from. I could call my mother and ask for her to pick me up, but the family hadn’t spoken to me in years.
And right now, I didn’t have much time. Memorising the images on my cards, I stood at the bus stop – it had begun to rain.

Chapter 3

My rooms needed a coat of paint. My job was not really going anywhere and I was sinking into an abyss that I could see but do nothing about. He was going to be here soon – I needed to clean up a bit of the mess on my table.
My phone rang. It was him. They were in London. He’d stolen my number from her telephone book. I was flattered. They were going to Egypt and then to a few more countries for a month; honeymoon for a month. I had none.
I was jealous but I wished him well, drawing a darker circle around the curse.
My door bell rang.
It was him.
I was with him for an hour. He wasn’t particularly open and that made things more interesting.
He stayed on – drank some coffee with me. He left, promising to keep in touch. They never did.

Chapter 4

I met my ex husband accidentally in a pub. He was with friends. I was alone. Not the best way to run into each other. He was smiling at a rather pretty girl next to him. Then he turned and spotted me. He was polite enough to come up and ask about me – he was always so well behaved.
I was already three drinks down and to be honest, it did take a while to register that face. Then I remembered how penniless I was and he was treating his friends to drinks.
He uttered a few more words and went back to his seat and that pretty girl. I continued looking at him for a while.
I drew another dark circle.

Chapter 5

My sister was getting married – one of her friends confirmed that was guised as a question on one of those networking sites.
I was supposed to be happy. Maybe I should have called her and congratulated her. But I didn’t know where to call and I didn’t know what ‘happy’ meant.
So I just swallowed - a lot of tears that almost choked me. My salary had come in for the month; surely I could afford a trip back home. So I packed a bag with a few decent clothes that wouldn’t give away my ‘fuck it all’ self, mustered a lot of courage and decided to fly this time. The last train journey had screwed my digestive system for a while.
The door was the same Prussian blue – brighter this time. I rang the bell and a strange feminine face opened the door.
My mother and the rest of the family were out – shopping. Could I come in? I asked. But she didn’t know me so I sat on the stairs till I heard my sister’s voice twirling up the staircase.
Didi!
My mother didn’t say a word. She kept looking at me for a while. I avoided her gaze.
Come in, she said. I declined the tempting offer. I was practicing resistance you see.
I opened my bag and took out a little box and gave it to my little sister.
It’s not much, I tried to justify. But I had gotten it made and I couldn’t afford anything more.
Don’t be silly didi, my sister said, sounding all grown up. She opened the box and saw the ring inside it. It was silver, had a little star on it – the Star of David.
I always thought I was Jewish at heart.
That was the last time I saw my family. I missed the wedding that I wasn’t invited to. My sister married her boyfriend I’d never met. My father never asked where I was.
And as I flew back a long tiring flight, I realised what the word ‘single’ really meant.
It meant that there is a lot of space around you and people may or may not want to occupy it. It meant that you’re free to do as you please and no one would ask. Ever.
That night, after I'd reached home, I drew a deep dark circle around myself. And then, I uttered a curse.

round and round

2008-06-01T21:55:00.002+05:30

You’d think, sometime towards the end, things will come full circle. But sometimes, it doesn’t work that way. Things go around you, not choosing to look at your face, simple because you are strong enough to deal with whatever that’s making things tough.
You’d think, finally, having loved for so long; god will show you the way to find out what to do next.
It’s been a while. Been a long while. I’ve suffered the pains of loneliness, frustration, secret annoyance, desperation and many other adjectives that I can think of – but now I think I’m just about ready to let go of it all.
Have you heard of a storm before calm?
It’s this insane little twitch that keeps collecting inside your head till you can’t control it anymore. At some unknown point in time, it will implode, leaving you renewed.
I wait.

my first song

2008-05-22T00:24:00.001+05:30

No body rescues you
You've just gotta find
A way back on your own
People will pass you by
You've just gotta smile and move on

I've walked the line
Seen many faces
And names that I dont even know
I've held tight, to whatever dignity's left
Even said good bye before I let go

Fire starter

2008-05-20T22:52:00.003+05:30

In one moment of my frozen insanity
You lit a fire, and waited
And as I looked up and saw a shadow
Waiting somewhere behind you

My mind had gone for a quick short stroll
It picked up these thoughts
On its way back from the wilderness
That it didn't recognise at all

I could say I'm tired, which I probably am
And stub your fire out
And just lie back in decrepit sorrow
Hoping that the pain will die a slow death

But as the ice melts, and my senses prevail
I see the shadow behind you again
You might as well walk off
Looks like I'm going to be this way for a while

well then

2008-04-29T22:20:00.002+05:30

It's one of those days
you know when sad songs touch your heart
it actually happened with a strange smile
an unknown face I wanted to explore
But then again my hands are tied
I am not allowed to wander
because you my friend have set the rules
that I am not allowed to break
so I simply wait for a storm
that will liberate me from this insanity
you call a relationship
so that I can go ahead in search of
that silly smile that had once touched my soul.

Drop by drop

2008-04-29T22:01:00.003+05:30

One drop.
Two drops.
Three drops, four.
Five drops.
Six drops.
Seven drops more.
Eight drops.
Nine drops.
Ten drops, eleven.
Twelve drops, thirteen drops.
Fourteen drops again.
Fifteen drops.
Sixteen drops.
Seventeen drops, eighteen.
Nineteen Drops.
Twenty drops.
Twenty one seen.

2008-04-28T23:25:00.003+05:30

Consolidating my thoughts is like trying to organise sheets of paper in a room tortured by a gust of wind. But I'm trying to do it.
Till then, here's to cryptic poems I know he'll never read.

Blind man's buff

2008-04-28T22:56:00.002+05:30

I can't make his see
That I'll walk the sands for him.
I'll travel strange places
Just for an address.
I can make evil disappear and drown
In his one momentary wink.
He doesn't see.
He won't know the pain behind the grin
That he thinks is so lovely.
He doesn't notice that a grin
Has its own tale that I don't want to tell.
But I want him to know anyway.
He doesn't see.

2008-04-28T22:50:00.005+05:30

If you're going to take my last breath,
Let it be when I'm with him.
Let it be in a lonely place,
Where there is no light,
And there's just us.
Let it be with the last wet kiss,
That is unknown to me,
And let there be no space between us.
The world can go to hell.
If I die tonight, let there be no difference,
Between love and hatred,
Let everything end with the last smile,
For that's how I'd like to go - in a moment.
Let everything end.

Once again

2008-04-15T00:09:00.002+05:30

I can't change things around.
I wish I could. But I cannot.
I can't go back to those days any more.
I wish I could. But I cannot.
So, don't say a word. Just sit here.
Don't touch me. I can't lose this moment.
I cannot imagine I am not with you in the first place
Let this not be a bitter reminder.
Can we be strangers? Can we be friends?
Can we be something that we were once not?
Yes, I love you - there is no shame in that.
But I can't go back to where we where.
Now, that is a shame.

I've slain all the demons

2008-03-29T23:37:00.002+05:30

I've slain all the demons inside your head
And let their blood drip dry on your porch
I've brought all the promises to your feet
And painstakingly snuffed out the eternal torch

And yet you laughed; in my face, that too
Tossing your proud head to the side
And spoke with such regretful condescension
That the earth was left split open, wide

Come back no more, you said to me vainly
Your perpetual slave of no good, that I was
My armour lay used and sword useless
It was a dark and stormy noon, 'twas

I did walk away, not a word was said
After such a long battle I was weary
Where does one like me find words to craft?
Except in love, war or apology

But there were no explanations
That I could possibly think of offering
That would mollify your crooked soul
So I just turned; no goodbyes even, in the leaving

So close

2008-03-18T09:07:00.003+05:30

The closest I've come to kissing him is sharing a cigarette
I've perhaps touched his hair for a brief moment to share the intimacy
That was there, only fleetingly, perhaps mostly in my head
As I hoped that night wouldn't end as we drove towards my home

It's been a while, since I wrote anything on him Or thought of him
I simply can't afford the strain that he causes in my brain
But it's not easy, staying away for too long, even though I try
I just wish I could say something, anything to give myself up

So as the wine filled up our evening, with a slight hint of red
I didn't recognise the words that came out my lips
This is not me. This is not me. I am not here, I shouted
But he didn't hear me. He wasn't listening. He was elsewhere

Hide and seek

2008-01-30T09:06:00.000+05:30

The long winding road didn't have an end. At least from where I was standing, I couldn't see anything. But there was silence. Absolute silence as I heard him run from a distance towards me. I was armed - with a folding knife that was more fatal than it looked. I was waiting for him to catch up. Streaks of blue and green lights passed by me as I looked up in curiosity. He caught up with me and we started running together. Was that a forest on our right? Could we disappear right into it? Good idea, he said. And as he jumped a few feet and ran straight into the darkness of the forest, the trees started clearing up. We can't hide here, he said. It's all a set up. No No. They're on to us, I screamed.
We ran as fast as we could, sometimes floating a few feet off the ground. And soon there were no more trees left to shelter us. The forest had disappeared.
It was before I could come up with another plan, he had spotted a small town, a few metres ahead. We ran towards it to find a place to hide.
They won't see this place, there are simply too many people here. he advised. I nodded in consent.
The first house was covered with green twines - it looked so lovely that at any other given time, I'd have offered the owner a price for it. But right now, we needed to hide.
I knocked on the door slightly, in my head it sounded like pounding. A frail old woman opened the door and pulled us in.
Why are you here? This is the wrong way. You should have taken the left instead of the right. And now the forest is gone, they will find us and you.
But there was nothing on the right, just a steep cliff.
Oh but you see, you could've climbed.
He could hear the running of a lot of feet - covered in boots that can smash a finger or two.
We need to hide, he whispered.
Come this way, said the old lady. She took us to a room and told us to jump into a well, covered with moss. Here? I asked. We could drown. Just go she said.
The two of us had no choice but to trust her. So we jumped. The long well swallowed us and soon we were plummeting through another opening and crashed into the side of an unknown street.
Looks like we're safe, he said. Then he took out his small dagger that gleamed at the hilt with all the stones that he'd found at another expedition. He turned towards me and said, it's been a really long journey. You must be tired.
But before I could say a word, he stabbed me. Right through the heart. I had a rerun of the entire episode in my head that went by in a flash - streaking lights, sounds of running feet, a long and winding road.
Where are you sending me, I asked him. You should have waited.
NO. This is where the road ends, at least for you, he said and ran off.

Distance

2008-01-30T08:53:00.000+05:30

He holds in his heart a fiery kiss.
One that reminds him of the rain,
A silhouette that had walked past him,
A smile that stayed incomplete.

And in some corner of the country,
Bits and pieces of a memory came alive,
She clasped her tired hands together
And rubbed the scars off her mind.

The phone has been dead for years,
An empty shell covered with dust
Remained on the side board as a thought
Of all the days that had gone by.

She picked up to those pieces with care
Making sure the sides don't hurt
Folded them in an old faded letter
And dumped them on the side of the street.

He waited; there was so much to be said
Time was waiting for him, in silence,
Yet nothing came from him, not even a whisper
He was waiting for her to speak.

What the...

2007-12-21T23:52:00.000+05:30

Cardinal rule of going out: ALWAYS read the prices on the menu.
I am going against all ground rules (mine!) by saying this but boy oh boy, I take back all my words and probably will go and pay my respects to all those people who wouldn't order before checking the right side of the menu.

For those who live in Bangalore, Legends of Rock is a favourite hangout of many. It's been around for a while, doesn't believe in the hip-hop shit that's being played lately. Anyway, this place also is rather affordable than most. So about seven of us happy souls went tripping there sometime back and had ourselves the merriest time.
We talked about many things - good and bad and continued drinking till they told us that they were closing down.
Then came the bill: I have never seen a bill like that. It was only 17 freaking thousand rupees.
That's when the thunder struck and we were all killed instantly.

Not true.
We paid. We checked the bill first and then paid.

We've promised never to pay a bill like that again. Either we fight for the rights we don't have or drink at home.

Replacement

2007-12-06T19:27:00.000+05:30

I saw the tea tree oil
trickling down the side of the bottle
Must be expensive, I thought
And yet, you shrugged it off

The shoe had lost it's crystals
The ones that lined the strap
It was expensive I know
And yet, you pouted in nonchalance

Your silks, jewels and make-up
Lay scattered in different places
A shawl carried a spot of blood too
I was convinced that you'd lost your mind

And while you stood, arms akimbo, brows together
I wondered if I could even clean this mess up
You just asked if people had heard anything
And then went back to all the thinking

I had to find the broom myself; and the mop
I folded your things and arranged them neatly
And without a single slur of thanks or gratitude
You just left the flat, never to return

There I was, sitting on your couch
My hands folded neatly on my lap
I waited till the police came and found me
Sitting next to your lover's corpse

Got a problem?

2007-11-17T22:26:00.000+05:30

It's not easy - playing an agony aunt. You have to be prepared almost any time of the day and have the answers ready. Saying, "I am not sure about what to say" doesn't go down very well with those who depend on you for the 'solution'.
I've played this role - for a long time too. I don't remember at which point it started but soon I was bearing secrets that were getting simply too much to handle. Maybe that is why I'm simply incapable of shedding all the extra weight; I mean where are all the secrets going to go?
A couple friend (at least they used to be friends) are going through a rather rough time. In fact, one of them is so rough that I'm surprised the other hasn't sued her for abuse. While I was privy to what was going on initially, circumstances found me an escape route and now I just sit back at nod gravely whenever I hear something from that department. Trust me, for once I am actually happy that I have NOTHING to do with them. An occasional hello at parties that are few and far between are fine by me.
Being friends is a difficult job - you cannot be separated from their problems because you are a part of their lives (if you're close friends that is) and whatever you/they do affects all those involved. Such is the troubles of having close friends.
For many years, I shied away from letting anyone too close. Recently, a young thing who is probably gearing up to make friends with me told me that I must have gone through too much pain as a child, facing betrayals and blah..blah..blah..
Well who hasn't had a few troubles in life? Mine are no exceptions but that hasn't made me Albert Camus' Outsider. I just don't feel like going through the whole circle of having to put up with different pains and then looking for ways to solve them because my 'friends' are simply too lazy or stupid.
I am glad I did that - because now, I have a few friends ( I can't count them on my fingers) whom I've very grateful for. I am glad I have them in my life and don't want to trade them for anything. They do come to me with their problems at time, but I don't feel burdened by them. We often laugh about it, talk about it and look for ways out together - which is absolutely the way I like it.
Sometimes, when I look back and think of all those people I'd truly cared for and how they chose to walk away from my life, I am glad they aren't there any more anyway. It used to be quite a bother - and in the fear of being totally 'friendless' I clung on to them when I would've given my soul to push them over the edge of a really tall building because all they did for the friendship was use my intelligence and pass it off as their own and in the process get on my nerves.
This of course, has passed! Amen.

Facebooking

2007-11-15T17:18:00.001+05:30

I am on facebook. Have been on it for a while. Do I enjoy it- well most certainly.
Do I like the fact that I enjoy it? I am not so sure anymore.
One thing - it's addictive. And therefore, it initiates a lot of argument. And that can be annoying.
Secondly, I don't want to get into a food fight, bite vampires and zombies and try to race a non existent car (when in reality I can't even drive). But I do it all. Why? Because I think I must. It's psychosomatic disorder that makes me believe that my life will be incomplete if I don't 'check in to' my facebook account at least twice a day.
If you've taken the trouble to land here and actually read this crap - then you have the liberty to think I'm crazy. Go ahead. No one can stop you.
But you don't know what it's like. I need to know if my vampire is safe, or if someone has crashed my car, or if the growing gift is growing or not.
I also need to know if my friends think I'm better looking than 'X' or if I'm likely to sell my soul for a donut. And of course, I need to know if my friends would rather hang out with me or the girl who I'm not particularly fond of.
So dear friends, life is full of responsibilities.
And before I go hang myself for being so completely inane - let me tell you one thing... Facebook is god's gift to mankind. Here, we can be nice to people we actually hate or be rude to strangers without giving a damn...
Est bien!

The Boy

2007-11-06T23:41:00.000+05:30

Many years ago, a time when there were no milestones
For me to record the things I remember in flashes
I met a boy. Rather accidentally I must say

It began with the letters we wrote to each other
Every now and then, on writing paper
Sealed in envelopes. Often coloured

The letters were like life's notes
That I regret losing. But they were cherished
And received with much love and affection

There came a time when I met that boy
Again, purely by chance. And perhaps providence
Had a little bit of a role to play as well

We connected. At least that's what I'd like to think
We didn't meet that often again. But continued writing
And now I realise, it was love

I haven't seen that boy in many many years
So much has changed since then, I'm even afraid
To face him, this way again

He lives in some other country. We see each other
Virtually and that too, so rarely that I can hardly breathe
When a slight hello appears on my screen

I miss that boy. Even though we can't be friends
The way I thought we were. A part of me continues
To regret losing him to the life that he chose

To be funny or not to be funny

2007-11-06T20:51:00.000+05:30

One of the most important things I have to learn is to take a joke as well as I can dish it out. I've been told (and that too on more than one occasion) that I have no capacity to laugh at myself. I am not so sure about it though. Being the brunt of a joke and a bad one at that doesn't tickle my funny bone - so I can't laugh.

Coming to the point, I haven't used a public phone in a really long time. And to be honest, I was rather tempted to use one when I saw it right before me.. probably because at that precise moment I had two shiny one rupee coins in my pocket. When you're smoking and idling away, bad things happen to a wicked brain like mine. Am I nasty? Maybe.
So I made that silly call. And played a silly prank on a colleague that I shouldn't even think of playing a prank on, mostly because I have no clue of her capacity to handle in case it got out. Which, of course it did.
Stretching a bad thing too far, I even borrowed a ten rupee note from my friend and exchanged it for more coins and prolonged a conversation that I could've simply cut short while it was good.
I wasn't alone in this... but then again, I was the one who made that call.
So she was upset - terribly upset. And I wasn't around when the thing fell apart. In a way, secretively, I am glad I came in later and apologised.
Many thoughts came to me. "It was just a joke." "Why can't she take a silly prank in her stride?" "C'mon, she can't be crying over something as inane as this!" and such.
As defiant as I may be, I can't deny the tinge of guilt that I felt.
I've been teased - many a times - and to be honest, I can only put up with so much. Being bullied is not something I am used to and sometimes, I do lose my cool and react quite strongly.
It's not about taking a joke well, it's about saying, "So far and no more."
How does one stand being taken for granted? Is that what I did to someone else? Darn!

2007-11-02T19:36:00.000+05:30

I am pretty okay with handling bad relationships. I think it comes with experience. Like they say - practice makes perfect?
But then there are some relationships, the ones that are neither here nor there that confuse me completely. And I'm bad with confusion. Earlier, I'd do something rather silly to get over that confusion; mostly indulge in rather flippant relationships to tide over the bad period. But now that I'm hitched... blah blah blah.. and that it should give me a sense of security and I should remain ever faithful.
I thought a good way to get rid of confusion (this time) is to get it out of my system.
I've been married almost five years. And no, contrary to what I declare most of the time, it doesn't feel like a lifetime - at least, not yet.
But I had a life before this. A life, which may not have much consequence to most people but it was a mix of the good and bad, like everyone else's. At least, everyone who's maybe normal. (Like me?)
I've had one really long relationship before that. It was, well, a little bizarre if I can put it that way. It brought me tremendous joy and I did experience sudden rushes of excitement and a more constant sense of happiness most of the time. But then it fell apart. Perhaps it was my fault, I am not entirely sure. Maybe both of us were to blame.

But I'm talking of a life before that. And one that ran in parallel.
A friend, (lover?) confidante, soul mate - someone who's been intrinsic to my life. Well, to be honest, I actually couldn't imagine that I would land up with anyone else. I have never cherished any relationship as much as I do this. In fact, I couldn't really cherish any other because of this one. In the end, well like all fairy tales I've imagined, this one didn't end up happily ever after.
There can be no happily ever after for us. Even if I were single.

He and I had made plans. Of a life together - without the slightest inclination of making it come true. Though deep inside my silly little head, I did want it all. But like they say, "you don't get everything you want."

To be honest, I didn't really want anything from him. And I still don't. In fact, i don't even want the friendship.
But what I also don't want is the way he treats the whole thing.
I don't like being treated as a trivial thing of the past. present. Or the future.
I don't like being told that I'm being 'unfair'.
I don't like being told that we can go back to being 'just friends' when we've crossed that fucking bridge like aeons ago.

I am not even expecting anything... then why the hell am I putting up with his nonchalance? And why the fuck does he take me for granted - after all these years. Or is it because it's been so many years?

I wonder...

never again

2007-11-02T16:55:00.000+05:30

Now it is possible to survive without love. You don't need it. One, it doesn't exist. If you're getting bad sex, you'll fall out of love in no time. So, it doesn't exist. Two, it's very pointless, because it really doesn't put food on the table.

So, it doesn't exist. Point made.

Bong ha ha

2007-08-29T17:36:00.000+05:30

I was reading this blog (www.thebangaloretorpedo.blogspot.com) today, thanks to my friend Sunayana, and thought it was rather hilarious. I think everyone should read it.
I came across this post on Bengalis, which I found to be the funniest I've read in a long time. And that brings to be the film The Bong Connection. Anjan Dutt tried real hard to get us bengalis to take a joke, to rise above our conceited selves and realise that we too, are as foolish as any other person from any other country or community.
There are at least few hundred million bengalis living in 'Bengal'uru.. They come here with the IT wave and settle down. They wear their Fabindia kurtas, drink scotch, talk sartre and tagore and eat 'machher jhol bhaat'. And they cuss like hell ( I won't say I haven't done it too). They talk about how Bangalore has no culture blah blah blah.
I don't like Bangalore as a city very much, but to be honest, it does surprise me every now and then in a rather pleasant way. I hate the auto rickshaws here, they cheat and they don't want to drive that goddamn thing most of the time. In Calcutta, we don't have an option, the auto guys ply like buses - fixed destination, fixed price.
I love that city, and that's because I was born there. I guess it would be true for any city I was born in. I love Mumbai too, I spent two of my best years in that place.
Why can I not fall in love with Bangalore? I have been here for four years and I still feel like a stranger at times. I sincerely wonder why!

Lies

2007-08-27T22:37:00.000+05:30

I often don't know what to say to him. What do you tell someone you've known forever and yet cannot get used to?
What do you tell someone you've loved deeply and then walked out?
What do you say to erase the past in the hope of a fresh start? A start that will never be the way it used to be. A compromised restart.
What can you possibly say when you have so much to say that words fail you?
When is a good time?
When he is asleep? or busy with work? Would a letter do the trick?
What could you possibly do when he's a million miles away from you and time has managed to draw so many lines between the two of you that you have no way of knowing how to get over it.
Would you forget everything and let the memory serve its purpose? Would you allow a sliver of hope enter your mind? What would you look for? A lover? A friend?

Lies work. They are brilliant pieces of stories woven together to create this fantastic epic - of how it wouldn't have worked anyway; that he is totally not the kind of person you should be with. And I've lived that lie... everyday till it didn't make a difference.
And now, after so many years, I've allowed the truth to fade away. Now what I want is him, in some form or the other. It doesn't matter anymore. It cannot. But I would be dishonest if I said it is easy.

rather interesting... or not.

2007-08-24T09:02:00.000+05:30

This is the latest comment on my blog and I think I will end this silly debate with this:

"Why am i still working here????Heard about bonded labour miss? Yep, corporate bonded labour in form of a bond signed at time of joining. Something which has a bottomline "leave us before 2 years and we take lacs; its a different story if u get fired though" And yeah miss Ed, u still need to know the ways of tech-corporate world. Would suggest u to do an "inside story" on exploitation by companies like mine which claim to work on lines of TATA code of conduct but flout it openly and use it to their convinience. This I'd say wold be a real journo work.And please do forward this to the HR. Thanks!! "

Yes, I do know of bonded labour.. when you have friends who go with the IT wave, you cant help but witness many fall into the trap of signed bonds. Put it to my ignorance (since I am not as educated or qualified as most and no company really ever wants to hire me, forget the bond!) but are most companies like that? I mean aren't bonds presented to the employee when the accept the offer. Why do people sighn the bonds then?

Dear writer, I am not really that unaware about what goes on in the tech-corporate world.. I do have a few friends and they aren't all journalists you know..
I was with a so-called corporate company for a while before I decided to come back to journalism and I know what went on there. and trust me, there was no blog to even vent out my frustrations...

anyway, I'd really like to put this at rest.. cos i figured one thing out.. We could be arguing on this forum or on the other, no one will do a damn thing about anything because people don't care. And people won't care till someone did something about it without expecting someone else to do it.. When I couldn't change things in my last two companies, I walked out... I was broke but I walked out because I didn't want to be in a set up that took advantage of me... thankfully, i found a job i like.. or else it would've been rather weird..
anyway, I wish you luck. I really hope you don't have to be a bonded labour for long and find your true calling ( i know it sounds a little fuddy duddy!)

And btw, I didnt form opinion on what the TEL guys told me.. It was a feature article and not a journalistic piece. I just wrote what they told me.. if you come and tell me that you have fun at work, I don't know why I should'nt believe you - then, I'd have to mistrust everyone.. What a life that would be!

Fun extended

2007-08-22T22:14:00.000+05:30

Wow. First of all I must appreciate your writing/d... Wow. First of all I must appreciate your writing/debating skills to extend a matter to the extent of banning anything and everything. But then isn't that what you've been trained for?? :)

And it is understandable that a newpaper with a small subscriber base is bound to go with the highest bidder(read good money from Elxsi)

Something like in an auction; the novelty goes to the highest bidder.Rather than a journalistic work; it seems to be a marketing campaign with the bottomline of making money.Its seems more like "we pay u; u market us" still better "Pay us; we make you famous"Had it been a project with a journalistic approach; a passage about Elxsi could well be titled as "NO FUN ONLY WORK ???" This article clearly shows that u guys havent done ur home work well to take real inputs from employees; but rather from corporate communications guy(gal - gurmeet in the case) OR you people are all sold out to Elxsi(which seems to be the case)...But surely u ppl could have done up the fotoz better; they looked so staged.Best Regards,"Current" employee of TATA ElxsiName withheld as it could lead to I being fired tomorrow.

WOW! Double WOW! I never thought someone would take the trouble to read my blog... It's such a waste of time.. Anyway someone did.. And I am assuming it's someone who is kind of really mad that his newspaper doesn't come on time. Why don't people stop reading the papers if they are so annoyed with the print media? This I don't get. I can suggest at least one paper that's really good and that's the Hindu. Maybe this gentleman here should read that instead.

He also suggests that Elxsi paid Midday to get that feature done..I think he's a little confused between medianet and Midday. I know both start with 'M' but the similarity ends there.

I think I will forward this 'current employee's' mail to the lovely HR lady of Elxsi who told me that all the employees have a great time at work...

And no, I would hate it if you ever got fired... wouldn't want you to dabble with journalism, I say!

But my question is... why are you still working there if you're not having any fun at all?

Fun identified

2007-08-20T10:52:00.000+05:30

I often search for blogs to read and this is what I came across today - http://the100rabh.blogspot.com/2007/08/what-would-you-do-if-traditional.html.
It is, in a way, rather interesting because it discusses an article that I'd written for midday a week or so back. Well, it's more of a feature for our fun@work segment. This gentleman seems to be quite upset about what I'd written, claiming that all the FUN Tata Elxsi claims to be having is absolutely untrue. Of course, he didn't bother to take in to consideration that the information I got, could've just, by chance, have come from them. But that's alright, I am right now just amused that someone can feel so defeated by the fact that some people from his ex company had fun while he didn't! Maybe what Elxsi told me was made up too, but then again, isn't he out of the company already, why should he really care?
Yes, ladies, gentlemen and friends, don't read any news paper. Midday, TOI, Deccan, Hindu, HT, Telegraph, Business Standard or any other kind of paper for any kind of news. What's the point anyway? It's just a bunch of silly people trying to take you all for a ride isn't it. And it doesn't make you richer. It doesn't pay your rent. It doesn't put food on your table or make you look cooler in front of all the men and women you want to impress.
We're just out there to get you - to take you for a ride, because after much consideration we realised that we weren't pretty enough to be on screen, corrupt enough to be a politician or smart enough for any other profession...
How about submitting a petition to ban the media altogether? television lies, print lies, the internet lies, companies lie... I think the only people who don't lie to us are our friends - oh hang on a minute, they lie too.. cos sometimes, and only sometimes, we get on their nerves as well and they don't want to see our faces and the truth doesn't help then.
So technically, everyone and everything should be banned. That would be the ideal life, wouldn't it?
I think I wll go and fill ink now.

El laberinto del fauno (Pan's Labyrinth)

2007-08-20T10:05:00.000+05:30

What do I look for in a fantasy? Something so removed from reality that it just becomes real. An extension of my life, my brains. Barring one film, I've never really seen anything that qualifies for that kind of fantasy. Guillermo del Torro's Pan's Labyrinth or El labertino del fauno is a film that can put many fantasy films to sleep.
Forget Harry Potter or any other bizarre unrealistic fantasy stories that's been woven - this film captures the very essence of real meeting unreal.
Set during the post civil war in Spain in 1944, when the rebels were still fighting the fascist troops, Ofelia travels with her pregnant and sick mother Carmen to the country to meet her step father Captain Vidal for the first time.
If you remember Amon Goethe (played by Ralph Fiennes) in Schindler's List, you'd find a terrible similarity between the two characters.
Incapable of any human feelings, Captain Vidal's whole agenda is to clear his area of any rebels and establish the fascist government.
Unable to tolerate the misgivings of this cruel man, Ofelia disappears, into a world of her won, far away from her current life.
She meets a fairy who leads her to a fawn, who tells her that Ofelia was a princess reborn and she must perform three tests to prove her royalty and only then, she can come back to her kingdom where her real father and mother are waiting for her. Ofelia accepts these tasks, and in the midst of war, torture from her step father, death of her mother, she sets out to find her port key from a world that she can't deal with.
Flowing mellifluously between the two scenarios, the beauty of the whole film is that we never know whether it was Ofelia's dream or reality.
Pan's labyrinth is not for children - but for those adults who need to find their world, that is far away from the unbelievable traffic and chase for wealth.

One night at a party

2007-07-07T09:42:00.000+05:30

There used to be a time when walking into a few of my favourite nightclubs in Bombay gave me a head rush. I would never be able to control my feet and went straight for the dance floor. It's been a while since something like that happened. And while I still love dancing, the music scene has changed quite a bit and I still continue to like the old favourites.
I'm not much into hip hop or the electro variety and still prefer the old classics, swing and perhaps trance.

Moving to Bangalore had put the nightclub bug in me to sleep. I preferred going to a pub where there was good music and catching up with friends. But sometimes, and only sometimes, I'd miss those crazy nights in Bombay when I've danced alone with a friend watching over me.

Last night, I was at Athena, checking out the party scene as part of my job. And while my friends and I sat on a rather uncomfortable couch with beer, I watched Bangaloreans party like there's no tomorrow.

It's beautiful how people come together under one roof for a night - some known faces, mostly unknown, sharing those few specific hours together as strangers.
Lovers. Friends. Acquaintances. Just for one night.
The next morning is another day, with a new sun that fades away the previous night and most of its memories.

Angela

2007-06-05T09:45:00.001+05:30

There you go Angela
Your ashes lie deep
Within the silence
Of the earth’s womb
That has seen many births and many deaths

--- In memory of Angela McCourt of Angela's Ashes

My blood tells a different tale

2007-05-29T09:31:00.000+05:30

My blood tells a different tale
It knows no face, no words, no space
It flows free, without commitment
To the dungeons and back

My soul walks a different line
It doesn't understand variations
Just its own course
That could begin and end anywhere

My mind has its own language
It doesn't care for what you speak
It mimes, it sings as it likes
Calls it freedom; as I know it

Pop

2007-05-27T00:28:00.000+05:30

Hey. Listen
Just for a little while
Be quiet, and just listen

I don’t need an opinion
No solutions
No help either

All I ask of you
Is silence
And a patient hearing

I am going to speak now
Don’t judge
I beg of you

Don’t tell me anything
What is right or what is not
Just listen if you can

I died today
Slowly but surely
I heard a little pop

That felt like a blast
Inside my head
I am sure I died

It’s a funny feeling
Floating in silence
Around the world

Can u hear me?
My words in your ears
Or are you still talking

Fuck. Things never change
Do they?

Anuja Gupta - When home's no longer a haven

2007-05-25T13:49:00.001+05:30

Finding comfort when the home is the last place you feel safe in

read more | digg story

In your memory

2007-05-22T22:48:00.000+05:30

One flower
That meant nothing beyond that moment
A flower I don’t even like
Still lies all dried up in my drawer

Any other given time
I’d think it to be corny
Silly to be precise
This time I don’t.

I stand on the balcony
Watching people go by
Incomplete souls with
Their hearts lying elsewhere

Lives for them don’t change;
They’re just looking
For a small port key
To take them to that someplace else

Should I dare to be different?
I haven’t even troubled myself to answer that question
I just go by; like everyone else
Not seeing you works relatively well as a painkiller

There’s so much distance between us that
I cannot even fathom
Covering it in this generation
And after that, you’d just go further away

Your life, your love, your passions
Will take shape in different forms
And I will remain Just a speckle of
Memory that you could do without

I ache to reach out and touch your hair
Have done so many times
I want to put my arms around you
And hide away from everything known

Hold your hand like I have earlier
When I needed reassurance
You let me without reading between the lines
Yet I’ve let my heart break a million times from that touch

You’ve lied to me almost all the times
Even when lying was not required
And I’ve forgiven you
Like I will each time you smile and say goodbye

Redemption

2007-05-11T14:28:00.000+05:30

She hadn't taken anything from the house before leaving
There was nothing she could really take
Every precious thing was either stolen or destroyed
Eaten alive by reserved anger and repulsion
But she'd looked anyway.

A piece of paper that had no relevance
A faded old letter that had replaced the bible
In her heart a long time ago, when she was fifteen
A letter that'd given her what she needed - a soul.

The letter lay untouched under the wooden flap
Of her dresser that she hadn't seen in years
Like it had been protecting itself against war
Till she returned, one depressing day
To claim what she'd left behind as a mere pawn.

The trees had started to show signs of age
The leaves were tired and resigned, with
Red soil at their feet resting in peace
And the road seemed to go nowhere
Even though people drove up and down it.

Death had touched this little neighbourhood
Even though no one had died lately
A broken pavement that carried infinite footprints
Sure, it need needed urgent attention
And yet it was happy to remain so and unnoticed.

And as she shut the door of the dilapidated house behind her
She turned back to take that one final look
That concealed more than dreams and memories
Of a childhood she would gladly trade
For a night of sleepless dreams.

A splash of good with a pinch of pain

2007-05-04T12:46:00.000+05:30

Her wedding card read, “The beaches of Pondicherry probably have magic and that was where we met…”
Didn’t I know that?
The endless sea bound by brick walls may not be my perfect idea of taking pleasure in nature but that small ‘white’ town definitely made me feel at home. Small shops, tons of places to eat and lots of walking space made it just the thing for a quick getaway. The cookie being my friend’s wedding.
Deep down I don’t know if I like it when the philosophical side of me resurfaces and attempts at a lecture. Trust me; most of those times are depressing!
However the magical sea bound by walls of Pondicherry carries a freshness that I can only absorb deep within my city-rotten cells. I fall in love, I ponder, I even introspect.

I didn’t sit on the beach this time at all – spending a lot of time in the comforts of my air-conditioned room, sleeping off all the wear and tear. Life hasn’t been very generous with me this month and all I could do repair my senses that were slight bruised by it all.
After spending three nights of exuberance and respite it was time for us to head back to Bangalore.
I can’t describe the heat. It was hot everywhere. Behind trees, in shade, in the car… and two thoughts developed – reach quick or return quicker.

Well somewhere down that thought road, I had dozed off and when I woke up – I was dead. Well, at least I thought I was dead.
Our car couldn’t withhold the heat and the front left tyre had exploded and run into a wall.
The seat belts were on so we were safe minus a few minor bruises that will take a while to heal.

But a few things occurred to me in that few seconds. No more taking life for granted.
French lessons have to happen; more poetry has to be written, more films, more food.

We got back to Bangalore almost 10 after the accident; happy to be on this planet and happy to be able to walk with my feet on the ground.

Mine

2007-04-25T13:35:00.000+05:30
It was not as dramatic a moment as I’d have liked it to be. Just me alone in the room, smoking and watching the smoke trying to find a way of getting out.
The windows were shut you see.
But it happened anyway. A long lost question answered.
So I draw my travel chart inside my head; hills, forests, rivers and roads that pass through history and even the seas perhaps if I can make the time.

I see a life that is beyond all realities and is perhaps the only truth I know.
Some place where I don’t have to justify myself for wandering around, where I can walk on the honey dewed grass and cry if need be.
I reject all mediocrity unless it’s in nature.
I reject all religion unless it’ in verse.
I reject the mundane.
Your need.
Your truth.
Your reality.
Your world.

What exists is mine. I own it. I live it. Here, I am god.

From one stranger to another

2007-03-27T12:41:00.000+05:30
In a very dark corner of my heart, lay a small secret. Packed away quietly for it had no use. And yet, the value of that tiny secret was more than I could ever afford.

Perhaps I had judged too soon when I called him my friend; for I was surely his.
However, there was always this invisible wall that I so desperately wanted to break. I wanted to reach out and tell him that it would be fine. But he wouldn’t let me. He kept this distance that made me nothing less than uncomfortable.
And thus; he remained a shadow in my life. He came alive of course in my dreams.
We have shared some of the weirdest jokes in my head, secrets, gossip and pain – all at the same time.
He has opened up his soul and wept before me as I never judged him. To me he was always a hero; a man who could face life in whatever way required. He was someone who was not afraid to look up and stare the sun in his face.
And yet, he lied.
He lied to me. To his wife. To his girlfriend. To his parents. To his friends.
And I let him lie, not expecting truth even for a moment.
I think I was capable of handling his lies. And that’s why he came to me – even for a brief moment. Perhaps just to hear my voice. I don’t know why. But each phone call was like spending a lifetime with a friend.
Was he my soul mate? No. there was no way it could be.
And yet, from a stranger to another, we were bound together – by an unknown force that required no description.

And in that, lay my peace.

A little too far

2007-03-22T21:23:00.000+05:30
Today I walked a little further from my house. I passed the grey old building and saw the same old man sitting on the balcony armchair and smoking his pipe. I saw him crane his neck and take a peep at me. A usual event.
I passed the tree which bore fiery red flowers. I don't know the English name for it.
I, then came to the police station where some of the constables were hanging around and sharing a good laugh. Just the way we did outside college. And for no particular reason, tears welled up in my eyes.
So, I walked by faster so no one would see me.
And from a distance, I saw a familiar figure walking towards me. The pace was as slow as mine. And given that there are very few street lights on that road, a lot was left to hunch.
"Rashi!" I whispered loudly. Almost as if the figure heard my voice, it stopped at a distance and said, "Priyadarshini...."

Nothing more was said for at least another ten seconds; but it felt like hours.

"What are you doing in Bangalore?" she asked.
I live here now. Have been here for almost three years.
"Wow! I have been here for pretty much the same time. And to think we never met."
Yeah. Maybe it wasn't time.
Do you have time for a coffee?
Sure.

So we walked down to Brio - the coffee joint on the roof of Home Stop. It was a weird evening - sultry, unlike Bangalore. There were beads of sweat on both our foreheads and upper lip. It was then that I saw her face.
There were no dark circles on that flawed skin. In fact, it had cleared up quite a bit from the time I remember. She wore a cotton shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Kolhapuris gave away the tired feet.

Are you married? was her first question.
Yeah. I got married about four years back. Moved here soon after. Was in Chennai for about a year and then moved back. What about you?
No. Not married. Actually not married anymore. Was.

I wasn't surprised. People were getting divorced all the time. This was just one of those.

What happened?
Long story Priya. Maybe some other time.

Then she brightened up.
Tell me about you. Any kids?
Nah. Don't want them.
Cool. Working somewhere?
Nothing permanent. Here and there. I write for a living. Waiting for that big break.
Nice.

Silence.
10 seconds.
20.
40.
60.
80.

Maybe we should meet up for lunch or dinner one day. What do you think?
Sounds great. Where are you staying?
Victoria Layout. Rented an apartment.
What are you doing in Bangalore Rashi?
Oh! I teach in a special school. Have been there for almost eight years now.
Wow. That's pretty impressive. I had imagined you to go and become a professional tennis player or something.
Yeah, That would be the day.
The coffee is nice.
Yeah I come here a lot.
You do? Fish, so do I.
Then why didn't we meet before Priya?
Maybe it wasn't time.

Silence.
5 minutes.

Things change don't they? I never imagined you married.
Neither had I.
Is it good for you?
In more ways than not.
Nice. Am happy for you.
Rashi, don't you ever miss the school days? Where did you go away after you left school. I know you moved to Delhi. I even wrote you letters. There were no replies. I just thought you'd disappeared.
I am sorry about that. Was never into writing letters. But I got all of yours. I still have them in fact.
What?!? You do? Why?
I don't know. Back then, you were the only one who wanted to be my friend. Everyone else pretended.
Hmm....

Silence.

I think we should go now. It's getting late.
Come home sometime. We'll catch up.
Sure. Let's. I would love to talk about everything that you've been doing.. All the men in your life - all the broken hearts.
Right, of course!! (Laughter)

We paid for the coffee and left. Walking towards pretty much the same direction for a while we didn't share a single word till the road forked into two.

Good night then Priya. See you soon. It was awesome meeting you.
Tata dear. Hope to see you again - soon.

We parted. I started walking back home and as I approached the old grey house, the old grey man was still sitting on his chair. He craned his neck again and looked down at me. Then a feeble and yet stable hand came up and waved a solemn wave. I waved back - a miniature smile touching my mouth.

And as I got into the lift I realised that Rashi and I didn't exchange numbers. She would leave again. Like the last time.

You

2007-03-20T22:06:00.000+05:30
I miss you.
Not in a romantic way,
Or even sexual.

I just miss you.
Maybe it's your voice,
Or your touch.

Can't be too sure.
But you wouldn't care,
As you don't want to.

For you,
Life is a buffet
That you hate.

You see it all
Even want it maybe,
But won't eat.

I miss you.
Maybe love you.
Definitely hate you.