Random thoughts - literally

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

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!

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

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.