A Staccato Passage

the space between Pink and Black

2009-06-06T03:36:00.001+05:30

After applying my head on the issues of the beleaguered automobile sector ……

This, exactly is the problem: non-existence of creativity and rather staid opening lines…

I haven’t visited this bablesque world of mine since I joined the world of financial journalism. Not that I did not want to. What kept me away was the fear of realizing that my opening lines would read like a mundane news report, which hardly anyone reads, and most do not care about. Not that there wasn’t the urge to write about my otherwise undocumented life, but lack of suitable sentences and expression left me post-less.

I realized that my usage of ‘I’ is rampant and I’m uncomfortable with this realization, like I’m with many other.

So, what have we missed here…a few rants maybe, a lesser dose of cribbing perhaps and 500 words worth of random verbosity…*here again- I’m dangerously assuming that maybe…just may-be someone reads me*

Is there anything this post is getting at? No! this is just a reminder to myself that I have part to play in this side of the world too, a reminder that beyond the pink space of finance, there is this black space that connected me to I, that used to be my mouthpiece for my own ears, that needed no number crunching to arrive at a conclusion, but all it needed was honest splattering of mindless words.

Within 10 minutes, everything seems meaningless again…

Exploitation of space

2008-08-12T15:38:00.000+05:30

Write…delete….write again…thought breaks….look around, too many people looking back at me… “Stop giving me those raised-eyebrow-looks; I don’t want to justify, give me a little corner somewhere here, where I can be,” I mutter to myself.
These days I talk a lot of nonsense, also talk silently within, voice spoils the element of a violent drama, magnifying the horrors of disobeying words. “These words are such rascals,” says the ghost in one breathe. So this cult….’words’ I mean, becomes our liberty, our religion, our whim, our route to escape, a string of muse, a need to suit (very often.)
When I fall at their mercy, I feel complete, when they oblige me, I feel weak, when they turn away, I am lost, when they act like a miracle, I am caught in a doubt…Words, they are, as random as my rootless thoughts.

I am pretty miss useless today, been pretty much like this for few days. This jungle of humans is rather depressing, the Tarzans and Janes of this pseudo professional world never seize to play their silly games…tired of them all…I turn to the better rascals…in words I find my peace again.
----
To come to think of it, I wrote for the sake of writing, I rhyme like a kid learning the sound of a rhyme scheme, believing that I might just find the lost treasure…or did I ever lose it?

A knock unheard

2008-08-04T17:29:00.002+05:30

Write! I tell myself each day, through the day, at the end of the day. 'Words come back, this is your place, thoughts race up, the gun has been shot. But the half before the white line is empty and the mile after the line is long. Sigh!
So many images floating around, each wanting a word to frame it, but words are hiding away in a distant mountain, or perhaps hibernating, awaiting the spring, or they have lost their track, or the whole map itself, reaching a point of no return?
Slipping from one week to another, in four weeks life is capsuled to form one life running into years. Sometimes little choc chips get sprinkled on the plain vanilla white and the bland tongue experiences some delight, a little life, for a little time, little happiness will help you survive.

So the trinkets of joy left my space, what I thought can be my panacea doesn’t seem to work at all, its like a brand new car at the showroom with no fuel. I distract myself to the extent of creating illusions, and then I get bored, enough to push the earth off its loyal rusted axis.

Ole denims, faded t-shirts, worn out floaters, water-soaked leather bag, a gutter to cross, been a while standing at the edge with tentative conclusions.

I’ll wait for the right lines to strike me

When it rains, it pours

2008-07-07T13:00:00.001+05:30

Last two months have been nothing short of a roller coaster ride and a bumpy one. Changed jobs…switched to another industry after much speculation and deliberation and trust me am still confused and diffused about my stand.
First I spent most of my time dealing with the grief of leaving TOI, then adjusting to a new environment and work I so detested, then to a new industry where I’m on the other side of the fence, coping up with the newness of it all, and craving for work to kick start.
I’m the kind who is low on patience (very), want everything to happen now! And fast!
Restless soul that I am, it gets difficult not to drift.
It’s only been a week and I feel like running back to writing/journalism, only this time I’ve to stick around for a while and get thing straight once and for all, only this time I need to step out convinced of what I’m doing and why, only this time I don’t want to be hasty and impulsive.

Too many questions were asked…many I asked myself to the elusive I, but, it led to nothing but irritation…so here I am!

Things changed rapidly…friends moved to different towns and cities, all of them at a snap of a finger, I started being more with myself than I’d ever been. It gets lonely but too pre occupied to gauge what’s been happening. Let me make that fashionable statement – Moving with the flow, you see!

Do I feel out of place and yet in the spot? Yes, is all I can say and end.

Winding up...

2008-06-05T20:49:00.000+05:30

Its been a year and a half, long enough to keep me in one place, saw many colleagues/friends leave over this span and used to wonder when is my chance.

I remember the day when I first came to this place to give my editing test, was awestruck looking at THE TIMES OF INDIA, for the first time from inside, and yes I drooled over the interiors, the feel of PRESS permeated my being and I felt trifle nervous, thanks to my medicines I was too groggy to be overwhelmed by the enormity of the white elephant.

The test was ok, got the job, money was measly but like all beginners I was ionized to take life by its horns…worked hard, learnt that my English isn’t good enough, that my grammar was to the dogs, that writing wasn’t easy at all. The art team made my life easy, taught me Quark and made me tech savvy…those guys I respect from the bottom most pit of my heart…when I felt low, like a caring father Ashok sir was there, when I felt dull Sunderji pepped me up and yesh of course gave me Tamil lessons…when I felt groovy, Nandu sir shook a leg with me …and when I felt helpless…. my friends cushioned me and acted like sunshine in the gray air conditioned office.

This place saw me write better, grow my graph upwards, gave me my first Byline – Neha Rishi- and no pleasure is bigger and more fulfilling than seeing your story appear in print. Nothing more worth flaunting than this.

(And I had a break in my thought)

Am back to the same workstation from where I began my journey. Second floor couches, steps, weird places to find a corner and just sit (away from the editors eye) have seen a lot in my life change…this is where I saw the start of a relationship, and this is where I found solace when it ended….this is where I felt safe and almost complacent.

Endless goodbyes, a lump in my throat, I dislike farewells but today….I surrender my press card, the baggage of the past and move on to new places and people.

The white, green, yellow of the ceiling and the walls hold within it the most beautiful times I spent here.

Yes yes people I haven’t forgotten you’ll:
Anu my sunshine the tea/coffee will never taste as good as it did when we sat chatting on the couch. If it wasn’t for you I would have lost myself long back.
Preeti thanks for making it easy for me to stick to my stand each time I lacked the confidence.
Ramiya my cupcake, your belief in me gives me the faith that I can do it.

And you my dear Gem Paul lovingly Bob- I’ll miss being in Pinkyland during the boring edit meets…damn ill miss the senseless laughter we shared.

So on this note- this is Neha signing off and ready to take off
And with me goes- the best people I met, the good stories I did, and the fact that there is no learning better than the one where you get your hands dirtied in the mud.
Dharavi you’ll always remain my favourite area for reporting

2008-05-30T14:39:00.000+05:30

The queue at the ticket counter was long, missed the trains without regret…turned around and saw you moving….
Shadow it was, your shadow that was moving
Creepily it swept past me…the shadow so bright

2008-04-22T14:15:00.001+05:30

Roll out the imagination you loner on the street,
Stop wandering like a wastrel, romanticizing with stars and hoping to embrace the one that might fall
Stop taking those blind turns you fool, don't you know you might get run over without the sound of a horn
Stop gazing into emptiness; it won't take form of beautiful palaces
Stop looking behind at the footprints the rain has just washed away; they aren't going to appear again, a lost trail
Stop looking sideways, there isn't a soul like you around, either they are dead or too alive to be real
Stop waiting for the road to end, the route has a mind of its own, a plan undisclosed

Let that imagination take over the grim night, it will paint you rainbows and butterflies
With those green meadows and lotus ponds, hay colour sunshine and orange skies.
Roll out that dream, you loner on the street, night won’t last for too long and the day will be too busy for painting the canvas with surreal strokes….

Word-Power play

2008-04-10T15:43:00.002+05:30

Each time I think that The TOI has conquered all possible market segments, but of course after self-fragmenting the market, this oligopolistic firm surprises me in the most grotesque manner.

Received an email the other day-most official emails (read junk) are deleted unread, but this one caught my eye and you bet, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. TSM and TSJ are creating the buzz (guess only as spam mails). Times School of Marketing (TSM) and Times School of Journalism (TSJ) are here to create a new breed of space sellers and quote-unquote journalists. And guess where the lectures will be held- at our beloved football field sized canteen, where a room is allocated to teach tricks of the trade. How cool is that, they wouldn’t have to spend a rupee on faculty- you see all the resources are right here. And Voila! Future TOI staff at your service sir….

Ravi Deshpande, CCO, Contract Advertising, recently wrote this amazing copy (ad copy) for DNA titled – For Sale. Headlines, Editorial, and your Trust. No points for guessing- the copy is a direct hit at its competitor TOI. Not that DNA has truth its DNA but I shall not get into that right now. So yeah space is sold and so is news…now thanks to TSM & TSJ a student will learn this art- a unique art where you sell quotes, full stops, commas, and well the byline too might be sold. Pseudo journalism boss with a blend of advertising techniques- absolutely new wave I say. Sigh, another marketing gimmick, another money making strategy, another section of society fooled.

Awright Hindustan Times, DNA and Mid-Day…wakey wakey, new arena has opened up, more competition, more madness, whoa world is a busy place…oh so busy...thanks to the white elephant.

Merhav is saturnine

2008-04-09T11:51:00.003+05:30

Its been a while that I've been thinking…thinking of junk, of clearing the cluttered space, of letting in sunshine in abundance…but its only been in thought, and my actions have been rather spacey.
Some decisions were hard to make, some were never made, some are taking too long to arrive at, and time mocks away at me- yeah bad hour day and like they all say- this too shall pass.
Now I long to be 25- a younger me, once upon a time, long long ago, believed that the age 25 is when you become smart and all that added jazz of the M word- yes yes it is Maturity, earn an Everest sized pay packet after working passionately in your Dream job, set a career graph that moves only upwards (blah and more)…err basically be a 'superwoman.'
But here I'm, soon turning this glorious age and am re stating more for assertion sake that I’ve done nothing of the above mentioned.
At 21 the crossroads seemed a messy job, today it is a little exaggerated and minimally comprehended. At 21 the hope was 25, at 25 I hope for a sane 30, rather a stable 30.
Agreed I have taken radical steps so far, done things for 'sake' sakes, have a neat record of wrong decisions, and I’m at the spot again – I’ve to move out, I’ve to move on, a different profession perhaps, new people, new place, stayed here for too long (feel like a furniture already.)
Only a matter of time when the golden age at TOI will see its end. Till then I shall grapple with the issue of Writers Block and yes…hope to turn an ideal 25

2008-03-08T02:16:00.000+05:30

Where is the peg to the story!! gah!

Fools Day

2008-03-05T02:02:00.001+05:30

Twas the same day in the year gone by, all balmy and quiet.
It was the closest I got to Utopia, oh yes; it was the closest I got.
Under the yellow of that streetlight, fading the black you wore, dulling my green, stood we, for a brief moment though, it was a moment that has stayed with me-vivid and alive.
I must have smiled, you must have said those words- hey did we dip the paint brush in the palate of colours at all?
Twas a long walk around the circular park, twas a long talk- we ran parallel and we spoke together.
Twas a beautiful time, twas my fools’ day, I remember to this day…

The tiger eye on my ring is lost in time just like the beautiful days I’ve left behind.

On my mind

2008-02-26T18:20:00.004+05:30

Around four years ago I read this book- Memoirs of a Geisha. Sometime later watched Sayuri and the Chairman come alive on celluloid.
The book had left me wondering about the Geishas, survival, effort to stay beautiful, make art seem natural, their world and the war.
I watched the movie again, this time what I got out of it was- simplicity of sense of purpose. Chiyo’s encounter with the Chairman gave those vacant blue eyes on a perfect oriental face the ‘purpose,’ she thought she would never find. The purpose was to be a Geisha. Artist par excellence, who will take every step only to get her closer to the man; who on one insignificant afternoon gave her- few yens, an ice cream, and a world that was unseen. There goes Chiyo…running with smiles, how simple seems the sense of purpose….how innocent was that desire…no place for complications, just a plain intent…

That’s what it is- I’ve complicated my purpose, so much so that it seems like an illusion. The intent is so lost that the essence of it is fake, desires so many, that their achievability puts me in doubt. Like Chiyo, all I need is that simplicity, like Sayuri, all I need is that intent…

Contrapuntals...

2008-02-20T18:51:00.001+05:30

Sometimes a hazy vision makes me feel nice, at least it keeps me hopeful.

I often drift from states of utter hopelessness to absolute possibilities. Where on one hand I'm a dead poet and on the other I'm a lingering song.

One thing is forever- state of uncertainty.

I don’t really think that writing for newspapers and magazines is a creative job. But at the same time I don’t know of anything that comes close to creativity that I can try my hand at.

I’m crippled when I’m exceedingly happy, for, that’s when I fail to construct sentences.

I like Haruki Murakami, he writes about the universe that lives inside you.

When in doubt, doubt the doubt.

When I interview a market researcher I want to be a market researcher, when I interview an artist I want to be an artist, when I interview an achiever I want to be an achiever- I want to be all.

I’m a drifter. It took me while to sway to this point. Can I now have an engine to the sail? I need to drift faster.

The best way to be creative? My guess- Stop thinking!

2008-02-20T00:59:00.001+05:30

Pick of the day:
Bob Dylan's 'Dream.'

whats in a day?

2008-02-14T02:35:00.002+05:30

And the colour of the day is- Purple

And the mood of the day is- rush hour- usual chasing deadline stuff

And the look of the day is- misplaced, soberly rugged (not that am prim and proper otherwise, but today is an exception for no exceptional reason)

And the kill of the day is- beating time!

And the order of the day is- deal with ‘Suits’ baby- hunt for them, nail them down, ask questions, get answers, and call it a day with coffee maybe…

Sometimes I feel kicked about nothing…yayyaaayyyaayay!

Milestone

2008-02-11T15:08:00.000+05:30

Stood the Narrator, denied and defied- script was all wrong, with dialogues hanging midair without the support of two strokes.
The play failed to commence, actors took their positions, spot light was bleak, right on the narrator.
There were three parts, two joint, one discreet, together they formed a scene that was rustic and complete.
But, perfect was not the script, once the stage was set, the characters faced defeat.
Narrator stands in the corner now, space is empty, time is trying to fill the gaps somehow.
The ink on papyrus is smudged, small words seem large and distorted, there is no meaning to this, the script has gone all wrong…

There was a tissue paper, delicate, bearing the burden of cheap ink, there was a request on it 'Save it please.' It was safe then, now dissolved in salt water. The corner table was mine, the corner table is still mine... This is where it all started, last year, my only regret, it shouldn’t have ever happened.

2008-02-05T16:29:00.001+05:30

Think think, there is a verse hiding in there,
Blink blink the flash lights out
Tring tring rings the bell, in the head or a warning knell?
Fry fry the wild mushrooms in the rusted pan
Fly fly in steel objects
Blow blow into the pin holed balloon
Walk walk over squashed mosquitoes
Write write out of utter boredom…
Like this!

Besides writing random blah, my recent interests include- reading up on Wicca, trying to figure out, whatever happened to the Bombay flying school- hilarious actually and spotting pretense from reality…

A crack in the wall just spoke

2008-01-26T04:26:00.000+05:30

"Run, chase, break the line, the mirage is stolen, run for life
Seek, lose, re-capture, your ego and faith might be slaughtered

Dark arts of dark Gods, dark ways of cursed lords

You're incomplete, you break the circle of life, what for? To save the shame, to save your life

The if's are endless and but's far too many- you lost the context and gave a foul summary

Accidental meeting, abrupt ending- what rested in between performs below ranking

Don't ask me questions, I don't have the answers- who will fetch me peace if my say is killed in an untimely encounter.

Go live your life, go shine like a star, be a good son, brother and a true friend- if you can

The roles you will play will be lengthy and I hope you stay till the show will see its ending

The red curtains will fall, audience will exit, stage will bleed under your false pretenses

Go tread that road, its calling you, leave all bonds stranded and dying in the barbed wires

Go be happy now, now that the bad omen has been thrown out.

Leave, but leave your old self behind- build a new face that's promising and just fine

Somewhere at the end of your life-call me- I will write you a deserving eulogy "

This is no official business...

2008-01-17T16:39:00.000+05:30

Dear Mr. Anil Ambani,
I have been following your recent advertisement rather closely- ‘Power on, India on.’
It’s a visually appealing ad, so you don’t mind giving it a dekho, but it consumes a lot of air time, making it dreary and the music score, initially a ramble, slowly starts running in loops in your subconscious.
Now hitting the point- since the tall claim was advertised on every Reliance caller ringtone, commercials (TV & Radio) there has been three power cuts at my place. Three long powerless cut. Irony, I say.
Now, for petes sake Anil, why advertise and then let down your customers.

‘Advertisement hai power, Money hai power, Ambani hai power, inki power on, toh consumer gone…..’ (Inspired from your own jingle)

Nonetheless, I’m a hopeful Indian, so my mantra is Power on, India on, Hope on….

Yours fretfully,
M-Ward citizen.
-----
Dear Brihan Mumbai Municipal Cooperation (BMC),
There has been a public service notice pasted on the spit laden wall of the VT subway- its reads like this: WARNING- Spiting person will be fined, signed by the BMC authority.
Did I read it correctly? Spiting? I apologize but that’s hilarious. Trust me you’ve pasted this notice in the wrong place. It should be donning the second class women compartment of the local trains, a hefty fine you will collect, enough to make Mumbai- Shanghai. Those women are ferociously spiteful and rest is a din.

This brings me to critical remarks (haven’t I made them already?) anyway:
-The graphic used is not well thought of- a man spewing the most disgusting looking red, like it’s a man spewing a fountain and less like he is spitting.
-PR department of the BMC monarchy is as obsolete as their rusted brains- once in a while they come up with public notices, of this low stature, and preposterously erroneous. Spitting and Spiting- are two completely different things, my beloved BMCiets.
-The areas where these humorous, read useless posters are put up are obscure. Also some smart citizens have taken the trouble of correcting the error in the spelling.
-Since there is no mention of the fine to be charged and absence of a (I'm sure there isn’t one formed) squad assigned to actually keep a check on the abiding of the warning, spewing machines are at it without any fear.

Sincere request- appoint an outhouse PR agency, you might just get productive results.
Please stick to Marathi and Hindi; I’m sure our janta can read these if not English (which is also incorrect.) I read in the papers the other day that now you will convert all your official documents and messages in Marathi- smart move, I say!

But for the sake entertainment and passing a critique, I really don’t mind such faux pas.
Thank you BMC, you’ve always amused me and this time too, you did not let me down…
Cheers to the laughter that you evoke in the life of Bombayiets.

Yours without fail,
Fighter against spitters.

Do I love authority bashing?....

*The other day I was retuning in a rickshaw and the driver when he wasn’t acting like Michael Schumacher was painting the roads red. I strongly detest this act and like always, I couldn’t keep shut, and gave him an earful. To which he replied- "Madam yeh law drivers ke liye maaf hai." Besides being shocked at the response, I felt like giving him a good knock on his head and gagging his ever-spitting mouth. This is the attitude of the janta where people twist the warnings as per their convenience.*

Wish I could bash up these idiots too…

Tagging along a 'maybe'

2008-01-16T17:09:00.000+05:30

It was written somewhere, yes that place was known well, was it on sand or on the grain of thought? My memory has lapsed a little since then, you see, the colour was red or seemed to be.
I was going down the forbidden road, crossing forbidden boundaries, if I haven’t forgotten yet, the memoire of it was bulky.
There was a caricature, my guess is that, I know the people there, its pinned on the soft board that’s lying abandoned someplace.
I still hear the echo of some words; from past life, I assume, so concave that they create a vacuum.
Some words were written on paper, almost dissolved in time, incomplete sentences can be fallacious; they lie scattered on the floor of a planet called- purplehazebyzantium

Maybe it was a different time, and the clock has stopped ticking since then, the space has vanished, the feel is sucked out, the life there has become a myth.
The reality of truth sometimes makes it so unreal, that I’m still under the cloud of an illusion…

2008-01-16T13:32:00.000+05:30

After long the mood to work, I look upward at the ceiling and utter 'Finally the moment lacking lassitude.' I'm a little happy...'

2008-01-09T13:16:00.000+05:30

Words all around, swimming in my sleep, walking with me on the roads, I see them on my platter while I eat, they form a distorted image while I read, while I dream- colours are words, people are words, impressions are words….oh the entire dream is a big word. Phew! So many at one time, a battalion shooting bullets- most of them hit me, many I dodge (terribly brutal they’re, I say.) Now, c’mon, I agree there is love for words I harbour, but this is an overkill.
Darn! Knock on the head-Eat-drink-sleep words and I don’t mind Coca-Cola while I'm on this word-bulous ride…

Taare Zamin Par- This one is special

2008-01-02T15:19:00.003+05:30

Here is a movie that has framework, a script, and bearable degree of emotions.
Most people I know, who do not shed a tear before the celluloid have slumped in their seats with wet eyes. (This acted as a disclaimer for a person like me who has over active tear glands.)

With barely any dialogues, the pint-sized Ishaan communicated the trauma he was living each day- where alphabets and numbers do not form his world, where colour and brush strokes are his haven, where the subtleties that we overlook are felt by him…that’s the beauty of his character, and that’s the character of the movie. It is amazing to see that the entire first half of the movie strikes an instant chord with the audience sans the presence of Aamir Khan. This is Ishaan’s story.

No you don’t feel pity for the kid, you wonder how a person feels being trapped in a voiceless world. You wonder about the helplessness one can feel when no one understands the world of vagaries you live in. The sun glittering over mucky water, the serene open space of endless sky and azure reflections in the water, peering into the gutter to catch tiny fishes and have a school of it instead of a pretty gold fish…these are the elements that made me connect with the essence of Taare Zamin Par.

The story is not just about Dyslexia. It’s about how the failure of understanding from the external environment, cause withering of potential. It’s about how A Messiah who understands what the lesser mortals ignore, it’s about you and me, who fall into a pit and see only gloom, until the messiah appears. Sometimes we all need a Ram Shankar Nikumbh.

The movie is full of winning points, but somewhere I felt it was stretched unnecessarily (just like the way I stretch my writing), the point was endorsed well but the hammering continued. Aamir did justice to the movie by playing the catalyst and not hogging the entire 70mm space. The music is in sync with the storyline and my pick is Kholo Kholo- awesome guitar and beautiful lyrics. The movie captures the sensitivities with measured proportions- director sahib’s OCD for perfection produced a marvelous product. Not often do you come across a film that has an impact on the bock office solely on the strength of its script.

Yes, I almost cried, did not sob, thanks to an irritating wannabe sitting to my right, constantly drumming and strumming in the air and on a verbal diarrheic trip with his friend- idiot killed my emotion…

In the end, I realized that long ago, when I was younger, I used to sketch, and was good at it…somewhere along the growing up deal, gave it up completely…after seeing the lovely strokes in the movie, am going back to white sheets and HB pencils…

PS: I will watch the movie again…only for Darsheel Safary.

Antithesis.

2008-01-01T17:11:00.000+05:30

That was 2007 for me, with its stark dichotomy, no grey areas but all black and white.

The white half of the year seemed promising-professionally as well as personally. Road blocks were many, dejections far too many, anxiety over every imaginable thing, but the larger purpose was served. Those six months saw miracles raining like eels in Kafka on the shore- for one, I got a shift to Features writing with Mumbai Mirror online, miracle it was, as TOI is stingy with inter departmental transfers. This came with new set of responsibilities, new challenges et al. Personal set up got a face lift. Met new people, interesting people, a meeting long due took place, and my life took that sharp turn at the bend, I thought this was for good.

The gains of the first half were overwhelming, miracle-like, scary hence, tad dizzy roller coaster ride. Comes my birthday, marking the half year beeper and the downfall begins.

Slowly fragmenting, mentally and emotionally, each day worse than the previous one, endless questions, undeserving assail, absolute rape of dignity and respect, no sparing from brutal whips of reality. Wish I'd received the blows in small doses, but like the adage goes' when it rains, it pours.'

Degradation was playing evil and realization was doing its part. I lost all that I gained in the first half (I still have my job, thankfully but wanted a sabbatical desperately.) But, the vigour to work did not last long, days were long, I took longer to meet deadlines, pushed myself to start the day with enthusiasm but it was unyielding. I was drugged, busted and had hit the rock bottom. Yes, I lost many bonds. The longest and strongest bond of my 24-year-old existence called it a day, another bond quit the way, ruthless and bestial exit it was. Paid a price more than I could afford, and tried hard to save whatever bit was left after the juggernaut had passed. I never thought that it would be so hard, but well when is it ever easy.

With an overdose of lesson-learning, digging deep for regaining strength was the way to go as faith/hope seemed Martian. I turned cynical. A lot followed and part by part I shed my old self to undergo metamorphosis. 'Freedom is when there is nothing left to lose.' So here I'm free from bonds I valued the most.

Besides all the drama, the year saw me spending maniacally on books. Found a new world in Murakami, Camus, Kafka, Salinger, Tom Robbins, Erica Jong. Saw more theatre plays, avoided most Bollywood junk. Alanis Morissette is still my favourite, so heard more of her, Anthony Bourdain, Ian Wright gave me reasons to still watch television, hogged on art exhibitions-met awesome painters/sculptors/photographers (one of them was really kinky), at the coaxing of my salsa partner, attended the Roger Waters concert, to say the least it was amazing, thanks to D’jango, got introduced to the rock circuit of Bombay, they are some bands.

Disposed off unwanted emails and pictures and false promises, to make space for new ones. Promised myself that next time I will make conscious decisions and give impulse some rest (I still maintain, caprice rules me.) Friends became family and family became my strength.

This year, all was exaggerated, right from emotions to observations. Festivals never seemed so colourful until this year. Elements of Summer, Winter, Monsoon could be tasted and not just felt. Realized that I need to move on, maybe away, from this city and my comfort zone.

End of a nightmarish year, I'm glad am still alive and standing tall and a better person, as opposed to some I know. When you hit the rock bottom, there is only one way to go and that's Upwards.

2008 is here with its share of trials, and I'm ready to take life by horns. So here's wishing myself a Happy New Year…

Few thoughts

2007-12-28T16:37:00.000+05:30

-The Amazon of Pakistan politics departs. Her only mistake- relentless effort to restore the D word ‘Democracy’ in Pak. Sometimes the price you pay is worth your life and more. Daughter of the East she was. I’m upset and agitated like most people around the globe. If you cannot defeat, you kill- rule of the jungle this game of democracy.

-Narendra Modi-son of Gujarat-is here again. I asked a lot Gujaratis their views on Modis thumping victory and they almost unanimously beamed with delight at his re election. Reasons being: this man brought electricity to all the villages of Gujarat, irrigation for Kutch, spread of literacy in the nook and cranny of this vast state, iron hand for beaureucratic tantrums, slashing redundant babus by half and expediting the work process, unlike the babudom that prevails and fosters in Mera Bharat Mahan et al. Close to enough reasons to call a state a progressive one, and yes with 37 per cent of India’s exports being contributed by Gujarat, certainly a progressive state, with an encouraging machinery. Cynics will keep labeling him a communist/extremist but look beyond- this man gave the common man of his state what he needs i.e. fulfilling the basic needs which in today’s time are by no means basic.

I won’t be surprised if the next IT capital is Gujarat, since Bangalore has a limping infrastructure, lack of space and needless to say- stronghold of the virus called babuism. Modi has left every door to invest and progress. This state can be a prototype for her co-states who might just learn a lesson or two if they aren’t too busy with their own agendas (communalism being an integral part of it.)

We are a united country but our development is highly fragmented. But, guess competition is an impetus for growth-how much we’re actually competing is a different thing.

Amazed: Modi after his win instead of taking the usual route to his office which is via Rupali (a Hindu dominated area) took the Chakla route (a muslim dominated patch.) I read this bit with raised eyebrows- wasn’t he afraid that a bullet from somewhere might just find him and kill his tenure then and there? Well, he was received on that route with muslims waving back at him with smiles all the way. Amazing! I say…

Carnival of Pride

2007-12-22T01:51:00.000+05:30

There it was, her Pride on the stand for sale…

Not takers save two- ironically the same ones who'd helped her stand where she stood today,

Both, self absorbed to realize that one had to commence the bargain, while Pride stood there- lone and sheen less, like a wet raven,

They gave her a long rather pitiful look, extending the wait with distance as the only constant,

With a guffaw, the duo decided to look through the aura of Pride moving not an inch to walk toward or away,

Time hung there for long, Pride was giving away to the restlessness of the nothingness coming its way, while the ignorant rulers, soaked themselves into each other like the purpose of sale was just a mockery, perhaps a bait.

Nay, the movement was but the stir of mud beneath our feet, Pride gave up the eternal wait, accepted her fate that there are no buyers after all, that the ones who put her up on that stand are the two, who never understood the meaning of Pride at all.

Pride stands alone, when all falls apart. She can never be for sale, no matter how many times the stand is set and the bargain is made.

2007-12-18T15:32:00.001+05:30

I am Isadora Zelda White…

This one is for Anu....

2007-12-12T13:22:00.000+05:30

"She is a poetry that follows with an elan of detachment
Look close and the distance is visible, unreachable and strolling in the labyrinth of her soul
You can see the air she caries, it’s full with the purple aura, a purple haze, a purple desire, a purple tale
Think not that she smiles green, her laughter is a red roar with a tinge of a child like dream
I wonder and wonder more, what is behind those blackberry eyes, ask her and she looks away or through you instead
The flounce is independent, thought seeks a companion, she mingles with time like the creature of present
Like smoke she rises, like dusk settles in, wears the hurry of morning and treads the solitude of the night
Touch her with care, no she wont break, but brittle is how poetry is.

Maybe a song, a verse, or a rhyme- what describes her well, is that she needs an expression sublime"

She will agree, I couldn't get more original than this...

The same ole rut for Taslima Nasreen

2007-12-03T15:10:00.000+05:30

The only connection M F Hussain, Salman Rushdie and Taslima Nasreen have is that of Fatwa. Reason being- they’ve been non-conformists, they have been the infamous iconoclastic lot who’ve faced the rash consequence of offending the ever-volatile- sensitivities of the masses and the spineless polity.

Its Nasreen yet again and this time I’m irked beyond the usual reaction of- why can’t she be left alone? Why can’t a writer for once express without the fear of being condemned? And why cant freedom of expression be absolute, especially when it tries to reform the archaic societal ways? This time I’m angered by the fact that she withdrew her stance, her very own word in her biography - Dwikhandita (Split in Two). Being a target of extreme fundamentalism, this woman has fought it through and continued writing without any pseudo undertones and mild remarks. But what happened to her on this occasion, is what has left me thinking. Is it the fear of never getting the entry to India, the land she has considered home for a while, or is it living in denial that the very place she thought was accommodating with respect to secularism, religion and above all humanity (the general outsiders perception of a tolerant India) has proved her wrong.

For someone like her, revoking the Indian passport should come easy, she has been living in exile for nearly five years now, but here is Taslima with battered ego, teary eyes and a soulful manuscript subject to censure and yes of course a welcome-back-to-incredible India.

India needs to give a serious edit check to her preamble; she needs to accept the fact that she is a sectarian old lady, limping on the crutches of democracy. If the so called pretty picture of constitutional rights was in place we would not have Taslima Nasreens and we would instead be a tolerant society not in words but in essence.

Tolerance is subjective, but how subjective is it in the national framework? Are we supposed to grow only in population and GDP numbers or grow as liberal minds that are allowed to think and act and not be threatened, scurrying around the globe to save their life?

The way we are still addressed as a ‘developing nation’ since donkeys years, we are an accommodating lot of tolerant Indians is a terrible false status that we have been carrying and will carry as we aren’t willing to give chance to voices that can make a difference, after all.

An aside: My opinion space barely reaches out to Rushdie and his flamboyant ways. Without doubt outspoken and blatant with his views on Islam, he hasn’t really hit the chord consistently and has been in limelight for lame reasons.

A note to myself

2007-12-02T02:25:00.000+05:30

Madness it was, with all its illogical panache and with a tropical twang of innocent love,
Those blackberry eyes, replicating the cosmos, had a galaxy afloat,
Those shy smiles, contradicting the tough exterior, were like pink sunsets,
The rhythmic flounce when she walked, gave out the secret that she was floored by her knight in rugged denims,
Ah! So dizzy in love, so free, filled with a sense of liberation, soaring high without feathers, but with wings of passion.

The crudeness in this madness is what makes it special- oh! The idiosyncrasies of first love, the thrills, the fantasies, the dreamy eyes, those impeccable future plans, the long roads that wind at perfect curves, those moments of solitude that leave you smiling…

All is pretty, all is pure, with promises and the works, the journey begins and time elapses,
We walk along, we start walking alone, until the day when the madness is rationalized and the crudeness is refined,
That day the charm is lost, like a dying fizz it fizzles out,
The itch of passion takes a hike, the romantic antics subside,
You grow up and treat love as a way of life and not the crazy road which is a rollercoaster ride.

Daddy- Sylvia Plath

2007-11-30T15:02:00.000+05:30

I’m obsessed with Sylvia plath, her poems that is. Its in your face, it has an aggressive undertone, and provocative. The guts with which she expresses herself makes the dormant self in you come alive. Her work is dark, touch of melancholy and the one where you see the reflection of yourself in almost every stanza.

Plath, Maya Angelou and on the prose front- Erica Jong, make a perfect read that connects me to I in the most obscure ways.

Here is ‘Daddy’ by Plath, one of her better known poems…

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.Daddy, I have had to kill you.You died before I had time--Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blueI n the waters off beautiful Nauset.I used to pray to recover you.Ach, du.In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common.My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two.So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root,I never could talk to you.The tongue stuck in my jaw.It stuck in a barb wire snare.Ich, ich, ich, ich,I could hardly speak.I thought every German was you.And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew.A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.I began to talk like a Jew.I think I may well be a Jew.The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true.With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.I have always been scared of you,With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue.Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through.Every woman adores a Fascist,The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.You stand at the blackboard, daddy,In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.And then I knew what to do.I made a model of you,A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw.And I said I do, I do.So daddy, I'm finally through.The black telephone's off at the root,The voices just can't worm through.If I've killed one man, I've killed two--The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year,Seven years, if you want to know.Daddy, you can lie back now.There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

(Pardon the lack of paraphrasing. Lazy to give a break...nonetheless, the content is in place.)

I've gone bad with headlines too...

2007-11-28T19:51:00.000+05:30

The piece was a disaster. How could I write so bad? When the sub editor started to edit the story, she gave the nastiest glance that said, “Woman what the hell were you thinking? This is trash!”

Writers block? Maybe…I'm not convinced though. I was genuinely bad. Ok I’m a feature person, and THIS one was a goddamn feature, then how could I do such a shoddy job of it? What is unforgivable is to write it in passive voice, sacrilegious I say. Have I forgotten how to write in active voice? Heck I need the bible of grammar…

Truly disappointed in myself. I’m observing that am getting worse with every article. Absolute liberal use of words that the word count shoots up shamelessly or the thought is so lame that the peg is lost, worse- the use of language is so mediocre that I feel like hiding in some corner. Darn!

And the sub goes slashing and rewriting that ultimately she lands up redoing the entire article, while I sit next to her, wondering how could I write this.

Excuses time: It was a sh-ooo-rt deadline, what do you expect, the story anyways did not have a solid peg, how am I supposed to make sense out of rubbish and more such lame explanations that fail to pacify.

The fact is, no matter how close your deadlines are, no matter how shitty your quotes are, no matter how spineless the story is, as a writer YOU’RE supposed to make sense and give it shape and make it coherent, most importantly use the language well to make it worth a read- error free and tight. I haven’t been able to follow this fact and go the loose way instead. Reached a point where MS Word puts me off and I no longer feel for what I write, its just a job for me that needs to meet its deadline, output, hence, is lousy. This was my bliss, to write, write well where the sub doesn’t have to waste time editing it. When was the last time I produced a clean copy? I’ve no faint recollection of it. Aarrgghhh!! I could kill myself for this.

There isn’t any point doing something half heartedly. I need perfection- only when I write that is. The string of words deserve that perfect treatment. Nah I haven’t done justice to my stories, to my language and it feels horrible to claim a byline for it, as, the effort is little mine and more of the sub who has to deal with garbage.

Personally I hate cleaning others puke (read pathetic articles) and here am, torturing my sub with puke and more. Now I’m a little apprehensive to write and have my doubts if this place is really for me. Here people write, that’s their job, here they make sense out of everything that’s nonsensical, that’s there job, here they write with a sense of purpose, that’s their nirvana…and here I’m struggling to start with the right words…

2007-11-28T17:00:00.000+05:30

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Says Sylvia Plath and I second her...

Acceptance

2007-11-26T15:55:00.000+05:30

Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable
-Franz Kafka

Acceptance stems out of the fact that this is it and that this is so. You have to take this road as there isn’t anywhere else to go. Bitter pill to swallow, yes certainly, but the one that has all the cures. A confession comes your way, with its share of harshness and brutality and all you do is fight it out, until you’re tired and worn out, then you float in the state of limbo, where you’re lost and confused, angry and spiteful, frustrated and helpless. Then comes a time, when you keep staring at the truth that’s hanging in front of you and decide that its about time you own it, no matter how piercing the pain is, no matter how unfair the deal is, you just have to embrace it and make it yours, for, this is the ultimate, unchangeable truth.
I lived in denial, I wallowed in self pity, I cursed my luck…but that’s been unyielding and melodramatic. For the one who will gain, will gain anyway, and your loss will remain just the way it has been.
So it’s only right to face it and hence accept it…

2007-11-21T15:29:00.000+05:30

Need a good read?

couldn't get better than this

http://www.geocities.com/diwakerr/whitenights.html

2007-11-21T14:37:00.001+05:30

I’ve nothing to write about..

Thought should write this

Winter has come home

2007-11-19T21:04:00.000+05:30

The winter chill has finally set in. For Bombay-iets this lil chill is enough to be termed as winter. You will spot tiny flames for bonfires burning under the flyovers (especially), at roadside corners, under some banyan tree. It’s a pretty sight when you’re returning late from work and lazily strolling home, to see the fog in the distance, (or is it pollution, hanging really low?), feel the slow chill zephyr brush pass you, every sound near or far is magnified and feels so close. Everything around has this winter-y feel to it, this feel is that of morning coziness, cool sunshine, warm evenings with pleasant sea breeze, garam coffee at the katta…

It doesn’t get very cold here, but I behave as though it’s about to snow and I will drown myself in jackets, sweaters, shawls, woolen socks and the works. I do this simply for kicks, its winter you see.

I love this season for its, cold and gray, warm and cozy, of pink skies and soft ashes, of Bombay when it cools down and is ready to be all Christmasy.

Perfect Notes

2007-11-19T14:27:00.000+05:30

I do not hold knowledge about music, least of all about western classical. Never gave an ear to Chopin, Schubert or Mozart (save in the movie Amadeus.)
Last evening I attended a concert at Tata Theatre, NCPA and treated my ears to Music for a change, that which wasn’t a din, that which was in tune and not some random tins crashing to form sound…

Kiki’s Violin teacher, a prominent figure in the circuit was leading the group and the performance was beyond words- soothing. I felt I was fleeting in the theatre, through the sober crowd (consisting mostly of elite old Parsis.) What made the music even more beautiful was the ambience, the grace, the quietness, the mellow lights of the theatre.
This was my first time, so it was a historic moment in my life (slight exaggeration there) to witness such a setup and for two hours forget that I live in the harsh reality and maddening crowd of Bombay.

Robin Green, a 21-year-old Conductor, Asiya, a 20 something Russian Painist, Freddy, a 50 odd Violinist, and the other starlets who were performing on the semi circular, red wood stage, made my evening the one to remember for a long time.

I left the theatre with Tchaikovsky playing my head, waves at Marine Drive seemed like surging notes and the evening was a perfect symphony.

Of haircuts and style…

2007-11-16T13:38:00.000+05:30

I’m impulsive, and once again I paid a price for it, only this time, my lustrous tresses had to bear the brunt.
I’m fond of Vinati’s hair styles and though Mad O What is this funky place with whack-iest hair dos, I like it for this very reason.
So the first time I got my l-oooo-ng hair chopped, it was a sassy style, very summery and bouncy and not too wild, in line with conventions.
Now when I return after four months, with hair that’s fairly long and still almost in shape, Vinati gets at it with some excitement.
“Umm we chop it here, we chop it there, oh we chop the volume off, the mop is out, we do the chop-chop.”
Since I trust her with my hair (honestly I do not care much, good or bad, I’ll carry it off with élan anyway) I sat down, facing the mirror with no expression at all. Then in a feeble voice I say, “ Vins I need a trim, that’s all." She looked rather dismayed and insisted that I be wild.
Sigh! So here I’m with an absolutely wild and funky and lord knows what not, sort of a hair do.

My take:
Its looks glamorous, just that it’s against my jhola-chappal-persona, and hey I quite dislike those fancy clips, damn what are they called- tick-tacks? They make you look like a school girl. And yeah, Vinanti, did give me a fancy yellow clip with a blue star, trying really hard to make me look cute and all. This is so against my personality!!

The way I carry it now- its looks rugged, like a runway model, in style with my style, that is. Its not th-aa-t bad, you see.

Oh yes, I feel nice and whacked, young and flouncy, I look at the mirror often (just to check if the hair isn’t misbehaving). Sometimes its good to be slightly different than your usual self, haircuts help you there.

Addendum:
I’m sure to go blind from the left eye now, a lil Lhasa puppy who has hair falling all on one eye.

2007-11-13T15:59:00.000+05:30

A house for Mr. Biswas...
Actually i prefer calling it...A home for Mr. Biswas!

Yayy! to that. Am all smiles and doing a tribal dance for you.
Home is where the heart is, true, very true.

Cheers dude. I'll stop here before a poetry flows out *sniff sniff* (Khushi ke aasoon)

A complete Nothing

2007-11-11T18:51:00.000+05:30

The structure is old, weather beaten, it’s all gray and blackish, must have had paint on it once and looked livable perhaps.
Once a high flying bright kite, now hangs entangled in the veins of this old man. Torn and the colour has given away to dust and harsh sunrays.
One stands still, other flutters tirelessly, wonder who is clinging to whom.
Delicately bonded, a contrast of colour and character, a shade of old and dying, one firm the other flying, yet together in the grime…

Ephemeral phrase

2007-11-09T20:11:00.000+05:30

Living an eternal wait, destination is somewhere
Awaiting my moment to wander off…away
Of stars and meadows, of woods and smell of earth
Within concrete confinements I dream of open spaces

Bright eyes. Wordless smile. Aging beauty.
Broken tracks, parched grounds, I walk along barbed wires

My aura is Purple
I live in the bubble of lucid dreams..

Expression or the absence of it

2007-11-09T03:50:00.000+05:30

Old e-mails…
Some of them bring back the forgotten smile.

This one is for you…
She and I, exchanged those words, today, it seems like it was a long while ago
She was as whimsical as I, as fleety and random as I, yet had the adage that would straightened my broken end
Of beer and coffee, of routine and freedom
Of silence and crowd, of poetry and prose
Sometimes we used alliteration, at times it was euphemism, pun it was never; we disliked the derived fun
Talking vacuities, we love Seth
Hyper, frivolous, frothy, fancy, all imaginations, in touch with reality.

The lines are not in flow, they can never be,
Thought is so incomplete that I fail to find a suitable full stop.
I often think about the lost charm and realize how much I miss those conversations, which were my bright spot in the day.
It’s not everyday that you find people like her, complex and deep
All good things come to an end, don’t they?
What you’re left with is, good ole emails, words that are real, talks that stay etched in memory, the colours are vivid still…

In conclusion, I couldn’t think of better lines than these
“If you had known…If I had known…ah well,
We played our cards so suavely, who could tell?
Ten years ago, so suavely, with such pain…
And, being wise, will do so once again.”
- Vikam Seth.

Thinking aloud...

2007-11-06T00:51:00.000+05:30

"Of mirror and glasses, of clay and marbles, the shape of the thought is a distorted angle, look close, you will see a face in the pieces of mirror, in the crack of the clay. This is where reality resides, in the crevices where sometimes grows moss and algae...thats how gross reality is at times..let it be and it will green with time...this is but, just about glasses and clay... " - Thus spake the Babel fish.
----
Oh yes, I complete a year in TOI today. Response editorial, though not the best place to be in, has so far proved to be a great escape, if anything.
The designers, artists, edit teams, ever changing marketing squad... all has been fun and yes, though not much, but I've learnt about an entirely different world here. Not to forget, QuarkExpress, I will get around that broadsheet making software, hopefully sometime soon.
TOI, VT main office, DN Road, has certainly been my comfortable second home...
Happy Anniversary to me!

The Absolute

2007-11-05T02:18:00.000+05:30

"I always want that, which I can never get
Like Antigone, I want all in absolutes
Settling down for mediocrity is my greatest fear
Believing in love was my greatest mistake
Life is beckoning in a feeble voice
I can partially hear it calling
Remember? I believe in only absolutes…
What I wanted is what I got, save, it wasn’t the absolute"

Road to randomness...

2007-11-02T19:10:00.000+05:30

And there are days, these days, they come often, when you want your space, no words and voice, no people, no noise.
I’ve nothing of substance to talk about, am all empty and topics have abandoned me for now.
Most is boring to me, meaningless small talks frustrate me.
What is it that stimulates my dull mind?
A change of place, or not to live life in a wasteful haste.
Forever there is a hurry, as though life is running out and I am unable to keep pace with it.

~~

Some solitude will probably help my case,
There is a need to breathe a lungful of fresh thoughts and provoking ideas
Oh I need a spot on Everest,
Contradiction is the language I speak, mind is a mix up and the concoction is a heady exaggeration
Yet, I long for that large space, where there is no need for words and mind will not play any games
Where I can construct a novel, or write a play, where poetry flows on a beautiful page
Romance with fantasies, be a whimsical bohemian stray

Purple is my colour, it seduces me to that road, less taken, almost forgotten….

Bad day? Nay...

2007-10-26T18:37:00.000+05:30

Oh scrap the fluff, dump it in trash
Today its all smiles and I wonder why the office is so glum
Yes of course it’s the whole jazz about the increment filth, where the people go fight and I fail to understand what’s the forsaken deal all about?
Does this increment decide your worth? Or does it push you to work better? Sniff better stories or please the boss a lil more maybe?
No, I do not understand this and I’m ignorant too, but today when I see almost everyone around me disgruntled to no end, a thought just crossed my mind- is that am not competitive enough, for, am not a part of this money-money bandwagon?
Yes, for people running their families this increment means a lot. For people like me, who write for pleasure and follow my pace, it means nothing but some random numbers separated by a single comma.
Sigh! Someday when I will be the woman of the house, I too shall sulk over this measly deal and succumb to the sea of gloomy faces. Though I earnestly hope not.

For now, it still Features for me, meeting new people and hearing their stories.
It’s a beautiful little world where my reward is a well done story.
Till I feel the pinch of the ‘other side’ I shall savour my bliss of staying out of the rut of ‘the rat race.’

And yes its Friday, should still be so glum?

And then the lines...

2007-10-26T14:48:00.000+05:30

It was a random conversation with a colleague. She was reading 'Fear of Flying. And I started devouring the prologue , when I came across the following lines...

"At the story’s end, the heroine is reborn in the waters of her bath- not because she has succumbed to an adventurous affair, but because she has survived it. Her bad-boy love-object has put her in touch with the adventurous part of herself. He has done her a favor really; broken her heart but opened her mind. And perhaps that is the reason that strong independent women have fallen in love with bad boys throughout history: the bad boy lover unlocks the rebel in self."

--This is for all the women out there who've been through the bad-boy experience. Strong and better aren't we?

Eventful Evening...of fun and guns

2007-10-25T16:22:00.001+05:30

The star event was that it was Kiks Happy wala Birthday but what added jazz, no I mean what Rocked it completely was the gig at Sports Bar. We missed Imaads performance but had a blast with ‘Something Relevant’ (Tanmay the lead singer is an absolute eye candy), and I was transferred to the space by the awesome bang and roar of ‘Dream out loud,’ Chandresh, the guitarist is a dynamite, he strummed the guitar with antics I have never seen before and boy! He was something. I’m his fan and yes I love the band too. Then came on the famous ‘Vaayu,’ need I say more…the lil smoky bar lit up and it was electric smoke all around…Floyd fans they’re…and the opening song was of course Another brick in the wall…followed by their OCs and perfect conclusion with Deep Purple…and I thoroughly enjoyed every bit of the gig.
Sitting on a couch, close to the performing space, perfect view, bad base though, best buddies all around, some smoke, best beer, made up for a fabulous evening and all cheers to kiks dear…

Now the next event of the evening, I rate this as the most exciting one.
In a lil tipsy state that I was in, D’jango and I strolled our way out of the bar with the rest of the gang far ahead. I see a mawali guy, pass me by with a pistol; he was rushing up to the bar. Startled as I was, I rushed to my friends and narrated what I saw. (Now I’ll cut the extra drama that followed of narrow glances, stern expressions, Neha you’ll be spanked-just shut up and lets go home…et al)

I marched towards the police van (you see sometimes the journo instincts in me wake up and I am all game for some action) and tell them about my discovery. Then D’jangs and I accompany the cops to the bar, identify the potential trouble maker and he gives me this really icy looks and storms out of the bar, runs like a maniac, the lousy cops behind him, security alarms going up, what a frenzy!
My beloved buddies don’t allow me to go any further and I am forced to return home and I wonder if the cops manage to out pace the guy and get hold of him…I hope they did...that would be a reward to my brave act, you see.

So with this fiasco, Kiki successfully turned 24, and I’d the time of my life…in the truest sense it was a rocking event.

PS: Mumbai Police needs to pay special attention toward its fitness and promptness, they’re way too self involved in star gazing while people roam around with comets in broad flashlights of starry nights…

Last word...at last

2007-10-24T18:02:00.000+05:30

The picture with a crack is set back in the rack
The closet is full of memories that are tainted and black
Ghosts of the past seem to last with their wings stretched, screaming, hovering over the ole shack
The spring was beautiful, warm and crisp, winter brought the chill, thus died the lark

It’s been a tiring walk along the road that runs long and far
O the road was a wrong route after all
The thing called realization strikes when the you reach the mid and there is no turning back, with no looking ahead, for the point of existence has turned sour

This is the last step, from here on the road is new and yes it glows
Liberated it feels, to have gotten off the beaten trail, the sin is not mine and the curse is all yours
I walk along thorns, for there are sunflowers awaiting, somewhere close
It’s finally the time to ring the funeral bells and offer my last respects to the dead
I thought I would read you the eulogy, I saved it so well that I lost it completely
So here I stand with just myself, to hand you out the last bit of my savings, take it down safely

I wasn’t this crude, but I got on the side of the world that was rude.

Flash of randomness

2007-10-18T16:56:00.000+05:30

Taking in with all that that it takes..Getting stickier by the day...I see myself struggling through each with a sober smile on my colourless face...
Is this what they call...being in a fight?

2007-10-11T01:54:00.000+05:30

And today after almost six months, I will sleep in peace, there is no more the fear to lose, for, all that I thought was mine was a mere farce, it was living someone else's mess...Tonight there is no quest for answers and reasons, its all in black and white...
Tonight I get my sleep back and soon my sanity too...
Tonight I hope will be a dreamless sleep.

Where Djangs and I wondered....why this movie?

2007-10-11T01:47:00.000+05:30

This is a story about the Greek Gods…
Once upon a time the Greek Gods were bored, so they created Humans,
But that did not suffice and they were still bored, so they created Love,
Then they created laughter, which would help them stay in it…

Addendum:

If Greek Gods created laughter then who was that brilliant lil God who created Tears?

D’jangs & I had an awesome evening and we saw this movie ‘Feast of Love.’ Just a random movie plan, just some random movie it was.
Nothing great to take away from it save the above lines with which the movie begins and the last line….Sometimes unexpected things come as a bonus…
Well so far for me unexpected things have rained like nukes, leaving a devastating effect…Maybe someday Unexpected things will come as a bonus….someday…And someday D'jango and I will strike a reasonable deal with movie selection...till then....thanks girl :)

2007-10-07T01:17:00.000+05:30

"How impersonal and cold are hotel rooms and corridors, how exaggerated are their lobbies, just the way sometimes the plain framed mirror reflects an image that’s impersonal, cold and exaggerated…"

2007-10-06T01:37:00.000+05:30

I hear a stir…ignore..hush O mind…its sleeping time…wandering soldier get a shut-eye now, its an uphill climb to someplace else tomorrow…sssh! Sleep must be on her way...

Dragonfly in the corner

2007-10-02T03:08:00.000+05:30

Under the harsh glow of white- the tube light it lies, the once buzzing with life- dragonfly.
Her wings no more agile, flutter in the air of the ceiling fan, dead and light.
The intricate design that, which looks like a mosaic waved with care, moves with a rhythm that’s reeking of despair.
In the illuminated corner is the corpse of the feeble one; casting only half a shadow, stirring nothing around save her own reflection.

She was alive a while ago, when like a shooting star, she shot into my room, vast open windows welcoming it, with the wind blowing not too far.
She circled my room, twice maybe, then suddenly, as though tired of the motion, dropped to sleep, choosing the cozy corner- I thought it was her luxury.
A dragonfly in my room died today…the fluttering called it a day, like time is a factor that doesn’t any more matter.

The four silent walls of this room see a lot that dies within its confines, sometimes its memories, sometimes its thoughts, sometimes its times, sometimes its hope, but today, it was just a dragonfly…

Perspectives and assumptions

2007-09-30T22:28:00.000+05:30

Not often do I understand the depth of perspectives,
Fathom a little, and I see I have the vision of one,
This I realized, the day you said that ‘I cannot live in your perspective.’
Assumptions can make a mess of a straight thought.

What if my vocabulary was limited and what if I had no words?

2007-09-27T01:42:00.000+05:30

Will my expressions fail me? Or then would I build expressions out of the little I have, but then would that make any sense at all, or enough for me perhaps?

What would I do if had no words to use? I reckon my entire being would be under arrest, for, feelings and emotions, thought and logic, need a medium. Would actions suffice the need then? Why the sweat over apt words and prim sentences with crisp ends?

Will the absence of words render my voice and mind paralyzed? Or will it make life blissful for its living in ignorance, a sense of no loss, in fact there is no clue to the meaning of loss- a fools garden with only lemon tress.

To think of it, what will I be if the substance that made me is sucked out, like words vanishing from my system, would leave me hollow and useless. The lexicon that I mentally hold and nurture is what gives my imagination its shape. How will I weave the tale if the beads are lost or misplaced?

My words, I think make me, for they bring to life what I randomly muse all through the day and night. If I had little or nothing of it, a tree or the sunshine, the tear and the smile, would mean nothing but a random jumble thrown out on whites.

Often I dispose them liberally, seldom understanding that like water they should be used judiciously.

At the end of it all, if I call anything mine, it’s the words that stay with me and grow with time.

With words non-existent, silence will prevail; Oh a little vocabulary is an option better to take.

But to call a spade a spade is too restrictive, a trifle boring maybe, synonyms are the best deal; well allegory and analogues would be a great deal too.

Can I have a large bowl full of words please? I’m voraciously hungry.

The not so sleepy nights

2007-09-27T01:06:00.000+05:30

It gets scary at night, with thoughts clamouring up in my head without a respite
I stare at the ceiling, eyes move along the motion of the fan, a look sideways with the door shut tight
Breathing consciously, every movement within is loud and clear
Silence is loud and fills the room with a feeling that’s unsettling
I coil up in my bed, think of moments when all was fine, when life was springtime
The glory doesn’t last long, so I shift the base to the present, where the radio is turned on
The tunes don’t soothe me either; the endless gab is discordant and makes me more restless
So I get back to reading, but ‘Kafka on the shore,’ is having an effect that’s boderline depressing- it’s a beautiful tale, bizarre and rare, but it has the tone that stirs the inner ghosts and all goes astray
Calling a friend, doesn’t help either, am at a loss for words and vocal expression, so I choose not to indulge in a dialogue that’s spacey
I wait, turning sides and angles, for dawn to set in; in the bright light there is hope and a glimmer of happiness
Time is at its pace, eyes are tired, mind is on a run, a mile per hour

All I need is to sleep like a baby, I’ve forgotten the mornings when I woke up fresh and early
All I need is to sleep for now, the days are not too long, and time is running out
All I need is a shot of sleep….

Not just a rainy day...

2007-09-26T14:58:00.000+05:30

Back to office after a lull, seems like an age since I obliged the familiar second home-like environ of my white elephant.
My editor says, “Look at you, there is so much of calm on your face. Eyes blank and swollen…err have you been on charas or sorts?”
Ahem…yeah sure. Drugged by medicines and boredom, does it qualify for ‘sorts’?
The point is I felt nice (for a change) returning to my turf with an Everest of work to attend to. Ah the routine feels refreshing today- run for the train, make it just on time, smile-smile at the security guards, pantry fellas, hey ho with colleagues and all the jazz just follows…

Oh this is hot news….The Indian team..you know the Twenty 20 champs, are here in Bombay, at Wankhede Stadium and the crowd is maddening, absolutely berserk, shouting, cheering for their hero’s while the team stood on a roofless BEST, waiving out at the junta. Crowd in such numbers is only seen during the visarjan time, especially when the Lalbaugcha Raja makes his way to Chowpathy for immersion. I wanted to be there too, to see the hero’s, scream and shout a little, though my voice is a little more than a croak, but heck who cares.
Wankhede is a sight to see, Bombay looks electrified and the lull that follows after Ganpati visarjan is non-existent, we’re an ionized lot filling the streets, Wankhede and the damp air is charged with pride, love for the nation, adulation for the winning blue. True, cricket is a religion in this country, and today Bombay is witnessing Gods live in action.
Oh the tricolour flags swaying high look brilliant, I haven’t seen so many flags even on the Independence Day.

Times and life of Nayha in the premises of TOI, times and life of Bombay- yay to this day!

Twenty 20...100 per cent winning streak!

2007-09-24T22:17:00.000+05:30

I’ve a sore throat for over a week now and was saving up the last ounce of my voice to cheer for India in today’s finals.
To see them dismiss South Africa and Australia was exceedingly unbelievable, but nonetheless true.

The hype and hoopla around Ind-Pak is irresistible and I skipped the Monday morning blues of going to office, instead stayed back to watch India win her way through. Felt like the hockey saga-Chak De! Being re-created, this time in real time and with real people. My vocal chords finally had a reason to work and for all its worth, I cheered.

The aggression that we lacked, was seen right where it should be, in actions, in play, in the eyes, in the field. We won! We win!

Yes, we were abysmal is our past performances, but this one made up for all the defeats. Champions are we? Champions we are…

True, cricket is no more the sport of the metros; it is made up of people with dreams in their eyes, hailing from unspoken corners of India. The Ranchi boy captained the team of such boys, who made it there with little to their support.

Young is good, Young is a winner, Young is India, Young is a happy blue- Team India!

Kudos to you guys…

In the company of the non-existent

2007-09-18T01:39:00.000+05:30

Do you hear my voice, it comes from your land, that which you’ve left behind,
It is home, it is the patch of land that made, altered you,
This is my voice, from someplace close to home,
Remember my voice?
It’s the same me calling,
Can you pick up my words, do you grasp the meaning?
If not words, respond in action instead,
Give me a sign that what is living in the far away land is alive and agile,

Look in my direction; do you see me waving a white scarf?
Or you see it blue instead?
Do you recognize me? It’s the same I from yesteryears, that was not too long ago,
I am the same, save a few wrinkles, do you appear the same too, the way I last saw you?
Are we still as incomplete as a phrase, or have you completed the sentence?
Do you still play the puzzles of time, numbers and space? I even today read fictionalized words of real men.
Do we still sail on the fate wave, or have you leaped to a lone tide?
We don’t play the same tune anymore, have you changed the song too?

In this part of the world, living through irregularities and vague existences, I wonder what your part of the world is like.

Nod you head or parcel me a smile, turn me a note if you can, send me a dove, or a line that you’re doing fine.

As fleeting as a careless thought

2007-09-17T15:51:00.000+05:30

Fairy tales are made along the crowded roads, busy alleys, on the library staircase, in between rush hours, over the footpath, around the parks, sometimes it blossoms in silence, under the lamppost, in the quiet of the dusk, interspersed in calm and stir of the night.
Fairy tales are weaved as time whiles away, oblivious to the fact that the sand in the hourglass might run out right away.
With lips locked, their fairy tale faded away, hushed in the mist of a mild winter day.
In the warm embrace of arms, the essence dissolved, until what was left of them was but a lightless lantern, smell of fire still alive, glowworms swimming over the mire.

Dreamy tales have real endings…
Maybe this is it, for real

To, someone misplaced in time, somewhere

2007-09-15T03:45:00.000+05:30

The story was left on a dotted line, and below was blank space lying…
Saw some colours, dull and bright, thought will mix them up just right,
To splash it all over,
Each drop falling out of line, reminded me of your thoughts that were never in conventional light, took me back to the times when conversations with you made my life a rhyme,
It was then I realized that just the form of you had changed,
And what remains is worth loving, remembering, savouring and deserving.

To this day, it brings a smile to me, of what you had expressed yesterday,
The clarity of your thought, the flight of your talk, the gravity of your voice; is vivid like history being enacted in a play.
So I painted the blank space, graffiti, of some words- yours and mine,
I see the pattern rise and shine,
And what is the feel of it?- its says that though you’re misplaced in time- there is me, who is always proud of your phase of grind,
You maybe nothing, you maybe something- you’re fighting it out is what I’m believing.
Wish I could find that place where you’re dwelling misplaced, only to whisper that I’m still looking up at the star, which will rise soon and this time there will be no delay.

What the mind thinketh the hands writeth

2007-09-12T18:43:00.000+05:30

I’ve been drifting along for quite sometime now. Every turn seemed/seems inviting and I thought/think that this is it; I can fence this bit and call it mine. Then somewhere along realized that there is a dream, lost perhaps or to be apt, it regressed with time. Randomly random-ing. I’ve nothing specific to write about, haven’t written in a while so filling the space.

Either my mind is a cluttered mess or it’s a plain blank sheet of white. I’m sort of tired of emotions now, overdose of it lately, borderline bored of it. And I’m without exaggeration fed up of the mad crowd of Bombay. People pushing, tossing, yelling, always in a hurry, no space and hyper pace of breathing, cacophony pervading every inch of open space. Sigh! I crave for some peace. Each time I travel in trains and buses or try walking the streets I feel the urge to scream ‘Oh shut up will you for a moment please, there is a dire need for handful of peace!’ But of course this just runs in my mind, there is one to listen to this whine.

Grown sick of this city, tired and busted, I need a sabbatical (though I’ve barely begun). Each morning I wake up with this thought: Empty the bank account, pack few clothes, and run away away away! To someplace, for something, maybe live life on ‘nothing.’

Sense of purpose, search for meaning, meaning of meaning, futility of existence, questioning the current act of languishing in the mire- all of this drifts me further down the pan. I close my eyes really tight and pray that that’s not true, I cannot afford to rundown so soon. Oh lord not so soon!

Ssh! I need peace of mind, piece of your mind will also do me good, I reckon, need the turbulence in my head to abate, calm my soul that’s been fluttering inside like a caged bird, ask myself to hush the relentless voice that says ‘ I want freedom.’

And out of nowhere- I ask- How difficult is it to stand up for someone, for yourself?

….Rest in peace, Amen!

Sipping silence

2007-09-04T16:06:00.000+05:30

This place is awfully quiet today, deafening silence, with no funky ring tones buzzing, no clamour over matter, no chasing the designers, no high pitch yelling of boss…sigh! It’s really quiet in here.
Why do I feel that it’s Friday already?
And I noticed that I have been writing the year as 2009! Haven’t applied for my business card, been close to a year now, and there is perennially a problem with my salary ac…

But the point is, I am sort of liking this silence, peace finally...doesn't that mean I should be working well?
I think I should, BETTER
Oh deadlines here I come...

Those were the days

2007-08-30T17:06:00.000+05:30

I miss:

Watching Giant Robert, He man, Wonder years
Reading the Mahabharata comic strips my grandad would buy me, long long ago
Numerous fights over the remote control- an integral thrill of living in a joint family
Being pampered by my-once-upon-a-time many family members
The bedtime tales appa would cook up especially for me
Those rare vacations to the native place, where nani ma and cousins were the flavours of Summer
Playing stapu in the veranda of N-29
Diligently working on my school home work, like its the most crucial thing of the day
Cycling for hours with my childhood friends and sporting gazillion band aids- mark of bravery it was.
Pillow and fist fights with my brothers (I always had a black eye)
Maggie eating sessions, where I preferred to finish last
Those frequent trips to Richa's large bungalows where we did nothing but fight and make up
Eagerly awaiting Diwali and Christmas vacations
Times when I sketched
Days when ache was a myth
Time when all we did was dream and stay alive
School library, nail painting sessions in the backbench, tiffin eating and Nancy drew reading sessions in the Math lecture
The pride with which I sang aloud the school anthem
Silly girlie talks over the break time coupled with aimless musing of what might lie ahead
Stealing glances at the blokes from the adjacent boys school
Last year of college when all dreams seemed true and ambitions seemed just perfect
Afternoons when I perched myself on the terrace water tank and counted the aeroplanes flying by, looking in the direction of the airport and saying- One day I'll be there!
Carefree childhood bliss

I miss a lot, I miss my life...

Mindless muse...

2007-08-29T18:37:00.000+05:30

I found myself an alternate profession, profession is a big word, pass time would be appropriate, but I stick to profession, sounds nice...

Besides being a blogging addict, I love writing testimonials for people and I also do a good job of it. Its a great feeling to make people read good and super human-ish.

I write testimonials and blog posts faster than I file my stories.
No one edits my blog posts and testimonials, while my articles are subjected to that torture.
Poeple read my blog and testimonials more than they read my articles.
...and unlike articles, blogs and testimonials do not need a peg or word limit.

I am literally drowned in work and yet I am writing this post.
There should be an arrangement where I get paid for every word I write on my blog and testimonials, just the way it happens in the writing industry...I can already dream of extra income(which will be more than my actual income) flowing in...Dream dream dream on....

2007-08-29T14:41:00.000+05:30

"Trying to explain progression to a poet.."
- this I say is random nothing, out of nowhere a colleague makes this statement to me, but I quite like it :)

Another random nothing for the day:
We get our TVP (some HR jargon this is). On receiving this I am supposed to rejoice as it is moolah given by the Co. BUT as usual this white elephant as been plain Unfair, no its been terribly U N F A I R!!!!
Wonder if they are blind or choose to oblige only those who are boss-suck-ups. For one, I cannot be that, I will not suck up, then you be the president of the co or the editor and the other thing is, I am going to fight out this one.
I detest people who talk sweet and stab your back, barbaric I say. I cannot stand people who claim to be more of a friend than a colleague and jack your case. I wish I could just sock his face!!

Yeah maybe its difficult for a poet to understand the corporate ways...

Bond v/s Thread

2007-08-28T18:29:00.000+05:30

*Horror face*
Today is Raksha Bandhan? Oh damn, it was my optional off today from work, damn, why did I not realise this yesterday!!!!

Oh so its Rakhi, hmm, I don’t believe in this tradition one bit, somehow it never held any significance for me but every year, amma would force me out of the bed and command the disinterested me to go through the ordeal of sitting in front of my disinterested bro, move the thaali with gazillion assortments clockwise along the circumference of his face, Tilak his forhead and feed him Kaju barfi. Phew! Amma are we done? Can I go back to sleep? Oh yes, bro, I love you and I shall take care of you, errm isn't is supposed to be the other way round, I mean that’s the significance of Raksha Bandhan right? Bro-protecting-sis?

With time, I stopped posting Rakhis to the many brothers I have and got a sour name in the family. Last two years, I stopped the act with my own bro, he has no issues at all, actually he doesn't care enough (Now that’s like my bhai), but amma is furious. Each year she purchases my share of the Rakhi’s and I fail to go through the ritual. Did the same today and she is fuming in anger, if she could whack me she would have done just that.

What matters is what my bro is to me. Rakhi or no Rakhi does not define anything. Traditions- most of them are not for me. And I know that our bond is above all of these. So, my dear kiddo, I wish you well, I might be a stern elder sister, but that’s just the way it is. You know I am your bank and also your daring partner sitting in the front seat of the car while you accelerate and swirl it through dangerous turns :)

For amma- I am sorry but please spare me the Rakhi!!

Of D’jango, Gig and Banana Bar

2007-08-28T16:12:00.000+05:30

The red light floated dimly across every nook and cranny of the modest space of Banana Bar. It was Sunday evening, and the environment at the bar was a heady concoction of free flowing smoke, unknown faces, most of them looked akin though, the kind that belongs to the genre of long curly hair, loose-torn denims, ill fitting (read matter-of-factly-casual) t-shirts. This of course was for the men, the ladies, all were dressed to kill; at least we were. Um yeah we looked typical too to a large extent- the kind with khol laden eyes, denims of all size, cig in one hand while fosters balancing on the fingertips. This was us, the audience, there to cheer our larynges out for Gowri (our own beloved D’jango) while she nervously scurried around the tiny bar twiddling her thumbs, fighting the pre-performance jitters and sweat. This was her day, her gig, her best bet…

In the perfect corner they set up the mic, with perfect tuning she sang through the night. She would look at us, the audience was nothing but a bunch infested with her own buddies, who clapped and yo-ed her enthusiastically at every note she played.
I stood there, in absolute awe of this lil one; I had the perfect view of her singing and playing her guitar. I felt I was drifting through territories of past, present and future (music has that power), while I swam in and out of dreamy moments, D’jangs voice filled my inner self and I almost cried (you know it’s the thing with being proud of someone so much that you can cry!) when she sang her OCs – My favourites are Lost and Real Love and of course Mango tree, which did not perform that night.

I could sense the feeling of liberation in her voice, she was so confident and stood in that perfect corner making it her place, her own space, where she can croon and all will be here to stay. For that moment I felt- how fulfilling it would be if I could sing and play maybe, how free I would feel to have my own block where I can just be, Oh I wish I had a vocation for this. Ok the thunder for now belongs to D’jangs, so back to you girl…
I wish she played longer, for, I love her voice and I love the strumming of her guitar, though Imaad was not bad at all, but I am slightly biased- to me this girl rocked!

So, the floaty evening came to an end, my mood was trifle intense, vocal chords were strained and tensed, wanted to shout louder than permissible that D’jango may this journey of music that you’ve embarked upon, invites me to more of your gigs, for, this lesser mortal is your ardent fan and yeah, it fulfills those incomplete quarters of my life in the most incomprehensible ways.

Kudos to our kid!

She takes to blogging..

2007-08-22T23:33:00.000+05:30

So my partner in crime takes to blogging, one thing she wasn’t keen to venture into, but that’s passé now.

Here she is and am sooper happy about this, for, this lady has a gazillion thoughts that she keeps piling in her head when they deserve to be out there, as they make a cosmos of sense.

She will not agree to this, but my co-fish is an amazing thinker, fabulous at her expression and precise with her prose (quite unlike me!)

Richa! I await your words to fill the screen :)

Now start writing and have no care…

Cheers love!

You are forever!

2007-08-21T21:41:00.000+05:30

For someone very special- I know- ‘shok

I can sense the helplessness in you; pardon me that is not want I intent to do,
To one his own, you fight your own battles, you pay your dues until the debt is clear,
You’ve been there, seen me through choppy weathers,
If am broken today, I will stand strong tomorrow,
And through this journey, I know you will be there, like a shadow, like a torch, like my strength you stands tall,
My smile has pain today, but this will expire, in a better time and better shade,
If there is hurt in my eyes today, it’s a cure for a better vision that awaits.
What do you know of yourself if you haven’t been in a fight?
Stand with me and see me win,
Be with me and give me the deserving pat, when I will be truly happy and not live in pretense,
I need you as much as I need my track.

Don’t be sad for am sad, it upsets me no end,
Smile for me, am still around,
Don’t lose faith in me, I’ve my ground,
Erase those scars, they are not meant to be there,
What we share is above all this and beyond the regular affair,
I have been there before too- I love you too my friend, as much as you love the last ounce of hope to keep the going going.
And hey your bear hugs create wonders, so another reason for you to stay, right?
Yes, you’re my friend; you will remain one, Always!
So cheer up, shall we go for a beer now?

Writing for pleasure or writing for earning a living?

2007-08-17T16:22:00.000+05:30

"Writing is bosh. There is only one way to make money at writing, and that is to marry a publisher's daughter." - George Orwell

:) How true is this. I have often wondered, how people in the writing biz make money, and why is that I am not. Guess a shift is needed to electronic or broadcast medium, but that would mean giving up on writing, forgetting about Feature writing. Expansive (a very restrictive term in print media) is only possible on websites and magazines; sometimes the broadsheet goes easy on the word count.

What can I do besides writing? Do I want a shift to broadcast? Will I be happy with magazines? - No concrete answers for any, what I know is that am comfortable with features and slack bad when it comes to reportage. It will be close to a year since I started editing and writing, and with each passing day I feel, that I write just for myself, wonder if anyone even notices my byline (that reminds me, I need to keep the count going, its all about bylines here, all about your written work here. But how yielding is this experience?) I remember the first byline I got, I was ecstatic, took the sheet home and showed it to everyone concerned, and people wondered what the big deal about this is? Yeah it’s an article, its got your name on the top, so?

*Smile* ask me how big an achievement this was for me then, but now the excitement of seeing my byline has died out, its more to do with the count, next job will be better then, will be easier for me to command a price and designation, am I going the business way?

Nothing much has changed, I still write/prefer writing about issues I am interested in (takes a lot to convince the editor about it- you see there is a peg to it, trust me on this Mr. Editor) and only I land up reading what I write, honestly this has never affected me, actually I am a trifle surprised at myself, but this is how its always been, I never really care who reads my work or not, as long as editor clears it and it doesn’t land up in the fancy TOI dustbin.

Someday I will write for Time Out, one magazine I have always wanted to write for, maybe Sanctuary will also be fine, Mr. Naresh Fernandes and Mr. Bittu Sehgal please enlighten me as to how can I get an entry into your editorial board?

Writing doesn’t pay, I have come to terms with this crude reality, but decided to follow my bliss and here I am, undoubtedly savouring the bliss, writing it is! But reality bites, I need to move on, above the bliss and get real, need to-maybe- take a shift-do something new-find another bliss- and keep writing as a hobby, as my escape ground, as my private world where its all about love with words and ideas and bizarre imaginations, a world weaved out of my own creation.

As always I have drifted away from the point and also misplaced the peg. At present am here, won’t be there tomorrow, what am doing now, won’t be doing this tomorrow, what I will be- no faint idea, for now am drifting to someplace and yes I still love writing, for the sheer sense of fulfillment it brings to me.

Women and Hockey- made a good movie...

2007-08-16T15:03:00.000+05:30

Blue Umbrella is what we had decided to watch, on a late Sunday evening, but much to our surprise the literary junta is Bombay seems to have shot up out of nowhere and ‘Blue Umbrella’ was SOLD OUT!
Sold out? Am I reading this correctly, 9:45 pm show is house full, boy! Now that’s something. So we walk up to the least crowded counter- Chak de India. Tickets available, I suffer another shock. What’s with people! Four of us exchange raised-eyebrow look and gear up for SRK flick (I cannot stand this actor, for pete’s sake not SRK please, he is over the board in every movie)
Anyway, Chak de time it was…

Firstly I hardly watch movies, prefer parallel cinema to the commercial one, but am glad I watched this movie. I was all excited like I was watching a live hockey match, yelped, cheered, clapped and embarrassed my friends (but heck it’s a match, you cant be sitting all quite and sober.)
The girl power plot got me sooper excited and I kept shouting- Go girl! Go girl, put up a kickass show!
Ok the plot was predictable, we had to win, you see, Team India had to win (sounds ridiculously hilarious, but…)
So the girls practiced (really hard), the bitches were there too (on bench for most time), but in the end alls well. Throughout the movie I have sat at the edge of the seat, caring a dime about the looks fellow audience gave me time and again. I had fun, and that was the idea. By the way, SRK wasn’t bad at all, performed just right, no extra emoting, no mushy romantic (read lame) antics…what a relief that was, and he looked amazing in white shirt, blue jeans and air force typical Ray band sunglasses.
The best scene was when the girls bash up the lecherous rascals at McDonalds and I so wished I could too bash guys up like that-with hockey sticks and Reebok kicks, would be so much fun.

I am usually very critical about the movies I watch, but this one is spared from the rape, it cheered me, made me go back to my school days when I strained my vocal chords during the in house Volley ball matches and hey not to forget FIFA, where I have ogled and screeched each time Zidane, Kaka, Ballack, Riquelme played.

And I must admit, I love the girl power jazz, simply love it.
So all kudiyon, watch this flick, makes you feel very nice, in some weird way, gives you a high of sorts, the kind chilled Kingfisher gives you on a hot summer day.

Sometimes winning is everthing, sometimes celluloid sells dreams- surreal.

Chak de Kudiyon!

Misplaced Glance...

2007-08-14T15:05:00.001+05:30

While the pale light passed lazily through the dust laden listless mirror; my glance caught your dry eye-stationed blank like my barren reflection.
With half heart and half a glance, you returned the gesture that got lost somewhere in transit and all I saw was the yellow tainted mirror staring stark screaming of my lost chance.
I stood there in complete will and fragmented mind- to see you- to see the glimpse slightly clear,
You stood there- In wonderment, of how the light fell with a slant,
While I yearned for that one piercing look,
You waited for the angle to decline and see the slant go steeper.
Such a contrast – was our glance.

Your brow broke into several waves of thought lines and I flickered a hopeful smile that finally you noticed my meandering, fleeting glance that has been standing in a limbo- neither this side nor on the better side.
Alas! What you saw was just the slant till it dropped, and what I saw was just my fantasy wavering across in human form.

For all its worth

2007-07-29T14:59:00.000+05:30

I see your picture; you are smiling there, sitting besides me,
Oh how complete the frame looks,
We were friends then, we were good then, we were hopeful then, we lived each others incomplete lives then,
We moved to a patch we thought could be ours, we made a promise, though we had our doubts, we took that first step towards what was our perfect end.

I see that picture again today, with no bitter feelings, they were never there, I look into your eyes, there was life in it, the stretch of your lips was a smile- tears run down and I look through blurry eyes, a contorted truth, you smiling behind it all the while.
There was no other way for us to go and all that was there was reduced to rust, to be thrown in a junkyard.
I sighed and wondered how you could close all doors and suffocate the alleys, but that was my place, to stay behind closed doors, at the wrong end of the burnt bridge.
Those rusted pieces are pasted neat in the album of fond memories, pressed like a dead rose between the pages that culminate into the book of life.
My hands strangled the last bit of hope that survived the blows of your exit, my faith crumbled under the weight of my broken soul,
And I was left with just one way out, which was to let go- of a bond, of a future, of you, of I.

I see your progress report, you’ve moved on
I fight my battle everyday, a wounded solider, I guard my little space, dodging the bullets of hurt and pain,
Your words linger on, the good ones make me smile, the bitter ones, push me to claw my way up,
I try, am trying to be a better person, washed clean of your name,
From here on I walk without my friend, my companion, my best bargain of life.

--To the one who stole my compass

Isn't it ironic..

2007-07-26T00:49:00.000+05:30

Drunk, but not enough
Tipsy, but not high
Mind on the runway, flight is delayed
Feet are tired, conscience is rest-less

Radio plays arbit tunes, perfectly tuned in
Rhythm of the soul, searches her frequency
Memories soaked in sepia tone, present a colourful patchwork
Smell of smoke, taste of which is familiar

Blue carpet, bear golden footprints
Trace of feelings, touch is lost
Voiceless verses, under stone graves
Drifting away, on dead waves

Lesson was good, thanks anyway!

Ethos of living in Bombay meri jaan

2007-07-22T00:40:00.000+05:30

Two consecutive weekends and the rains have perfected the downpour routine starting from Friday night. Bombay shivered under the overcast of thunderous clouds and gusty winds. It poured incessantly brining back the fears of 26/7. News Channels were a depressing slot with pictures of water logged Bombay, violent high tide sea, land slides in low lying areas to weak structures collapsing like pack of cards. It's the same scene every monsoon yet the pictures are disturbing and evoke anger against the never-performing-BMC. The Brihan Mumbai Municipal Corporation is the receiver of lowest grades when it comes to maintaining and developing the city. Bunch of useless jokers!

I have always spoken in support of Bombay, denied negative claims against the city, fought mindlessly with people who indulged in name calling, been an activist of sorts advocating the spirit of this city, her charm, her flamboyance, her contrasting backdrop of rich-poor co-existence, her glitterati, her skyline, her gutters, the filth, ever-increasing slums. (The commas will not end as I would support every bit that makes this city what she is.) Today when I have a better sense of looking at her, with some objectivity, I find all the claims of Bombay-the-next-Shanghai terribly lame, this emotion is commonly shared by everyone who has lived a while in Bombay.

True, the city has real problems, real lives, and with real struggle of sustenance, but it has no real will to improve upon its deplorable conditions making her vulnerable to a breakdown. Living in Bombay is like surviving on a live ticking atom bomb. While one might consider the expansion of the island city as development by way of reclaiming land, the bigger picture is forgotten of how this leads to mangrove destruction which further leads to an ecological imbalance. Environmentalists and concerned citizens filed Public Interest Litigations (PILs), Bombay HC placed stay orders on some construction projects', slaying of mangroves was curbed, only for a while, the builders lobby is far strong to be stopped by mere PILs (we are a democracy that is ideally supposed to be of the people, for the people, by the people, but the fact is, it is concentration of power in the hands of few, making it a mock of democracy, thus- for the powerful, of the powerful, by the powerful). The mangrove issue is done to death with, protests see their ebbs and tides and Bombay grows on reclaimed land.

I am surprised how there no PILs filed against the railways. The Lifeline of the city: Central railway (Main line and Harbour line) and Western Railway limps and halts at the instance of heavy showers and also are the favourite target of the terrorists to plant bombs. Monsoon or no monsoon railways get the hit anyway. There are never enough tracks and trains to support the ever growing population of this megalopolis. The condition of the mode is beyond expression. It reeks of ignorance by the authorities, it runs under pressure, it’s a pity that its ill maintained and raped to its last bit.

Slums: They exist in Bombay on every inch of free space available and profiler faster than the GDP of the nation. Be it the footpaths or land adjoining the gutters, slums dominate the arena undisputed. The migrant influx never ceases to decrease and is on an all time high. If there was an animated version of the city to me made, we would see the city bursting at its seams with people, people and more people, more concrete (poor quality concrete with no lifespan), more shanties in all forms, plastic, asbestos, aluminium, bricks et al, more flyovers-more traffic, less of land so encroach the sea. Life of this city comes a complete circle.

Whenever I stand at Marine Drive and look at that amazing Bombay skyline, am filled with awe for this city, I fall in love with her all over again, I take pride in being a thorough Bombay-ite who has grown up on Vada pavs, Ussal-Missal (not to forget the cheap and tasty food of Jhunka Bhakar), the Shiv Sena mania, riots-bomb blasts, crowded local trains, slums and filth, people-concrete-lack of space scenario, her diversity, superb British architecture visible in south Bombay. This city the caretaker of the sensex capable of
shaking the spine of Indian economy, more often than not, fails to strengthen her own spine and is hunching dangerously. It’s when I look beyond that skyline, the love turns into concern and I see her crumbling under her own weight. Its not that the efforts are not been made, it’s just that there is no road map or a blueprint that holds water enough to give a direction to our aimless efforts. If trouble is less, we have the babudom to ruin the case.

The ethos of living in Bombay is far more deep that what is mentioned above, its about how you live through the mess to create your own space, to make a living in this crazy rat race, where people forget that there is an element called life, what they live is payment of EMIs, a house to obtain under SRA, a bucket to fill (full) from the weak line of water that flows from the municipal tap, a payer that existence is as unfailing as the indicator of the railway station. We have the pace, but we are an indifferent lot who care not beyond their job.

Aashi aaheas Aamchi Mumbai…

Slice of Life

2007-07-20T01:01:00.000+05:30

Portrait of Buddha, enlightenment not in sight
Open spaces, fears a many
Silence outside, voices screaming in my head
Hope all around, hollow within
Dreams float in the light of open eyes, reality resides in darkness
Effort to pace up life, life comes along laid back
People surrounding, lonely inside
Signs of growth, vision of mind blinded
Existence is a routine, loop of routine is tightening
Time is ticking away, I am still on the same ground
Words are many, takers none
Questions complex and countless, answers meaningless and frivolous
Seeking reasons, claim to reasons denied
Turf is still the same, players left the game
Game is still the same, rules have changed
Right and wrong is a perception, perceiving direction in vain
Truth within, a farce outside
Collecting myself, soul is reaching beyond self
Humming a tune, verse is lost
Am right here, mind is wandering…

On farewells

2007-07-19T13:30:00.000+05:30

Today the department had a cut cutting session, this time not for birthday celebration but a farewell instead. It was a quiet deal, with sober smiles, sniff here sniff there, silent sorrow of colleague leaving. She had been here for long now and today she is moving to a promising tomorrow, yay! To the fact that she is leaving for London to pursue higher education. I am happy for you Aindrila.
It was sad when Ashishwang put in her papers. The most efficient Copy Editor I have come across who could turn around a sloppy story into a readable interesting piece. She resigned and took a sabbatical.
The prim and proper lady, heading Times Wellness-Sanaya also called it a day with Times Group. Sanaya the department will miss the strong whiff of your expensive perfumes that pervaded our nostrils and kept lingering the whole day. She too goes the sabbatical way.
Oh the shrill bong beauty-Ipshita Basu, too called her shots and said bye bye TOI. She was this absolute loud, quirky chic always hassled about hair style and I do miss at times her half crazed antics.
Ms witty, sharp, right there, perfect blend of sarcasm and sweetness-Manisha, finally decided to move out of her comfort zone and took to a challenging electronic medium. Editor and Super Editor were darn sad at her exit. That woman was an asset.
Ms lost in her own world-Shruti Gotipatti, lost interest in the writing world and took to news production. The dandy, sultry, tall, sassy beauty was the happiest when she left.

Mr Menon, hulk of a dude, is now a big man with an envious profile. He is sure to give the Outlook Money team a run for their money. His wisecracks are thunderous and without doubt unmatched. His association with this ghetto continues though as his punter junta is still earning their living here. Menon is a weekly (Friday) feature when the gang goes drinking at the shady watering holes of south Bombay.

Amazing women these and amazing Menon he.

These people were here when I joined the family of response Editorial, TOI, they were the faces I grew comfortable with, and they were fun colleagues with ever warm smiles. Their work stations are occupied by new faces now and I miss the old occupants fondly.
Wish you cosmos worth of luck guys wherever you go, in whatever you do.

Someday ill leave this turf too and I must admit, this place has become my second home and the comfort zone I so dread to leave. But I must keep up to the high attrition rate of TOI, so move I shall to bigger,greener and yes most importantly better paying grounds.

Welcome back buddy

2007-07-19T02:25:00.000+05:30

A new scrap entry, a peep and I see a weird name ‘Religion is a Whore’ with an equally weird picture complimenting the scene. First instance-ignore-delete, then I read-exclaim-yelp in my mind-Oh my God this is Gary!!

He is Gary; lesser known as Gurvinder Risam. So you think he is this typical surd with typical surdu antics? Nay! He was a whacked mad hatter with blond beard and blond tresses (bundled up in a funny looking turban, the kind Osho wore) pierced lower lip, loose hanging denims, Sepultura and Ozzy laden t-shirts, always accompanied with his beloved friend Franco-another whacko of Gary’s order.

So what makes this ambidextrous, rapid devourer of OC text books (Organisation of Commerce- A subject I would puke studying despite being a Commerce student. Misfit I was for that stream, Business was never my deal) special to me?
No clue how I got talking to this recluse, he wrote poems and I read them during boring Math/OC/Accounts/OB lectures. He maintained a dairy, that was his Mecca, scared enough to be kept away from any eye. But I read those words, he shared them with me. His verses were dark and deep, abusive and at times repulsive, of loss, of hate, of hope, of ache, of void, of unrequited emotions. I could relate to many, about some I plainly wondered, over many I marveled, in the end it became my favourite read.

He was a rebel, he did it his way, he cared a dime of what others had to say, he lived in oblivion and in college not many cared about his existence, yet he managed to send a wave on certain occasions.

Ozzy, Sepultura, Megadeth, Floyd were names I heard from him, to their tunes he hummed and I sat through the lectures faintly hearing the alien tunes.
Three years of degree college and Gary was a routine to me, we would meet during lectures, yak, write poems (I the English plain verses, he the dark hues), unspoken it was that we shared a close bond, that we were buddies and that we would be this way, life long.

College ended, we went different ways, I got lost in my own struggle, while he strummed the chords of his life to find his new tune. Gary-Franco duo, I never saw them again, never heard of them again. With time I forgot about him, thought we were co-passengers of a short distance journey, with this I left college never to go back to those iron gates, behind which stood my five years of ordeal where I was hanging between Assets and Liabilities, balancing the accounts to reach them to finality; Alas! With the intervention of ‘Suspense (saviour) accounts.’ My journey as a misfit was over, my journey with a whacko humanoid was over and I missed those days when Gary all through three years sat behind me during exams and answered the entire question paper despite there being a choice.

After four years, he re-appears, my long lost friend shows up again. Been so long that I don’t remember were we left the thread. But that’s the beauty of friendship, it is revivable, it never dies, it loses it way only to find it back, it’s the comfort zone that needs no patch work, its never over with the ebbs and tides.

He says he is glad to be back to his roots, to which I smiled and said, indeed they are deep and they were never dead. Welcome back, you whacko!
Thanks dear Orkut for Gary had to find me here.

2007-07-10T15:21:00.000+05:30

Left Bombay on 6 July to fly to Bruxelles (an awaited vacation). This post is due since then only with a different bent.

Words, so many that the struggle to fit the screen, just right, is nerve aching.
The thought was to leave the city, country, my people, my routine, my hassles, my traumas back home and go have the time of my life in this mini vacation that came at a time when the need to breakaway was/is at its peak.

New place, different and beautiful, stark new faces, fresh air, beer more than water, its all a pretty picture, yet the feeling of something amiss doesn’t leave me, continues to linger on in the backdrop of traveling adventurously to nouveau landscapes.

This seems like a sojourn to a destination I have been seeking for long now. Heart says, I don’t want to go back to the place I belong to, mind says, that is where I belong and that is where I have my dues to pay. I still have some days left here, of exploration, of contemplation, of putting myself on a new track of life, of gathering the pieces of a shattered life. The questions, unanswered exist still; I see them dissolve with passing time, I see a resolve within the transit, from point of exit to point of heading to someplace.

Deep within, they are rooted strong, the memories that shaped my life, deep within I want to burry them till I see no glimpse of the one-upon-a-time sight.

Sitting miles away from my life back in Bombay, I am unable to detach, and mind runs back to the familiar turf, to the same ole sorrows, to the overwhelming sense of loss. Sleeping miles away from home, I dream of the same dreams I had back then. Thinking miles away from my ground, thoughts of yesterday haunt still.

--Had a very different thought to type out, landed up with a tangential one. Until next post, where I shall write about my time here and now.

I want to break free

2007-06-28T15:54:00.002+05:30

It’s a rainy day; gloomy and swollen the city looks. Dark deep clouds stationed above my head, it’s pouring cold and hard.

Reach office soaked and shivering, bored and dull; guess it’s the weather reflecting on my mood. Windcheater hardly serves its purpose, disgruntled I am.
I am dislocated yet again. Been working here for eight months and I roam around in the department like a nomad, as I have no fixed work station. I kind of like that though. You see, in the first place its boring to come to the same place everyday and on top of it same work station!, eww darn boring. Anyway, am glad my colleague hasn’t come to work today, so I get the comp for the day. This time my work station has been occupied by an Australian freelancer who is writing about her stay in India, all the good and bad of this country and her interesting take on my beloved Bombay.
I wish I was a traveller too instead of a wanderer in mind only.

No matter how much I try catching up on sleep is not enough. Wake up each day with swollen eyes and ever darkening dark circles. Beginning of another boring day, I need a life! I need a productive life (wonder what that really means.) Wish I could just wake up and go to Crosswords, sit there and read. How blissful that would be (will someone pay me per hour, per page?) Alas! Office it is, chilling air-conditioner, no sunlight, artificial employment, killing time, attempting to work (the track is slow, just like the harbour line), coffee breaks (not that we work very hard and all), waiting for the day to end!

I have a feature to work on and its taking an age, thanks to the rains, my problem has compounded. Need five solid quotes with a sooper solid peg, am a lil worried, Editor will kill me if it’s a stale, dead mass of words.

Want to study further, what? is a brilliant question.
Want to change my current job, where to? Zarquon knows.
Want to continue learning Salsa (my partner is getting married, so he abandoned me)
Need to save to buy a SLR and Why does JJ charge so heavily for a photography course?
Living in Bombay is getting on to my nerves; want to move out, where? Again Zarquon knows, perhaps.
I am young and am underpaid.
I am broke and am not happy.

I better get stuff done now, bored of even cribbing.

Oh but there are some good things happening too, viz.
Waiting with loads of uncertainty for my Visa.
Reading two books simultaneously and they are such contrasting plots.
Saw a good play, was a refreshing break.
Finally getting a hair cut and this time it better looks like one.
Enthufied to meet my cousin, loads to catch up on (well we talk everyday, ahem!)
Hopefully over the weekend will catch up on Sivaji, yeah The Boss…Ican’t wait to be part of the mad crowd, damn where are my plastic whistles.

….Sometimes I can balance cribbing with good things.

2007-06-25T17:57:00.000+05:30

On going through some ole messages obliging my inbox, came across this one-

"It was born, it lived and it died. Not me."

Only Mr Ranade could have said this...:)
You're remembered sir, through irregularities and sanities...

Whats the Big deal?

2007-06-22T15:43:00.000+05:30

Ok the Big B is here, in TOI today, maybe to thank us for giving him popularity for free.
At the fourth floor, in the Zoom office, with cameras zooming at him from every angle is the super, over hyped star of the millennium.
Remember Abbys baby’s wedding? The star really had a show down when he got his security guards bash up the journalists. Remember how injured was the ego of the journalist fraternity, print and electronic alike. And yet today, the same man walks with his head high into the glamourous building of the undisputed media leader, The Times of India. Its just one over hyped medium attracting another of its kind.
Where has the hurt disappeared? Why is our memory short-lived? Why is ego dismissed in the regular deals of existence? Why can’t the media stop chasing her assaulters? Why cant media for once have a stand with a spine?
For the way he treated the journos, he should have been banned by every media house and boycotted by every space seller in the media. We need no brats filling up our pages. We need no such thankless endorsers.
Alas! The media forgets its ground and forms a beeline to grab the celebs on its apparently-sacred-quark/slot-created-space.
The medium is a funny place, no ethics; no it’s all about selling your space.

May the media rise up to its role, May the mighty power of media command respect, May the crap rest in peace…
Amen

And for you Mr. Big B, you’re too small with etiquettes.
The grapevine tells me that he is here to give an interview and is apologetic for his behaviour and blah…
(Sigh) how easy right. Overused word-Sorry! Am sure he will get away with this one. Darn you!

Last look

2007-06-20T02:17:00.000+05:30

It’s to the House, Ashok’s House, in that dilapidated, weather beaten building, inside one of the many lanes of Matunga that we three bid a final goodbye to.

I had to be there today, for the last time, to devour every corner until it filled up the memory space, to inhale the feel that prevailed within the four walls, to touch the dusty pillows, the colour-worn covers of the couch, the bean bag.

Its in this house that I have spent some good times, it is this house that’s a trunk of memoirs, a place that had become my comfort zone, where I could enter and exit without being questioned, for, it was my friends dwelling, in which lifetime worth memories are residing.
The ease with which time glided there; with people I love, all there, under one roof, of that house. Sound of laughter, voices near and dear, warmth of people who make my world, it was experienced, all, in that house. A chapter in my life had started its first page there, round the park, under the lamp post I had heard those words, most treasured words, today only words left with me.

I had celebrated my happiness in that haven, I had cried over my loss on that floor, I had seen a bond grow there, I had let myself just be there.

With a heavy heart I stepped outside the threshold, leaving behind me a canvas full of colours of yesterday, facing my back to the closed chapter, to the most beautiful pages of my life. The windows tightly shut, room bare without its belongings, lights switched off, an entire lifetime within the expanse of life was going to be locked and sealed for good now.

I thought I would return the duplicate keys to Ashok, but could not get myself to do that, that bunch stays with me, without any purpose, without any need, for, it was the last, you gave me. It rained outside, dark and heavy and we carried the burden, of the luggage, of the heart, back home…

'Something’s are over, something’s stay on,

Some people walk out forever, some live on,

Some moments are best forgotten, some linger on,

Some images slowly dissolve, some of them grow on,

Some lights go dim until they die, some shine on….'

PS: ‘shok! This ones for you- The many times I’ve sworn bitter at you for not keeping the house clean, the many requests you made to make it clean, moments when we have laughed sans reason, once when standing at the kitchen sink, amused by how deprived it has been of a good wash, it was all so simple, it was the best time ever.

Shrek 3

2007-06-17T16:36:00.000+05:30

A 70mm celluloid full of emotions and stuff like that- an overkill if anything.I was waiting to witness the magic Shrek 1 & 2 had created to be re-created, but the dreamy gloss was nowhere, the green hulk was as adorable as ever but I felt I saw less of him on the screen and more of an overflowing bandwagon of villains and fairies from the fairytales. Too many elements were pitched in, making it a patchwork, trying really hard to weave a story that was borderline Shrek-ish and somewhere an attempt to churn out another Cinderella, Snowhite kind of a tale, with a Happily Ever After touch.

The dialogues were witty, in bits and pieces even humourous. The sequence where Pinocchio rambles along the not’s and don’t’s to avoid lying was neat and the cool wit displayed by Shrek on the stage was worth a chuckle. Charming tried really hard to spell his charm, but his character seemed rather loosely plotted, where was he coming from?

Where six women gather what happens? Oh c’mon think beyond gossip, we are all animated here, so the outcome too needs to be an animated one- Feminism it is. Even our beauties from the pretty tales were gung-ho about the F word and we saw some bra-burning-feminism take place. Snowhite seemed like Lara Croft save an opera singing Ms Croft and poor Ms Rapunzel was shown bald after all, ouch what a hit to the ole tale.

So, the villain tried to kill Shrek and the ladies now transformed into slayers of the evil save Shrek, killing the hopes of the Villains who wanted to hog their share of a Happily Ever After and it’s the good winning over the evil saga (the usual deal isn’t it.)

It was melodramatic, the kind we often see in overly senti Bollywood typical films. Shrek 3 should have gone a lil easy on emotions and the family drama.

Nonetheless things I loved about the movie:
Besides, of course Shrek, I mean that ogre is darn lovable, whether as a hero or struggling for space in a crowded cast.

Dragon-Donkey kids- Aw they looked so adorable, quite an imaginative creation, perfect blend!

The frog king- can dying be funny? This one sure was, totally cracked me up.

Villains have a heart too- some want to grow Daffodils, some- own a Spa. Actually I quite liked the idea of villains of the fairytale wanting their Happily Ever After!

Oh yes the music was Good!

Last word:
For the love of Shrek, dear Director, please don’t plan a Shrek 4. Shrek and Fiona with three baby ogres should last us a lifetime…

--‘Shrek’- I totally louve you! (Pardon the melodramatic end, am a lil emotional right now-blame it on Shrek 3!!)

2007-06-14T14:30:00.000+05:30

For once Orkut made sense...
'Strong and bitter words indicate a weak cause.'

Couldn't agree more to this...

2007-05-31T02:45:00.000+05:30

And I have turned Insomniac...

The American Dream

2007-05-31T02:31:00.000+05:30

Congratulations Ashwin,
It happened late; nevertheless it was bound to take place, it was the inevitable feat.
You made it, your struggle takes a new form today, for you converted your dying-reviving dream into a well deserved reality that has a future you always desired,
All the tough times you went through, those four hours made up for it, the three digit number changed the tracks of your life, for better, strong and longer ones.
That’s it, you’ve done it!
I am hopeful, happy, proud of you.
Go take life by horns, walk the red carpet with chutzpah, world is right at your doorstep,
And when you take that flight remember, that there are no strings attached.
Dreams do come true, all it needs is persistence and focus, thanks for setting yourself as a live example of the same.
March ahead, now there is no looking back.

'...........'

2007-05-25T03:15:00.000+05:30

My back aches…
Eyes are stretched, sleep deprivation is high on charts tonight…
Soul is weighing heavier than my body….
Mind is scattered, bits of it, covered in the dust of yesterday, bits of it languishing in the illusion created by time, called ‘present,’ bits of it stay idle in wake of a ever-approaching future….
There are no dark clouds, no moist-cool-breeze, yet I feel monsoon is right up there, hovering above my cracked head…..
Words swimming all around me, I hate them, in an instance, I seek refuge in them, in an instance, they are the reason for all to go wrong, perhaps the reason to set things slightly right….
The clock says 4 am; I have nothing to do with time…
At this moment, in this phase, I don’t want to be where I am, my place is not decided yet, my path has got lost in my head, my head’s got lost in the soul-searching business, the quest seems to be going nowhere, there is still some hope left somewhere….
Nothing around me has changed, same room, same colour on the walls, same curtains, same view outside, same bed, same dust-laden table, same broken chair, same air of nothing-ness, its all the same…..
It could be over, today, all of it, it could drag on forever, it would linger, with no end, it will remain…. Suffocating, breaking, melting, drowning…..
Not much to look back at, not much to look ahead at, not much to treasure today…..
Music plays on, repeats itself, I don’t know the lyrics, the beat is familiar, it runs, keeps running, forming a part of my thought, I want to change the track, yet I play the same one, for don’t know how long….
………Blank spaces, cluttered confusions, deep voices, forgotten letters, misplaced identity, all over the place, no one point of certainty….. Staccato Passage, this is what it is….

Trivia of the day:

2007-05-24T22:10:00.000+05:30

‘Achieving Excellence’- a self help book, one that falls under the fashionable banner of pop psychology. Subhs shows the book to me and in her typical tone adds, “My sister gifted me this book, are we in such a state that we need a SELF HELP BOOK!!!? Personally am a little amused myself, why would someone gift someone such a book, for real, common are we headed so aimless? Or are we too lost in our comfortable tracks? Or we have to set ourselves a benchmark, in milder words aiming at Excellence- a cynical view-seems like chasing Eldorado! On a more real note, Harini’s gift to Su, our beloved kutty free, sent me a reminder of sorts that the road ahead is a long one, and the X factor needed to reach Eldorado is eXcellence.

D’jango and I go for our regular break in the evening up to the canteen, we yak about the this-and-that’s of our ever ionized lives. The conversation ends like this:
N: I am little worried about the final appraisal meeting with Carol (The Editor). You know how intimidating and loud that woman is, I mean how caustic and crass she behaves, she is nice and all of that, but dear me, she is annoyingly loud. I think I will have to carry ear plugs to avoid the strain on my ears….Lord save me!
D’j: Ahhh no worries man. It simple you see- the process and outcome of the appraisals is mysterious and why break your head over an overrated mystery. It will unfold by itself…no worries over a mystery…
N: (smile) you bet D’jango. You have a point. This is going on my blog onight.
D’ jingo flashes her toothy grin and we disappear in the crowd.

Met Karishma in the evening, after an age, so I feel. It’s a wholesome feeling to meet her, takes me back to my being when life had began to shape up in what I still think were/are my formative years. Catching up with her, gets me connected to the decade I left behind, to the person I was then, to the person I have eventually become and will evolve further. K says that its been nearly 10 years since we have been together, seen the weathers change and settle-together and today we both stand at a point where we more or less face similar crisis, similar turmoil. Before leaving K says, “Don’t change, be yourself, forever.” Its only a friend like her who can say this, one of the few people who added years to her life at the same time and pace as I, who saw me crude, still watching me refine…

Take a rickshaw back home and the driver narrates his tale of how he lost his son. Not the first time I heard of someone dying on the railway tracks, hit by the train and it has always irked me no end at their carelessness of crossing the tracks and not taking the footover bridge instead. But this tale was not of a careless act. His son tried to be safe, he ran off, he dodged the gutter while the train was right behind him, no horn was honked, he ran, chasing his life, he thought he saved himself, he thought the train passed, he thought there were only eight compartments, while the ninth one knocked him down, he thought he will survive, people surround him, ask him his name, he gives it out all-every detail related to his dwindling life, no one rushes him to the hospital, no call for his parents. The doctor says he would have survived had he been admitted just five minutes earlier. The run for life ended, parents hope crushed, the moment ended to linger on forever. I reach home, his story ends, I shake his hand with alump in my throat.

In the lighter vein- I discovered that Subhs and I share the same fear for the same one thing. I feel so nice to know that am not alone out there and that my best buddy is right there to share yet another emotion with me…thanks Subhs!

Oh yes and even today I stay 'bad' with Math, but today I did not feel miserable about this, instead I had a good laugh at how impossible I am when it comes to Mathematics. I choose to believe that its not really all that bad to be bad at Math, its not an interesting equation for me to solve, rather bland and drab. For the fear of sounding defensive, I would rather conclude- Anu thanks for the hearty laugh at ourselves over our trademark TOI tea/coffee session.

Retrospection...an attempt

2007-05-22T13:47:00.000+05:30

I read your words, etched boldly across the screen, while scanning every word, in the background, scrolled a screen where I could picture you saying each of those whites to me. Perhaps it’s my overactive imagination, a trick my mind is playing on me, as it still seeks a word from you, maybe a retort would also suffice, maybe a single word that would bring peace to my mind.
I have a choice, to believe that this you write for me and recline the turmoil of a turbulent mind, or instead believe the crude form that they were uttered for a different reason, for a different person.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, so deep that the narrow path is lost, along the way many beliefs were misplaced, many hopes dwindled like dying glowworms, memories were crushed in the formative stage, so elementary that they can’t even be termed as memories, rather they remain as a fleeting glimpse of what was possible yesterday, that stands today in ruins of a beautiful meadow, once. The road less traveled is always the one that has hurt in store, just remorse and more.
Maybe it’s a mirage I’ am trailing; maybe it never existed; yet it lingers faint and brief in my memory. I often wake up to the feeling of nothingness, in those moments of absolute void, I see flashes of all that I lost, some for a reason defined, some the product of time.
Maybe what happened was for the best, I detest this lame thought, does not pacify the deal, so sealed and dead. I, chase still, life is long and I will meet my excuses someday with reasons worth a spine, maybe that day you will lend me your reasons verbally.
….the choice was yours and it was decided for me, I value your words till the path in the woods meets the highway of life.
In the end, without logic, without reason, without judgement, without precision of thought, what remains is that I miss you my dear friend, that I understand your intent, that there is no end….

As plain as it can get...

2007-05-17T13:19:00.000+05:30

There is a need to say something meaningful, just like the way sometimes you want your life to look, seem, sound, read meaningful. You get what I mean? Its that urge to be phenomenal, perhaps profound, perhaps weighty-holding water sorts...
....For some reason, I feel like this every day.

Venom within,Venom on the screen

2007-05-13T00:02:00.000+05:30

In all honesty, am hurt, deeply…
Feels like crap to be taken for granted, to feel weak and broken,
To cry till I fall sick, when it is all going waste,
To wait endlessly to hear A word, Some word, in the end…NO word,
Sleep with a heavy heart, what did I do so grave, that am paying a price so dear,
I struggle to make myself heard, my throat hurts, voice is strained, I try, try again, no point, wasted effort.
Numb, blank, clinging hard to hope, accepting my loss, breathing it crude.
Inflict pain, pour in all that you have, not too long before I explode and not too long before I say am done.
Abuse me, call me names, kill me virtually, damn me, regret over me….
Dispensable property am I? To be kicked when pleased and taken back when wanted, to be left to my own grief when I needed comfort…

Yes am spiteful, am peeved, am full of venom, I spew it all out, rather than keeping it all within and being ok with it.
This time around am not apologetic, am not regretting….

* It's the lack of action and communication that is most hurtful- a point too hard to understand and implement, somethings are beyond obvious seeming sense. True your common sense doesn't match my adjective devoid Sense.*

Blank and Happy

2007-04-24T17:59:00.000+05:30

Feeling wondrously crazy today totally whacked out! Guess this is called transformation or evolution, from a state of blood boiling cribbing to mindless, mind you absolutely mindless yapping, containing no element of sense, just a string of words, loose, carrying no onus of delivering profundity (not that I do that often anyway), words that flutter from one intellect- devoid topic to another equally useless one.
Today my state comes across as ultimate humour to my being, so I fall as nukes of laughter, bombed..crashed...shamelessly grinning.
"I want to write, wherever I find an avenue, I will write,” says a beloved friend and colleague. Sigh! Today I found this too funny, sounds glamorous- I want to earn my living by writing, whether it’s in the form of Myraid Roman or Nimrod, on those
complex Quarkexpress pages, with trillion odd combinations to suit your fancy or whether its writing for cheap newsprint, doesn’t matter one bit. News is cheap anyway, cost is what the content pays.
“I want to drift, I want, also, a frame to fit, I want a new job Anu,” says yours truly with a streak of maddish laughter.
When the days are normal, I whine instead, but today has been an amazing rest, no frown, no I-hate-my-job. In the subtler hue-I have gone insane, dare you say am mad.
Call it a day here, phew! Out of this funny looking office, off to hog my share of the day, meet my pals and spill the drops of craziness there, God help the poor souls now!
I wish for a lot of things before I step out of this air-conditioned zone, expecting almost a miracle of sorts to be bestowed upon me, for, in my dream last night, you whispered the words “ I have changed my mind, I will meet you before I go.” Woke up to the lazy dawn with a wholesome smile, oh! Did I hear you say that? My eyes no more go moist at the idea of being deprived of the last look; I laugh instead and understand that it’s all futile.
Days are passing by and my hope grows feeble with routine setting of dusk, that my desire is crushed. Helpless and I hate it.
But anyway, today I’ve smiled, created a monologue with a silent smile. I am happy today, happiness of the kind that is born out of complete awareness of ones state, of a rebel within but peace outside. I am happy, to say the least, sounds like an affirmation of sorts to one self. Am I convincing myself about something by just laughing it off?
Even if I am, who cares…or like I care, is more like it…
Blah to this routine, for now am this whimsy soul, no strings attached, tongue not in control, mind on a trip to some place that’s not my own.
...and before I resign for the day, I still harbour the hope that I will see you!

Jaded

2007-04-22T18:14:00.000+05:30

Back to the patch I’d abandoned a while ago…had no manure of thought to nurture the dried gorge.
Within the confines of my mind I narrated an epic weaved out of strenuous thoughts and impossible possibilities. Alas! they remained just there, perished they with time and time with them. Moved with the winds, the fluttering soul, from pastures to dry lands, from oceans to the sea, from the clouds to the waterbeds, in the quest to just be.
To be or not to be, is a thought which the mind will concede, for all the efforts to provoke the answers, the language of words is but a mystery.
The road is not stretched as the cliché would go, but with every step it gets paved, so keep the momentum of pace, let the feet be unidirectional for if you stop, there will be no road to tread for thee.

There surround me many commons in which I’ve dissolved, imbibed their identities and gained what I lacked before. Needn’t that be positive? For the persona is beyond a VIBGYOR, where the shades of gray darken to a maroon depth and drenched in it is my quest. Forsaken is the unseen, and for the sake of the seen I move towards the future, daylight or twilight will only be the answer, eventually.

The inner being is an abandoned well, donning a mosaic of cobwebs. Neither voice nor light penetrates to the bottom and hope yells to throw a sullen tantrum. There are steps to climb up where lives the existence, but they’re all broken old and worn with slimy moss glossing the threshold.

Sitting at the base I think of my days, when thought was a luxury and mind a fertile womb. Those were the times when future was an impeccable rhyme, when dreams were virtually a reality and reality was all mine. There was no worry for papa and mamma took care of the life that could be dreary, but past is always a sweeping tale of fairies.
Ears yearn for the music of yester years, eyes flounce from corner to corner, but spaces all empty defy the hopes and leave me with a vacant floor.
I move with the crowd, changing tracks, imitating destinations to lead me to mine but I move and I change and fear that nothing of myself will remain. People shut me up and I reciprocated the same, to this date I stand like a repulsive disdain.

I loved them once and still do today for they were my ground on which I build castles, now rumbles of yesterday.
To let go is the truth that resides with me; my roommate is none other than a forbidden me. Places are accommodating people and people are consolidating within the places, with so much of movement I still stay stagnant. Each day I promise to my being that above the dust I will rise, but the wind blows the dust with it, leaving me with a vision, blur.

Aww, not again I crib, snarl at the wind, abuse the dirt, and ask them to back off for I need to move first. They laugh and holler, move swifter and rise taller, belittling my dream and me, they move to the skies shunning my being.
Teary eyes don’t say it all, I stand up and make a promise..after all..

Will fight the past and fill up the pits, for they are the graveyards of all the myths. No more I anticipate to be understood, the wise will do the needful. Those who disagree will now have to give me reasons, for I won’t shut up, over are those seasons.

Loose Verse

2007-04-22T18:08:00.000+05:30

Just a verse filled with words, running across the screen breaking the fine tuning of a busy day, with nothing much of substance to say.
It might be hurriedly read, or remain on the screen instead.
Its verbal nothings this side, while the better half of your world, in work, resides.
It jerks; the futile thought, over a cough so dry and rough, while across the oceans there is work unperturbed.
On the verge of breaking the symphony, that is building up out of my vacuities.
The verge stays unattained, and here you are reading, I presume, my words full of claim.
A ‘claim’ sometimes is all that you need to rest your life upon; it’s all you need to crush the flame of temporary gains.
I live with one such claim; I place it within the lines I frame!

---

Over five minutes while life drags on, I think to heal all that is gone.
Five minutes of this modest life, are just those few minutes which will evaporate like a deceiving lie.
In the farthest corner of my being, a feeble voice stays in despair to scream, asking for those five minutes where it can create its own scene.
Strange shadows of existence merge together forming nothing but a vague dream that is lived until mortality decides to seal the deal with death beckoning dimly leaving five minutes to pack my belongings.
She renounces her vows and blends with smoke, while she perishes under the debris of her own plight.
One with mud…over measly five minutes!

Threading bare

2007-04-22T16:52:00.000+05:30

Tired…that’s what I am in one word, for a change precise!
Voices in my head are growing louder and the ears to whom they are supposed to reach have gone deaf.
I beseech an ounce of ‘understanding’ me, it turns to backfire foul.
I am trying to save my baby from falling into a hollow, hurtful pit.
A futile argument runs in series in my head, dies, resurrects, gets grave, turns ugly, inch by inch drowning in venom, kaput….argument stagnant, stays, smells trite.
It’s my life in the circle of question, it’s my all at stake, it’s my possessed feeling in doubt, it’s a fear of taking that half step.
My words are liberal no more; they are subjected to the torture of fine-tune-ment, they have no taker, my words are damned, I feel suffocated, I see myself dissolve…
My speech is condemned, my voice is chocked, my thoughts are selling no more, everything that makes me ‘I’ is been asked to change…
This is me today, won’t be hereafter
I don’t, I won’t, I can’t…
Take me, don’t make me a reflection
Reduce me not to hopelessness, dismiss me not as trivia
….give me a fraction of you, which is all I ask, give me the word that comforts, give me your impression that you’re understanding me or at least trying to….