my casuarina tree

A suitcase of hopes

2012-01-26T21:23:00.000-08:00

I was looking outside thewindow-sill, found the rain water outlet so absolutely clean. Before I couldturn around and ask, my mother informed me Guddu and Bhatt uncle got itcleaned. My school can be seen across our house, a half-constructed parapet anda little girl running around in white stockings with a nice red-jacket on andher mother calling out her name.

Everything seemed very distantand all the voices drowned in that feeble winter sunshine. There seemed to havebeen a light drizzle. And there was this crumpled invoice of a failed courierin my hand. That dark steel gray suitcase never reached me. I had not paidattention to it in months. It was sent on the 3^rd of August, 2011 and today is the 26^th of January, 2012.There was a helpline number I could call on the reverse of that invoice. Some Mr.Kirtianswered my call, he tells me its about 5:30 pmin Mumbai and the office is about to close for the day. I gave him the consignmentnumber and he agreed such a parcel came and was never delivered to the rightfulowner and they conveniently informed us – Lost In Transit. He was kind enoughto assure me the parcel is safe.

Suddenly, I hate myself for notfollowing it up on time. The courier people offered compensation but I stood myground. I thought of consumer rights and the counter measures, anything notclaimed over a period of 3months can be disposed in whatever manner by thecourier people. But they said the suitcase was safe.

I began wondering what about thecontents inside. This aunty told me she sent an orange saree with a black and goldborder, meaning ornate heavy stuff. Mother told me, my favourite saree was alsoin that suitcase. I was like, oh no – you mean the silver one with that blueand dull gold brocade? She said yes. I was even more determined to get hold ofthe suitcase. Kirti told me the suitcase was in some godown in Pune. Why onearth, Pune?

I dialed the courier peopleagain, since it’s a toll free 24/7 hotline. A young woman answers my call and Icould almost sense domesticity in the background - a cranky husband and acantankerous kid and our lady was munching on something. I rattled off mymissing bag story to her. She could not care a flying whatever, she told me shewas eating dinner and she will see into this on Monday. I was very desperateand told her, that one of her colleagues spoke to me and assured me that they’dgo out of the way to ensure this got sorted out at the earliest. I don’t wantto sound sexist but I hated her so much at that point in time. I came down likea ton of bricks on her and questioned her work ethics and what about thatglorified thing called customer care and service and how they could be socareless of a missing baggage for 6 months. Mother interjects that she had packedsome homegrown herbs and foods. It was so agonizing to learn that, I almostfelt like saying woh sab jaye tel lene but the sarees are heirloom to me and I’ddo anything to remove the odours and smells of 6 months.

I wake up in the morning to findmy husband packing for his Europe trip and gosh, it wasthe same steel gray suitcase standing next to his favourite Samsonite. Very endearingly,he told me to have a look and see what needs to be added or subtracted. Ofcourse, I won’t find those 2 sarees – the orange one with the black and goldborder and of course, my favourite one, the silver one with the blue brocade. Thesilver one is with mother and the orange one does not even exist. It was a 4am dream.

By the way, I have been shopping to my heart's delight without burning any hole whatsoever anywhere. I began the year with an envious Kashmiri collection -a chignon saree,a heavy embroidered party stole and a salwar suit that I admire day in and day out and would hate to see the tailor cut to size. A few days ago, went berserk getting Rajasthani mojris and jootis of the choicest colors and don't kill me for getting about 8 MP handloom kurtas in different hues and dyes. Oh, another update, a friend's mom in Baroda just sent me 2 splendid Bandhej salwar suits in glorious shades. I am already over the moon. And,these are not gifts.

Apathy of the 'police'

2012-01-24T03:35:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, my landlady's YWCA city wing visited the Chanchalguda jail and she came home with 3-4 items prepared by women inmates and prisoners, the scheme is sold under the name Sudhaar Products from Central Jails and Prisons. It was very encouraging to read that the annual Numaish mela also had a stall dedicated to Sudhaar Prison Products. My husband and i were there last evening. From furniture to bed covers,towels to candles and soaps, there was pretty much everything. There were a few long-serving prisoners who did the PR. We picked up a bar of hand-made soap, wrapped in simple butter paper and waited for the counter-guy to issue us the receipt.There were different counter guys for different central jails - Warrangal, Cherlapalli,etc and they were issuing receipts for every damn item sold.By the way,our soap was from the Cherlapalli jail.The need for a receipt here was more in terms of promoting their cause through social media and all those with eco-friendly advice of saving paper here can hold their horses. Had the soap wrapper carried some information on that particular Sudhaar product and price, we would have still parted in good faith.

But then,bullies exist everywhere - our counter guy from Cherlapalli here was a very bald man who came close to abusing and threatening us in Telugu to return the soap and that he won't issue a receipt.He must have attended until 12th std but the education was not forthcoming.We tried to understand his logic - he said he has made a manual entry in his sheet of paper that 1 cake of soap has been sold.We were like, good for you but no heavens would come falling if a similar piece of paper was given to us.The Warrangal counter guy was more forthcoming, he was more than willing to issue a receipt but the police ego of his colleague bullied him into meek surrender.Another spectacled half- paan chewing henchman also tried to flex his police muscles with us.But then, truth hurts - we told him, he was useless and doing no service to customers by making a redundant entry in some random sheet of paper,it would be productive if he wrote us a receipt. The bystanders, were as mute as the rocks in the Outer Ring Road. They were happy collecting their receipts and their bags. It was not a big deal but it got into us that the stubbornness needs to be corrected and the police need to appreciate why a consumer right of a receipt is important for all and especially, being the guardian of the law, it is more important the habit is inculcated by them. I was almost reminded of how police constables wanted easy money but bargain for a receipt and they take to their heels.

Being insistent helps, the head in-charge, a smiling man calmed us down and said, he will issue a receipt.He acknowledged that however small or big the amount, a receipt will be issued. We also told him to train his subordinates to be a little more customer-friendly in terms of listening.But then, a grudge is a grudge. He issued the receipt in the wrong book - the Central Jail of Warrangal and tore the bill with all his smouldering smiling anger, that half the information on the top of the receipt remained with him. The embarrassment was tantamount -- we said thank you, but no thank you. Everybody was left red-faced. We actually felt we were inside a prison and thought how tough it must be for those who are wronged and not given a chance to negotiate. Those in power, clearly love to revel in power without a sneeze or a toss.

Random random random

2012-01-01T22:37:00.000-08:00

Another year went by in the city and it still fees like i left school just yesterday. I have a Peter Pan disorder. Also, I am prone to getting nostalgic at the drop of a hat as much as i claim to have moved on. Got some heady knocks and learnt some priceless lessons on the way, especially from near and dear ones and friends and former colleagues.No point intellectualising family and friends, each has their quirks and we have little choice but work around them, the options are few - endure,indulge or ignore.

I have literally gone places last year from status change to what not.I can't tell you how much i hate packing now, even unpacking is a nightmare. Many think i have changed - oh yes, if i am pausing by to catch a breath.

Living is an onward journey, with interesting chapters.I am not of a philosophical bent to say Life aha! It brings sheer joy to know comrades and 4am friends are following their hearts and dreams. Many are enjoying parenthood - the miracle of life does not cease to tire anyone.We don't get to meet or speak in days or years but that they are under the same sky somewhere is comforting.

I realised i am sentimental about challenges even with family. There are some things which are non-negotiable.I paid less alms last year and i am proud of it. Husband keeps small biscuit packets in the car and they are better than alms. Husband and i distributed surgical masks to traffic constables at signals, those surly guys smiled for once.I gave up eggs for 3 months on a whimsical challenge and celebrated the feat last night with a bread omelette I watch less TV,boring movies, dont touch the camera and read fewer books these days, and i am not fretting. I have an awesome ManFriday who brings tulsi saplings for my garden when i'm least expecting them.

Life is good, the chinks will iron out.

What Santa meant to me

2011-12-22T05:32:00.000-08:00

When i was about 8, our family moved in as tenants to this lovely cottage in a happy neighbourhood called Mawpun near Pynthorumkhrah, the bigger and easily identifiable landmark being the hallowed and historical Golf Links.Each home was unique.If our landlady was obsessed about rare roses in this world, our Garo neighbour grew corn and dahlias, while our Khasi neighbour had the loveliest orchids and perfect greens - i remember, Mom even bought many bunches of healthy mustard leaves ( all for 2 rupees) for lunch and dinner from the old dame. Her grandchildren visited her every Friday - Christabelle, Annabelle and Euphraim. We became weekend friends. The girls had absolutely rosy cheeks.Euphraim had curly locks.Their granny would try catching hold of them and apply coconut hair oil on their hair - she felt they never took care of their mane.

I celebrated my first proper Christmas with them that winter. Otherwise Christmas was always part of my winter holidays when we visited Police Bazar and admired the aroma of cakes and bakes that wafted in the air. Some old men sold branches of pine and fir for last minute Christmas trees. The imported Chinese made foldable and re-usable ones had not invaded the market then. Christmas to me, was the cards (some which were hand-drawn) that classmates and friends gave.One would decorate those cards for a long time or staple them into a nice arrangement. Christmas was singing carols in school the entire month of November and looking forward to that class-party of chips, cakes and juice. It was always great to count the number of beautiful stars outside the porches of my neighbours, the bigger and more colorful, my innocent mind thought, they must be rich! It never snows in Shillong which makes Christmas very different and warm.

Chris and Anna, and some other new friends asked me to join them in a Nativity play for the Christmas Eve celebrations at the local church. My folks gave me permission since i loved acting. I played an old lady who goes ecstatic at the news of the birth of Baby Jesus and i was taught to sing - "I've got the joy in my heart!" I went out for the neighbourhood carol singing, all layered and armoured with socks and mittens, jackets and mufflers.It was chattering cold but so much of fun and excitement. Every home treated us to lovely goodies.On Christmas eve, I remember taking my costume and bunking at Chris's granny's place. The dinner was simple but very delicious. I remember Chris's youngest aunt coming and instructing us to keep our stockings ready (yeah, even i could keep one) because Santa was in town! We were like yay!But we also exchanged doubtful smiles. I dint have a stocking ready - or even a fancy pair of socks. In greeting cards, those stockings and socks looked so good and colorful. Felt relieved to know,Chris and Anna also dint have theirs. Their eldest aunt, who worked as a nurse told us not worry and that we could tie plastic bags, the bigger the better.We all managed bits and strands of strings of wool to tie our plastic bags on the Christmas tree which was in the drawing room, nicely lit and decorated.We got back to our rehearsals and totally forgot about the Santa goodies.

Midnight mass was over, we all wished Merry Christmas to one another. Neighbours who only existed became friends - those warm hugs, the winter chill was magical. We came home and Anna reminded us to collect our Santa gifts. Very endearingly, she hoped the gifts must have arrived. We were not disappointed. While the elders were getting ready to retire for the night we were busy tearing our gift-wrapped packets with shrieks not forgivable at that unearthly hour. But all is forgotten in Christmas.I received a pair of lovely dainty hair clips which i preserved for the longest time. Someone played Santa, so i thought coz i really dint have a wishlist. But like all polite girls, I said, thank you and smiled.

The next day, i accompanied Chris and Anna and attended the morning mass, came home. My family joined them for lunch. Lots of cakes and biscuits, sweets and goodies. Post-Christmas was even more fun. There was a community feast. All the youngsters cooked for the whole neighbourhood.The love and warmth, the sharing of joy and happiness with everyone around - that is what Santa gave me actually. After that, i remember there were smiles for the rest of the year, everyone was a friend.

Suddenly, all of us grew up. The weekend visits were fewer. We moved out to the office quarters, away from the idyllic settings of Golf Link. We would meet Chris and Anna once in a while, while shopping. Our excited hellos were immediately restrained because we were big girls accompanied by elders.Many winters have passed by. Wherever Chris and Anna are in Shillong, have a blessed Christmas!Thank you for bringing Santa into my life!

Merry Christmas!

Imaginary failings

2011-09-20T01:10:00.000-07:00

The little efforts at making peace

Seem so lost in a thirsty desert.

Life is not about deals always,

Even if the demons say so.

Letting go and letting in –

Makes one a hero and a coward.

How much and what you make of it -

Your choice to remain in the rat race.

Blaming fortunes and the villain –

Seems the easiest way out.

No family, no religion –

Seems sanctuary enough in bad times.

Weathering the storm with grace

Makes one a braveheart, so I am told.

Crying silently, consoling quietly –

Waiting for the darkness to fade away.

~ Yours truly

Mexican food tales and home-made tacos

2011-08-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

I have never tried Mexican cuisine save for the affected upmarket nachos at PVR cinemas while in India - in the US, the urge is lower especially with limited vegetarian options.He finds them ok,especially the supermarket 'fresh' tortillas a good substitute for home-made rotis and phulkas and if the roti-maker that you have carried does not have matching voltage and the cooking appliance is not a gas burner but an induction one and a thousand other issues!

On the road trip during my birthday weekend, we had stopped by downtown Guerneville for a quick bite - he had some piping hot cheese quesadilla while i stuck to my safe nachos with salsa.

Back in our neighbourhood, we stopped by one of these Mexican food-on-wheels, quite like the mobile bundis we have back home.Trust me, they have great stuff most times!

I ordered a simple veg taco, the filling was tomatoes-onions-green chillies and some sauce sauteed with coriander garnishing on a hot iron pan. It was that simple but admittedly mouth-watering for a suddenly windy Californian evening.

Last Saturday, after a long day's hike and a movie evening out and my fastidious mind saying no to cooking at home or North/South Indian fare, we decided to go tacos!He is not very fond of Chinese or anything Asian, it will be acquired, he assures.But i must say i'm not very fond of the red beans taco for all its health benefits..I have a pet peeve or two with these beans. Also realised, the veg taco filling varies from wheel to wheel.

At Santana Row, at this nice quaint Mexican place - open air under a giant oak tree, i went footloose singing and clapping, dancing in my seat to their live Mexican music - a very happy place.I totally loved their pan-fresh Mexican fries with a light sprinkle of paprika, McDonalds should admit defeat and shame.He ordered Nachos with guacamole sauce and a sizzling something in sesame. We were killing time before that movie premiere.

Day before yesterday, he brought home a pack of tortillas and told me he is going to snip a centimeter of my hair everyday if the tortillas .Guffaws. So my lunch today was Mexican - veg tacos :)

For the filling

1 tomato, finely chopped

1 big onion, finely chopped

1 big green chilli, finely diced

1 clove of garlic,finely diced

1/2 a capsicum, finely diced

Salt to tast

A pinch of garam masala

Garlic pepper powder

A pinch of black salt

Chopped coriander for garnishing

A dash lime for garnishing

Half a tsp of any tomato based sauce (optional)

Any cooking oil

Heat pan over medium heat.Pour very little oil.Add some mustard seeds and cumin seeds and see them through till they crackle. Add the chopped onions and garlic, stir and fry until they give out that nice aroma.You may want to add a pinch of garam masala for effect. Add the chopped capsicum and tomatoes till all the juices blend well. Sprinkle salt and sprinkle garlic pepper generously per taste.And sauce,optional though. Garnish with coriander, a dash of lime and a sprinkle of black salt.

Now over to the tortillas - took out a couple of them.

(You can choose to heat them or not.You may also refrigerate them and serve later for a salad effect in styled cuts and slices, almost resembling those Indo-Chinese veg rolls, served in our restaurants back in India. Ideally, you should heat tortillas on a flat iron pan but putting them in the microwave for 20secs or so is as good enough.

You could use anything imagined from peanut butter to flavoured cheese. I took my favourite sour cream cheese cube and smeared it all over the tortilla wrap and added my already prepared filling. Roll it, and its ready. I also took out some of his favourite hummus paste from the fridge and that was as good.

Sorry, no pictures - i was really hungry but its a pretty much easy D-I-Y method.

I wanted to say Gracias to myself.

Dear Brother,

2011-08-12T11:37:00.000-07:00

2 decades ago, that cold February day when Mama and Papa got you home, I was overjoyed. Kids were not allowed to visit hospitals so your sister and I were at home for all those 3 days without Mama. Papa was doing shifts at home and at the hospital, cooking for all of us and Mama. Our grandparents could not visit us since our many cousins were on the way around the same time and there were old age problems whenever people had to travel to the hills in winter.

When we saw you for the first time, you were so tiny and fragile, almost like a doll. We thought you’d cry if we didn’t know how to cuddle you right. We often joked you’d fit in my schoolbag and could be wrapped in a big handkerchief of Papa’s. You were very fair, so fair; we would get our hands and faces close to your tiny hands and compare our fairness difference. Bunty always felt bad that she was considerably darker than you and that Mama would love you more. We all loved you so much. We still do. Do you know you are a tough guy? You never had Cerelac baby features. That summer when Granny saw you, she was so proud of you. Your second uncle, of course, placed you on the master bed and compared vital stats with your cousin and he was beaming ear to ear that his son was plumpier than you. But Granny said, you were the tiger, lean and strong – she was your nanny till you turned one. Also, all the elders who blessed you when they saw you for the first time said you are a blessing – Papa became an absolute teetotaller the moment you were born!

You always had more biscuits than all of us and of course, the TV remote. You were forgiven in all sibling fights but we never spared anyone who messed with you in the neighbourhood and in school. In winter, your cheeks went red like plums and you hated to be pinched since you had cucumber skin. Till you joined school, you had rock star long hair, unruly and wavy. You were fussy with food and clothes. I totally love the fact that you started nursery and kindergarten in a red school uniform - a red tie and red shorts with white shirts and white socks. You came home crying that the senior girls pinched your thighs and kissed you on the cheeks in front of everyone – but you were such an adorable 3-year old. Do you remember smiling at every stranger on the road when Mama walked you to school? We used to be so worried that you are such a kidnapper-friendly child.

The growing-up years were fun! All those birthday cartoons you’d draw and the number of sketchpens and crayons your stories had. We also fought very badly at times. I remember how you broke your first G.I.Joe within hours and you made my study room stink of Dendrite in fixing it. I know you treasure all your toys till now and especially, the green Vintage Hot Wheels car I got you from my first salary.

You ran away from home two times, once for Batman comics and the second time, just like that – don’t ever do that again. I also know you saved up all your pocket money in your second year in college for a day-trip to the next nearest city and cooked up some cock and bull adventure story at home. And every time after that, Papa humored you to a family dinner at your favourite Abba/Kimfa restaurant.

I know you don’t like the Internet so much. You still watch Wrestling matches on TV, I am told. When I began tying a rakhi on your wrist, I don’t remember. Papa always gave you two brand new crisp 5-rupee notes – one for me and one for Bunty. And I always loved getting you something on Rakhi. This Rakshabandhan, I am very happy for you, young man. You will be a graduate soon! You make me proud.

Love

The Extra-ordinariness of being a North Eastern-er (in India)

2011-06-27T12:09:00.004-07:00

I won't go on the clarion screaming how rich and diverse my background is.What is, is. No two ways about it.What happens with my brethren in the 'civilized' and powerful big cities of our country is unfortunate - we are paying for somebody else's insecurities.It's an abnormal hierarchy where negative energies are flowing in the reverse manner. I don't like the dung catching up.

Creating awareness is an archaic solution - (at least in my opinion). The helpline is a relief though.

Is hitting back a solution then ? No,we belong to Gandhi's true blue Ahimsa culture, how ironic. So, a couple of my lady friends atop a rickshaw were leered at with "Chowmein-Momo" by a bunch of boys on bikes who were also trailing them - and this is in tehzeebi Lucknow.I mean, do you even know what Chowmein and Momo are?Anyway, those ignoramuses were not prepared for the outcome.My brave girl responded "Aloo Paratha". The exchange went on for a few minutes till the bikers decided to take to their heels.Now let me not compare the nutritional superiority of one over the other.The Problem got solved.So, today it was Chowmein-Momo, tomorrow it will be something else. Symptomatic, you see.The 'exotic' food that you accuse us of eating from Chowmein to Momo- methinks you splurge on it and more (sold out on labels like Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese) when you can afford a foreign holiday and it's a to-do in your sad checklist.

A few years ago, two Indian girls (incidentally, they were from Manipur) were molested in broad daylight near Mumbai's Gateway of India. You and I know how many girls/women are assaulted in broad daylight and otherwise by so many who possess a d***, some by their male protectors at home, at work, in life - those kind of news get covered too, while many get brushed under the carpet even if the husband is raping the daughter. But trust the yellow journalists to sensationalize the molestation news because 'we' look different.WTH. Oh, by the way a friend called me up from Mumbai saying his heart reached out to me when he heard the news and therefore, called to check if i was safe. I was in safe Shillong then. I asked him what's wrong with him.

A sexual assault is a sexual assault. Don't try to infuse greater ramifications by branding 'us' different and the clothes we wear and the "free" culture as you ignorantly put it.I think the closest 'free' culture you have seen is the Osho cult, with due apologies. What kind of culture do you want to talk about - about keeping women gagged in the house like sex toys and child (sons preferably,if not, more dowry) producing machines, illiterate and subservient? Is that your idea of an ideal woman? Possibly your mother was not raised so well to teach you how to respect a woman. I blame your mother.

Clothes again, a matter of choice and keeping up with the times. Stop the double standards. In your wildest fantasy, you want to see god knows whom - your wife/girlfriend/sister/mother/cousin/aunt is forbidden to dress in anything Western since it is parampara ki khilaaf. So chance pe dance with anyone with different and otherwise looks who does not resemble your wife or sister ? You don't even spare your maid. You don't spare anyone in sari, leave alone western clothes.And when you get your ticket to videsh- you live a western life that you so loathed in India. You probably have some more to-dos in your sad checklist but the fear of the firang law keeps your tongue from too much wagging. Then, you cry foul - racism and blah!How ungrateful, after picking up that accent!Your parents did not teach you where to draw the line - tch tch, must have been poor in Geometry (Geography, we are not even discussing - we know you are a goner).

Go to the North East of India once ( I know, you won't). Because you think you will be skinned alive or shredded by a bomb. You think there are elephants walking all over, fantastic Shikari Shambhu imagination i must say! For the record, our men and women get educated, go to work and also, take care of the elderly and the aged. The old age homes are few and far between. And, the inmates are sadly from your part of the country.We are also cleanliness freaks, an example for all of you. We have regular community cleaning drives. You might want to adopt that as a best practice. We are very eco-conscious and stubborn when it comes to preservation and conservation. We are, in plain terms, more confident than your father.We are friendly not easily available, helpful but not dumb,self-sufficient but not junglee, and respectful and not of loose character as you dismiss in your crude and limited understanding. We don't go raid someone else's larder.

This fad of fasting,with due respect and apologies, is most annoying. Most "concerned people" have become caricatures setting down conditions for just about everything and everyone - from Telangana to Lokpal. And, look at Irom Sharmila.Non-violent and still persevering following her heart and doing her duty as a daughter of the soil.I'm afraid how revolutionary it can get. A certain Hazare and a lousy Baba are playing the KBC of media attention.

A few days before i flew out of Hyderabad, i was in the University waiting to meet the librarian, a familiar lady clerk remarked - Oh, you look so Indian.I was in salwars with basic bridal jewellery and a bindi. I said, thanks for certifying but no thanks, I am a fairer Indian than her. She was ??? I told her she looked Sri Lankan. She was flabbergasted. I patted her on the back. You get the drift.

Now, this happened in downtown Sunnyvale a week ago. We stopped by to grab samosas at Tikka Masala. While the owner handed the parcel to us, he warmly asked us where we were from.My husband remarked India. Then the man turned to me and asked me -what about you, ma'am?I was in kurta and jeans with my mangalsutra popping out..ah let me recollect, i also had some vermilion and a small bindi on my forehead. I smiled. He tried to be helpful by saying Singapore. I became wide-eyed. Perhaps, east India, Kolkata? Ok, you look East Indian, Kolkattan.I wanted to end his agony, i told him i'm a pseudo Bong. Ah, he confidently confirmed i won't understand if he spoke Bengali since he can speak Bengali and that he is from Nepal. My husband was petrified at what an explosion it was going to be. He preferred to play Buddha. Longer smiles. The owner did the dreadful thing of asking me Kemon acchho (How are you? - in Bengali). He got a huge helping in Bengali. I liked the result - a red-faced lobster look.Now, that's exotic! I asked him to do his homework and find out where east India and Kolkata are and how far is Singapore from there? I'll check on him in my next visit - his samosas are the closest to any Indian samosa here. Sigh!

So, cheers to the Extra-ordinariness of being a North Eastern-er everywhere!

Flight to SF and how i met my husband

2011-06-13T16:10:00.002-07:00

No major travel is complete without that famous checklist of what to carry and what not to,since it is a 'system'-driven over-exalted country -yes,the USA.Some things here are good, some average, most below average and you have the below below-averages too. I tried to be practical by not getting all that i wanted but it has driven my husband nuts why i didn't. For the record, i didn't carry some of my nice shoes,perfumes, bags and any of my junk jewellery( what they sell here is @$$%$$%^) especially if one has had the experience of having haggled with Afghani and Burmese peddlers and Indian karigars from semi-precious stones to terracotta to wound-metal and beads to bamboo to carved wood, of course not forgetting old forgettable trinket shops from across the country. I carried everything else, at least i think so - memories, love and wishes.

My flight was smooth with sleep. I slept, ate, drank lots of water and watched 6.5 movies - Unknown, Just go with it, Tron Legacy, Switched, The Tourist and The Apartment and bits of Tangled.I had an extra seat next to me and no celebrity on board .

At SF, immigration was smooth though the officer remarked i didn't look Indian as much as i wanted to reciprocate he didn't look American AT ALL. In 20mins, i was out at the lounge.

So, Friday afternoon US time, there is no one waiting for me at the lounge with flowers and music. No familiar smiling face. I had Mohini for company who was waiting for her brother and her dad.

Then, i dial him. Baap re, Airtel ISD roaming, that too, outgoing.

Where are you?

Ah, you have reached?

Yes, i cant see you!

Look around, you will see me - with a balloon and flowers :O)

Gosh! - Mohini found it so cute and romantic, i wanted to run away. Sweet gal!

Then, a sunflower balloon sailed in with a bunch of pink tiger lilies.And believe me, if it was an Indian airport it would not have looked any different. Just that, i didn't see any CCD or Baskin Robbins around. Here, it stood out. And, there was the familiar smiling face. I remember Mohini egging me to run and hug him amidst 'oh-my-god!' I was like no way - this is so hilarious and, embarrassing, of course.

I smiled and wondered at how i travelled round the globe to be with him.The first words were - where is the restroom?

Said a quick bye to Mohini and we were on the road. My seat had 2 lovely Dutch roses and I was Cupid-struck again. Flowers from him are very special. So, i have to tell you this. He is not the kind to buy flowers for me regularly.For the record, I have sent him flowers. He got me a Minnie Mouse balloon the first time we went out for coffee. He got me a toolkit in one of my housewarming parties and a travel adapter on one occasion. Flowers are few and far between. So you get the drift.

I got myself a nice pair of pink Adidas running shoes, not to show off ( but, of course) but to protect my feet.Pink does me in. Had lahori aloo naan and aloo palak for 16 dollars - he kept asking me not to do the dollar-rupee conversion like i could avoid. I wanted to start cooking from that Saturday - so we went shopping - again the conversion syndrome hit me.Prepared suji ka halwa for puja and poha for breakfast. Lunch was dal,roti, chawal and baingan ka bhaja. Watched Kungfu Panda 2, kinda disappointed at its Bollywood trail.

Sunday weather prediction was not so encouraging but i needed to get over my jetlag.Besides vegetable shopping at a Sunday organic farmers' market Hubby dear drove us to Brentwood for U-pick cherry-berry farm experience. Shop shut thanks to the sad weather, we bought a couple pounds of apricots and cherries for a dear price - lesson, manual labour is costly.On our way back, he took me to Milpitas thinking i'd want to shop.I was not particularly thrilled looking around. Each American resembles the other in style, size and appetite. A very consumerist society who does not know what to do in the weekend - except come shop, eat and go party like mad - and of course, egos massive as your neighbour's elephant. Got my socks and jeans, and 3 perfumes,ate a croissant and drove home. Jetlagged still.

Missing my hallu-hallu Hyderabad.

Madam, can i speak to Shweta Sharma?

2011-03-09T17:23:00.001-08:00

My 1st mobile connection in Hyderabad was an Idea pre-paid. My second was a Hutch postpaid in my friend's name - i incidentally became his sister for all verification purposes.Then, Hutch became Vodafone and I wanted a connection in my name. Quit Vodafone, dint think it was necessary to clear the last payment since they had a huge deposit.They sent me two dummy legal notices and stopped spamming my inbox.Lazy rascals, they won't settle accounts first. My Airtel post paid corporate connection came through with my name and address proof.This is like some 3 years ago.

Every few months, I get a call from the Airtel call center asking for a certain Ms Shweta Sharma. Obviously,the first few times, I was polite enough to say wrong number. The following year, again these calls started increasing from different sources and numbers. I suspected this girl must be absconding with pending payment and must have destroyed the SIM card so that nobody tracks her down. Dumbass Airtel has this policy of cycled numbers and yours truly's was perhaps used and destroyed by Shweta.These calls got frequent and intense to the point of warning me to disconnect my connection if i dint tell where Shweta Sharma is. WTH. I said, "theek hai bhai, woh bhi karlo. Fir dekhlo, Consumer Court mein we will sing - You and I in this beautiful world...(former Hutch signature jingle)"

I walk in to an Airtel booth and flagged this problem and this menace kind of stopped for about 10 months or so. Yesterday, in the middle of a spate of meetings at work, i get bombarded by calls. I picked up one and someone rattled off in Telugu. So annoying, why do call centers think everyone will speak/respond in Telugu? There are two acceptable languages of communication - Hindi and English. Of course, I uttered - "Telugu raduu, Hindi mein baat karo( meaining- I don't know Telugu, speak in Hindi)." Then the conversation went from "Wait, wait.." to someone asking me - "Where is Shweta Sharma?" So, she is still missing.

I had so little patience with such nonsense. From "I don't know." to "Why should I tell you?", the final one was "WTH are you bugging me?". Salesgirl, such a stubborn one.I told her ask Airtel, or else go to a Police Station or better still, Google her. She dint find it funny and I seconded the same. She said she is calling from Airtel. I dared her to suspend my services if that is what she is aiming at. Smart girl got the point. "No madam, hum bill payment ke baad thodi kar rahe hai. Aap ko itna gussa kyun aata hai ji?" Wow! She insisted on knowing my name - I told her it is not Shweta Sharma and she can check with Airtel what my name is and where i live. I asked her to come home and see that no Shweta Sharma lives with me or I am not Shweta Sharma.Again, she asked my name. I told her to go take a dip in Hussain Sagar then open the Airtel records.

She told me Shweta Sharma gave my number as reference, just in case. God only knows, what has become of her and what prompted her to give my number?

Read in TOI just the other day,a woman's docs were misused and there are 30 connections in her name and not a single connection is used by her. She was not aware so many connections were (mis)used in her name. Only after the telecom parties were on their verification drive, this was 'discovered' and thought of as a TOI item.Mine may not be TOI worthy but dear Airtel, this is annoying.

So yeah, in plainspeak i blasted this Airtel girl not to get me into an identity crisis of their making and get her facts checked.

So who is this Shweta Sharma? Oh by the way, in this part of the world, Shewta could be Swetha or Shwetha or maybe Sweta. Don't know which one is missing.

Women's day, truly

2011-03-08T10:36:00.003-08:00

It was raining SMSes and FB updates on how glorified we are as a species, how special we ought to feel and the warm pro-woman (not feminist) gestures were everywhere. My otherwise gruff boss wished each one of his lady lecturers - "Happy Women's Day, Madam!". Well, we felt very "special" needless to say, more zing at work, must i say! As much as i said thank god, one day nearly the whole race is out with roses and all, but how ironic! After sundown, pack up?

A gentleman at work comes and wishes me, then indulges in an intellectual argument - "madam, chalo aaj ka din toh khair.." That says it all. I nodded in agreement and sighed. He says women's problems are not always because of men alone and, most are due to women themselves. Didn't know whether to agree and be enlightened or whatever. Sometimes wilful ignorance is bliss. I remembered a play i studied in my masters - Thomas Middleton's Women, Beware Women.

There is hardly any dignity left even with the celebrations around. Amidst nation wide celebrations, one DU girl got shot, Aruna Shanbaug awaits life and death and closer home, an old widow struggles with the harsh truth of a runaway daughter who has left her family and kid.

Do i feel special as a woman? Totally. Special has such 'other' connotations.I feel totally special because i was raised very well by my parents that i dont have patience for nonsense - yeah yeah, I hear the groans. My conviction is not lost one bit just because my father thinks I cant take my own decisions. Grow up, Papa.

I dont know if i was (my grandparents are long dead and in the clouds) a good grand-daughter. My maternal ones always disagreed with me over everything from calling a transistor as radio and a half sweater as jacket.My paternal grandpa was gone much before my folks got married and grandma was some mad Amazon. My extended family thinks i am disobedient because i love doing things my way.Maybe, I am disobedient.I am convinced actually.

Mother - confusing. Your mother is never wrong, she is always sweet and sacrificing. Your friend's mother is also nice and as good as yours and mine.We never get into such disputes, do we? Especially if she is a male friend's mother who has no romantic allusions - she is always adorable. And you have the special friend's mother who is otherwise universally misunderstood as the Tamer of all young and nicely believed to be Shrews who come into their son's lives as their loves. Ask any girl who has visited her special friend's place and that she was not probed. Not all special friend's mothers are this universal kinds though. There are some outstanding ones too, who are beyond your comprehension and the universal category in terms of degree. Ma, you are beautiful.

I have an amazing sister who disapproves the fact that i am a plain Jane and don't wear make-up. Like any younger sister, she is vanity personified. I like her raiding my dressing table and wardrobe. My kid brother is my kid brother. He is known as my brother and that's a truth universally acknowledged and unchallenged, and I totally feel special as his sister.

My sisterhood of girlfriends - what would i be without you? From sleepless nights of sharing joys to disappointments and holding me in my vulnerable moments, you and i are meant to be.

An impromptu celebration of womanhood at work. Humble party, the only and most extravagant was a bottle of Sprite under a creaking fan. 3 of us from different regions and states of life, each of us spinning a yarn. What must a young bride be feeling 2 months before her marriage when her father passed away and her kid brother giving his 3rd year engineering exams? How about your mom away at her mother's and you and your childlike dad managing the wedding run-up and you have no brothers? And how about your entire family with extensions doing a no-show at your wedding and you are totally excited? Smiles.

I never ever wanted to be a girlfriend or have a boyfriend.Kept it convenient to avoid embarrassment,saves a lot of announcement and insecurity issues.And, i think, i quite succeeded for the longest time.

You have all kinds - mad, cribbing, ranting, vicious, funny, heroic, accommodating -Thank you for making life interesting. Such a hijacked day,from unstoppable tears and mirthful time with my lovely kids to a planned Women's Day surprise biriyani lunch with a future relative to be, my dinner was a bowl of Maggi. That explains it all.

Not a bitter harvest as someone puts it.

Jab We Met - trailer

2011-02-24T09:51:00.001-08:00

It was the year 2007.I never fancied much about Kareena and her talent pool till I 'just felt like' watching Jab We Met(JWM). I always found her a ridiculous Kapoor, like all the filmi Kapoors are.I also thought she did not have much to act and emote in that movie.In hindsight, did she? I feel,it is Shahid's movie. Anyway, posterity will want to remember it as Geet's movie - bubbly, vivacious and infectious- do what the heart says.

My roomie christened me Geet for my non-stop chatter-ability and of course my sunny demeanour. It was difficult to resist but I fell in love with Geet (not Kareena) and also, realised she is not unfamiliar.Until that point of time, my somewhat real and ultimate girl was a mix of Elizabeth Bennet and Catherine Earnshaw. Don't ask me who Scarlett O'Hara is and I am yet to say hello to Rhett Butler.Of course,my potion of going weak in the knees is, again, a mix of Darcy and Heathcliff. Trust English Literature Majors to moon like this.

Geet is a choice in life.We all have a Geet in us.I remember watching the movie like it were staple breakfast.What is it about the movie that stood out? Frankly, I don't want to intellectualise. Also, I made pronounced disclaimers that I would not run away from home to elope with a dabbu like Anshuman and ignore a DDLJ kind of a companion like Aditya who reforms from depressing to dashing dependable.

You know what, subconsciously I was looking for my Aditya.

1.1.11

2010-12-31T19:41:00.000-08:00

A tough one.
One is one.
The first one.
The lonely one.

To become two,
The wait is long.
The trials longer.
One, you just gotta wait.

Colgate Free Dental Check-up

2010-12-06T09:34:00.001-08:00

This is rather old,, decided to write about as I was clearing the inbox of my mobile number. Have been meaning to write about these 2 funny and conflicting SMSes I got.

There was this ad splashed in all the major newspapers sometime in the 2nd week of September, inviting SMS registrations from one and all for a free dental check-up by Colgate in their respective cities.Now who does not know Colgate and her credentials? We had to SMS the city that we belonged to, to a number - 567625.

Ok, I am able to retrieve the date - it was 11th Sept'10. I SMSed my location to the said number and within a minute I get the reply - "Sorry! The Oral Health Month activity of Colgate has concluded in 31st Oct 2010.Visit www.oralhealthmonth.co.in for more details."

Yes - on 11th Sept'10, I get a SMS informing me the camp got over already.

Anyway, with as much cynicism I carried about the chores of the day when another SMS beeps. Again, from the same number,only this time it says - "Colgate free dental check-ups from 1st Sept 2010 to 31st Oct 2010 for Hyderabad

Call Dr.R,Ajaykumar 55637696,9885195612,,

Ganesh Ramesh 66834298,9866044298

Shilpa A Reddy 23553375,23303085"

I did not want to attend the camp anymore.I finally did not.

Four weddings and a Funeral

2010-11-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

An autumnal winter welcomed me,

For a lovely wedding,typically Indian.

Where the boy meets the girl amidst families and blessings.

Life begins on an arranged note.Rehearsed.

Seven years is brave for love to be as fresh.

Does your man cook dinner for you today?

Life is hopeful, circumstances tougher.

Advised to be married and followed.Exotic.

A father's delight.A mother's pride.

Their daughter is an MBA.Applied for PhD.

The day approaches, the watches are matching ones.

She is just a kilometer away in the same neighbourhood.Relieved.

The darling of everyone,the labour of their love,

She just learnt how to say, "maasi!" a week ago.

She has gone home after her play.

The playground does not look the same.Tragic.

A summer wedding, maybe.

A winter one,hopefully.

When is it happening?

Coming soon!

And, Hyderabad saw some who ran

2010-11-20T07:50:00.001-08:00

A social responsibility initiative of a college and an NGO to promote 1098 - Childline. The roads surely belonged to the young ones - those who ran, those who walked, those who zoomed in their bikes and scootys for delicious eye candy and for want of sunscreen.Some kids who wore the white tees were absolutely thrilled for the faarst time! I hope, you get the drift.

I had dressed aptly for the occasion - in sports gear, only to realise I was going to emcee the show! I mean, what? Methinks, I should command a premium going forward for all the stop-gap arrangements I do (wink, wink). Overheard -"Arey, yeh Chinese bhi bhag rahi re!" That's Hyderabad for me after 4 years.

I carried a spare kurta, a hand towel, sunscreen and a pair of sneakers for a colleague (who never wore them, I am grrr that she didn't tell me she already had one). And, yes. The stage did not have adjoining green rooms, not even a makeshift one. I was expected to change my outfit in some goddam car, which did not even have dark screen.Nevermind, the dignitaries can wait. They did. Meanwhile, I walked to the MMTs Railway Station at Sanjeevaiah Park, spoke to the counter guys to open the ladies loo. The old gardener had the key. In a minute, I was in a new avatar. Kalamkari kurta, black capris and absolutely colorful sneakers and mehndi hands and strictly told, I cant wear a cap.Thank god, for sunscreen. In such times, the common man also loves to play some power games to establish the hierarchy.He asked for a neat 11 rupees. The most beautiful invective that flew out of my sacred morning mood was 'Chup be!' I did not even use the loo for its real purpose, besides the free loos in most malls are way cleaner than his one.The juice guy brushed past me, helpfully whispered in English -"Madam, pay him one rupee only." 'Only' before/after/ stressed/non-stressed is so Hyderabadi. I thanked him in the most 'firang' fashion to make his day. And I marched to the venue, only to be nearly gasped at by everyone. The programme began, amidst jumps and starts, coughs and hiccups, breaks and whatever. I think, I don't remember a word of what I spoke there.Daniel Defoe gave the world one Manfriday for Robinson Crusoe, yours truly is the female version for all seasons - I felt like aloo-tamatar, dal-chawal, ginger-garlic, salt and pepper (please ignore the food analogy, I was really hungry when I was doing the show).

The program got over, and as anticipated, there were enough and young Shakespearean fools, gender unspecific - some eat out of your hands, some eat dust, some commit faux pas of going all giddy about classified information - who provide such sitcom entertainment.I mean, college kids around their teachers will continue to be moony eyed (guffaws). There are rare exceptions like me, for example.

B and I had a total girl's day out. Sandwich starters with two lovely kids.Then Chinese lunch.Then, a total brain-outing of a Hollywood movie, of course not to forget the jewellery shopping (blush blush).Tired feet dying for TLC.

Psst : KCR forgot there was Jai Telangana bandh. The chief guest, some politician looked so pissed to have been woken up so early, especially on a Saturday.

Smiles.

Tuk-Tuk tales : Kiss in the mirror

2010-10-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

I hailed this auto last morning on my way to work, it had all the works of Basanti Tangewali. Anyway, meter on and we were on our way zooming when i notice a salacious pair of ugly red lips on both the side mirrors.OOOf!

Whichever side of the auto one sits, at the back - central, left or right, our man has ensured he gets a a live coverage of heaving bosoms, with dupatta, scarf, odhni or without one from the rear-view mirror.

I tried to perch myself strategically away from those roguish lips,i managed to hide from one side but was covered on the other, not happening!

And our man in a torn khaki shirt was too listless and bored to care about the discomfort.Anyway, i thought this makes for an interesting entry and for lack of a better pair of lens, i took out my old and humble N72 to capture those lips. Our man got alerted.He began stretching his arms to,ofcourse, block my view. He also began driving superfast through all potholes and god, i wanted to swear at him. But then, i spared him.Om Gandhigiri!

I took about 6 wrong pictures before i hooked the ones i wanted.

Alpaviram

2010-10-25T10:20:00.003-07:00

Breezy autumn evening, mosquito coils, tabla beats resonating in the air amidst sound check - 1,2,3, guitar man chewing a gum most audaciously (was he bored? can he get bored?he was melancholic, methinks).Chairs getting arranged, tickets guesstimated and sold, everyone getting ready and most arriving late - our lady in nice shimmering saree with neck tilted to one side and all her hair falling on one side of her shoulder revealing her milky white arms and lovely back.Seats negotiated, some want it in front, you know the feel-important look and act-pricey bit.Organisers accommodating and obliging, visual distraction with a tch-tch.Annoying audience, especially the one seated immediately behind us, bad leg manners.Some corporate rookie with a very pronounced tee exclaiming dude-ness in rudeness.Nevermind.May his legs hurt.

The show began before time, from the mike testing. The Audience didn't know if something began.Maybe, they did. They stopped expecting the ceremonial hello, good evening wala introduction.I knew the show began when the dried leaves showered almost, naturally.The skies didn't open up, thank god!

A flautist, a percussionist, tablas and guitars - sheer magic that even tone deaf people sat up and kept quiet.The compositions were short, lively and arresting.

7 Zoozoos and their 1 director Zoozoo without the eggheads just ransacked the stage randomly without any punctuation.Lost in music and rhythm, not able to get their beat. They looked a little unsettled, they insist they are just the way they are - no holds barred, please did you come looking for something? Delivery of most ad-punch lines, abrupt and deafening. Again, a disclaimer. It's just the way they are.Reminded me of the premise of the Theater of the Absurd, randomness as a plot, if there was any.The sub-plots are interesting with the expanded 4-dimensional exaggeration, very much needed.Use of props, excellent. Improvisation it was!Background music was not required even for extended effect, dialogues were lost sometimes because of it.A very A-rated evening generous and replete with 'Pardon my French' stuff. Acting, each one was a class apart.Situational comic relief, awesome.The Audience laughed even at tragic moments.The emotions represented by each Number -profound!Love, Anger, Acceptance, Memory, Peace, Fear - one thread of randomness. Some sections were visibly disturbing and dragging - the abortion-foetus scene, the prostitute mother-son pain.Fear was the best. Peace was natural, effervescent and peppered with messages. The Director gave his heart and soul, pretty evident. The sweat of his toil is Alpaviram. Standing ovation. The MC did not have to fish for compliments. The rain clap did not have to be taught. It rained claps. We enjoyed it thoroughly.

The audience.Sigh!Outrageous mobile phone etiquette - we just could not care less. The annoying buzz of not-so muted conversations to race towards demonstration of gray matter and how they can connect and identify.The media - defiant and noisy, they always do us favours by perching the cameras and expecting goodies.A piqued gentleman rebuked them, deservedly so.

There was this permanent breathing prop on stage, a clayed girl - the idol. The sutradhar. She breaks free. Brought memories of Rekha Bharadwaj's Tere Ishq Mein - how the heavens and the mountains move in the spirit of love.

Crescendo!

No more reviews, please

2010-10-22T11:44:00.002-07:00

Two aunties are avid movie buffs. They would go watch movies from Monday until Wednesday, morning-afternoon shows to keep abreast before the next Friday release.How multiplexes are on weekdays, well, no idea. Our grand dames always booked 4 tickets, one each on either side were kept vacant so that the junta don't rub elbow space with their arms.I thought they plagiarised my idea.Damn!

Writing about movies no longer happening. The big theater no longer excited me. The popcorn- water bottle jaunts no longer irritated me. I dint want to go to the loo during the short break. I hate BookMyShow. I miss Talkie Town.I miss last minute bookings.No time for wish-fulfilment.Independent gallery. Movies are a chore today.

The last movie that I watched of Ajay Devgun left me smiling - U,Me aur Hum when he says love is endurance.Once Upon a Time in Mumbai, Road Movie and Peepli Live. Unparalleled stuff, apparently. Overheard smart corporate-ish people saying -" kya?" Death of the audience. Too cliched if you praised the movie, suicidal to question the premise.

But nevertheless Dhinchaak paisa vasool

Dabangg - kamaal karte ho Salluji. You did it! Forget the South Indian Robot with your ex-Miss World 97, you are more handsomer than Rajnikant ( lovely hearts floating in between the eyes)

Do Dooni Char - typical North Indian family, modest income.Why was it so familiar? Relatives.Shaadi expenses of sister's in-law's somebody. Not Disappointing but not impressive stuff from the original Kapoor couple's only other comeback after Love Aaj Kal.

Aakrosh - Disturbing. Hardhitting.Ajay Devgun and Akshaye Khanna. Raw. Sensuous.Dripping.Gripping.

Curiosity killed the cat!

Aisha - i thought of Abhay Deol, i smiled. But well, both of us sighed at Aisha. Sigh! No, not remotely Jane Austen.Sacrilege! Anooradha Patel, well.vintage ;-)
Anjaana Anjaani - Piggy Chops after Dostana and Pyaar Impossible, and not to forget her month-long TV wateva is over the moon with this one. The clothes are as incompetitive as Aisha's designer wear but even Ranbir's dependable sterotyped goofiness is not saving the pennies. Depressing premise.
I hate Luv Storys - God,save me!

Khatta Meetha - needed hajmola to digest Akki's common man chatri act and that irritatable punctuation-forgotten constipated rajdhani express dialogues. Marital rape and violence in an Akki-Priyadarshan treat, nah! Too many social issues!

So glad I dint dare watch Badmaash Company - don't like Anushka Sharma,so no show despite her all show. watched her Rab Ne by chance because i dint know her name.

Midnight conversations

2010-10-11T11:10:00.001-07:00

A poem

Scenes and flashbacks.

Hide and seek betrayal.

Life on a begging platter.

Diminished but hopeful.

Happiness and flourish.

Speculations ruin.

Promises destroy.

Never look back.

Dignity and truth.

Awareness eases.

You live to smile.

Smile to love.

A promise

Life alone is not easy, so I'm told.Cranky behaviour, panic calls and difficult conversations.Solution, get hitched.Problem,find the right person.A meeting.Laughter, bonhomie.Maybe,maybe not.Sorry,I am cynical.

Yes,buoyant!Coffee.Long drive,no candlelight dinner yet.Shopping,a movie?

Screeecch! No, not happening.Never happening.Broken.No.Taking it easy.

Moral : Whatever happens, happens for the best .

Stories

What do you mean by G-O-D? Don't know.G- Generate,O-Organise,D-Demolish.Arey, Brahma,Vishnu, Maheshwar, our Hindu Trinity!All scriptures mean the same.All roads lead to Rome,er..G-O-D.

What goes around comes around.Why you and I met in this world.Surely, a reason.Tch, cliched.Someone asked Goddess Ganga if she does not feel the burden of sins washed into her by mankind.No way, she gives to the Sagar (sea).She has no reason to be burdened.Sagar also did not carry the burden of sins washed down by the three holy rivers - Ganga, Jamuna and Saraswati. He gave it back to the Baadal (clouds). Baadal never kept the burden at all, whoever defaulted - he visited them during the rainy season and wreaked havoc with a little flood here and there.

Awareness of sin is important, acknowledging is even more important.Maharathi Bheeshma Pitamah, the grand patriach of the Kauravas and the Pandavas on his death-bed made of arrows asked Lord Krishna what he had sinned to deserve this. Remaining silent when a person is wronged amounts to sin.Many years ago, he had diced a snake to death. Two landmark events that went on compounding for lack of awareness.

Never borrow or seek a favour from anyone.The idea of return gifts.Need not be expensive.The thought matters.Be self-reliant. I will give no favour and expect none.

Life is beautiful.

Reaffirmation

2010-09-11T18:06:00.001-07:00

That happy unaware child with the balloon.
That lil' girl building castles in the beach.
And the content wife praying to the guardian deity
Not to forget the protective mother weaving stories for her child.
...
The misgivings of trust and time
Never necessarily breaks the doll's house.
Some get disheartened, a little.
Some disappointed, somewhat.
...
Your name beams with your picture,
Reaffirming of the calm twilight to come.
My feet curl up when the seas come ashore.
Looking for familiars lest I drown.
...
Years of love, and longing
Seek approval in that one missed call
Which you lovingly indulge, like always.
And the petulant me skips a heartbeat.

Smiles.

Life in passing

2010-09-03T18:55:00.002-07:00

All the journeys I made seemed so trivial,
A milestone, a memory of fast disappearing familiars.
Everything old is new again for the one last time.
The mist of the past fades before me,
Beckoning me to smile amidst a hidden tear.
There are happier days to come.
The ride to a milestone, the chatter and bonhomie.
Sleep trailing before and after, defiant eyes, alert.
Life will never be mundane, never ever.
Absolutely, quiet and peaceful night,
Awaiting the morning-after of confusion and hope,
Of bigger dates with fortune and sincerity.
Memory is for cats and snakes, not for me.
Remembrance is for the departed and days bygone.
We live and love, not to be reviled, forgotten and revived.

Tree house - memories from Mawlynnong

2010-08-08T05:11:00.000-07:00

So today's Hyderabad edition of the Times Crest has a travel feature on tree-houses in India and the need-to-know info around it. Sometimes, I wonder who writes for them, of course the quality and standards need not be questioned. But, I am dismayed to find the options are too cliched and definitely, do not cater to all and sundry. It panders to a trying-to-be desi firang crowd who would want to find weekend options to get away from the hullaballoo. The title of the feature is such a giveaway "Posh Perches" (guffaws) and there is a small inset which reads "up,up and away" - aspirational people, I tell you.

If one has time, one may look up Mawlynnong. It is a small village of about 200 people, about 3 hours drive from Shillong. Now don't ask me where Shillong is. It is the capital of Meghalaya, the abode of clouds and it is in India. This quiet and definitely, not sleepy hamlet will generate some interesting Internet trivia like Asia's cleanest village after a NG travelogue writer has covered it.

The journey to Mawlynnong is a very memorable one. I saw Mawlynnong pictures of my colleagues, boss and students of my last workplace -- all haa haa, hee hee, a beautiful waterfall in the background and lot of raw green bamboo cups for water and tea. Refreshing.

I was home for an Autumn vacation. Got details from my ex-boss how to reach there. Small world. An old classmate from college ran the tourist wing.Joyous.I went to see her at her office. There was not a single vacant treehouse for the next 4 days and I just had that much time to see the place. But touchwood, I always end up quite lucky, I got a double room treehouse all to myself at half the price for 2 days (some last min cancellation) and it was raining cats and dogs!Luck too.

My friend told me, she could arrange a chartered cab to and fro for a decent price. She handed me a letter in Khasi which I am supposed to hand it over to some gentleman once I landed in Mawlynnong. I decided let's hitchhike ala Swades. It was more fun than ever. Went to Iewduh aka Bara Bazar. There is a sumo stand there, a yellow patch - all locally pliable sumos are yellow in colour. We took a share sumo to Pynursula, 40 rupees per head or probably less. The drive is divine. Floating clouds, undending dales and valleys, sudden showers, beautiful bends, gurgling streams and the imposing sky. At Pynursula, we get off at the market, a small bustling square. Lot of Maruti 800 local taxis. And, yes I did feel slightly happy high after the winding drive at 40km/hr. After getting back some rhythm, I had to figure out how to reach Mawlynnong.My smattering knowledge of Khasi was put to good use that day.

I definitely look Mongoloid and chinky, lovingly and offensively called by my mainland brothers and sisters. I started blabbering in Khasi, literally even at Mawlynnong like a local Kong. The discomfort of not being an authentic local was pretty palpable after my city posh-ness. One Bah was kind enough to take us to our destination for a fair price, 200 rupees. I was already frolicking. That's probably the amount a local auto fella in Hyderabad would charge from me on a rainy day or a late evening for any distance between 10-15kms.A beautiful ride uphill.

There was no welcome as such but a horde of children playing all over a metalled parking space fenced by ornamental crotons greet you. There is a small tea stall at the entrance of the village. We stopped there for a cuppa and our gentleman was there to receive us. We handed over the letter, he took a small receipt book and asked for some subscription.The doubting Thomas that I am occasionally, a thought crossed my mind - is it some hafta wasooli? Trust my outsider instinct, damned! He told me community welfare and upkeep. I was trying to be convinced. We tried to be modestly generous, offered them 500 rupees. He was offended mildly. Asked me to take back the money and I was taken aback. Was it too less or what? He said, too much. He said he appreciates our thought and concern but it's a rule its only 100 rupees. My god, my heart just skipped a beat.Earnest.

A friendly dude took over. Henry is the best guide in the world, more athletic and controlled in his worn out Bata hawais and a piece of betel nut in his mouth than us who looked so out of place in our floaters and advennture wear. He was our personal, customised hospitality manager. He took us to our machan, this great imposing one under a gushing stream and a small waterfall amid the looming wilderness and I was definitely, flying. More than comfortable double beds, squeaky clean linen and blankets, mosquito-nets,just in case for the finicky ones and ample furniture, scrumptious and heavenly home-made food in the adjoining kitchen, nice toilets and bathrooms, evening walks, visit to the church and nearby places, early morning treks all the way to the Bangladesh border and the living root bridges, and the icing on the cake was a cool skinny dip in the backyard of our machan before lunch. I only heard the rain and wilderness at night, right in the thick of nature. Felt vulnerable and delighted at the same time that such things also exist.

It was almost like I was in another yesterworld. Keeping the village clean is not a Municipal order for this village- it's a way of life. They export brooms and arecanut. There are no fences between houses and cottages. The land belongs to everyone, only the pigs belong to the owner so long they are well-behaved in their pens. If they are soiling, then they become pork for everyone. Couples marry and the entire village helps them set up their house and farm. I was touched by the close-knit social responsibility. Henry took us to his friends and wow, all of them with their hearts in the right place. Henry and his friend came to see us off till Shillong. They refused to take a paisa from us. They were so apologetic that I had motion sickness. We signed a cheque of 3500 rupees at the end of 3 days and wrote a paean to them in the visitor's diary. Never felt so at home. I want to go and meet Henry and take him those promised things that still await fulfilment.

today

2010-07-20T11:25:00.001-07:00

uncanny but brooding
this impatient simmering,
hurtful and caustic.

little brown lizard
on the right side,
now inside the bonnet

the signal at red,
smoking and coughing
just missed one life.

skin tight purple,
yellow sports bike
ugly, clumsy, fallen.

a not-delirious fever,
a constant oppression-
the price for being polite.

a few harsh words,
a little short of danger
the ugly ego wins again

some lost friendships,
some young, some old.
a bitter medicine.

Letting go

2010-07-08T10:52:00.000-07:00

A laboured life but a graceful one,
The well oiled plait till her hips,
Not anymore lustrous
As it would have been in her prime.

Seems to me, she learnt dance,
The big bindi and the graceful wrists,
The faded cotton sari and the narrow waist ,
Arms as slender but not deprived.

The handsome toddler and she
Chatter and stroll in the twilight,
Her unfailing vanity on her shoulder -
The smallish grey purse has seen it all.

The sky is overcast, the earth is thirsty.
Little men make brisk business.
The flames crackle, the tea boils.
Some want it fast despite no hurry.

Little boy wants a roast cob,
Grandma wants some adorning flowers.
Hand-in-hand, smiles of satisfaction,
The winsome-twosome hitch a ride for half a mile.

The smell of coconut and the waft of jasmine,
And, baby shampoo and milk-rice,
Left me wondering at dear life
Where is my grandma and my little boy?

Raavan - Ramayan gone right ya wrong

2010-06-29T07:07:00.004-07:00

Bollywood does not fail to surprise me with its whims and also,its fancies. A Prakash Jha take on the Mahabharata saw the nation drooling on some Italian connection - Godfather and Sonia Gandhi, wow I must say.Taken for granted,you are intelligent enough to get the drift.Now, Ram Gopal Varma has the last laugh at those who panned his version of Sholay, the national Aag is all over from Shobha De going on print record saying Mani has lost it to all and sundry in my city saying the Telugu-Tamil version is better because Vikram acted in it. Hello, then what was he doing in the Hindi one? A friend from Pune pings me to tell me that irate fans have reportedly asked for their tickets to be refunded. Methinks, those irate concerned should set up counselling helplines to deal with the trauma and damage this colossal epic has brought about. It is only a movie.

Mani Ratnam is every South Indian's (extended to all Indians by default) national pride and treasure. His movies have one burning social-political-economic agenda standing out (Bombay was Hindu-Muslim communal riots, Roja was Kashmir terrorism, Dil Se apparently ULFA terrorism, Guru, of course the quintessential rise of the Gujju Ambani, now Raavan with Lal Maati-Kobad Ghandy-Maoist? whatever,really?) BUT he steers clear of offering solutions on a universal scale ( I mean, why should he?), he entertains with sometimes good, at times decent-passable Rehman music and by far, the only-of-its-kind (so far, the rest don't get any mileage if it is not a Mani Ratnam film) breathtaking cinematography skills of Santosh Sivan.

I have watched the Hindi 'version' of Abhi-Ash-Vikram believing there is one.Do not be carried away by the punchline - 10 heads, 10 minds, A hundred voices, One man - it is just a distracting disclaimer. Why does Mani Ratnam make so many versions of the movie with different people? Will somebody ask him? Now, I am yet to watch the Tamil-Telugu version just to get a wholesome picture of what he was trying to show the audience or maybe, I can give that a pass. An aside, the enthusiasm of a movie gets killed when I have to hear from very movie-informed South Indian friends - "Oh, the movie is a copy of a Malyalee film or a Telugu film or a Tamil film. You should watch this in..." and there is a cacophonic blah in their vernacular with an instant dismissal of whatever.

I get it, Indians like variety but at what cost? I understand it as cloning, there is nothing unique about a movie anymore. If it was dubbed and subtitled, I would have still given him the benefit of doubt.But Indian film-makers are good students of inspiration (most times, read as copying). So, is there any original of Raavan? Raavanam? Villain of all names for Telugu audiences, jeez.

There is an unfair comparison (which could have been avoided) between the two Beeras. Mani Ratnam claims he has not had much hand in the Hindi creative production and depended mostly on his assistant. He feels 'better' about the Tamil-Telugu version because the creative reins were in his hands.

The amount of research done, so claimed is not reflected anywhere in the movie. Dropping names before the media like Kobad Ghandy (who is a regular burning issue every 2 months on NDTV's We, the People) is not cool when all you mention and try to show is some Lal Maati ( Red soil, get the Maoist drift) and a police crime. Yes, full and more points for the oh-so-breathtaking choice of locales and camera angles. The first scene where Beera (Abhishek) is seen towering in a dhoti and nothing else brought faint memories of The Dark Knight - the heady giddy feeling in the first scene.

The story is not very difficult to predict. The ending also, with such a giveaway of an epic title. Ragini (Ash) as the dance teacher-wife of Rayban-wearing, mooch-sporting S.P. of Lal Maati Dev( Vikram). The play on the names is quite palpable - Beera tangently Veer (the chivalrous one) and Dev maane Bhagwaan (obviously, gods make 'mistakes' in the name of rules and laws but Gods can never go wrong). Ragini is almost apsara-like claimed so many in that sylvan set-up. Well, she was not that bad but she is not as great as claimed with the baggage of marital fat showing up and I am not saying, fat is bad. She has a good sense of style and choice of clothes otherwise, in real life. The Sabyasachi cleavage hinting outfits are good, but not really focus-worthy.

Govinda's Hanuman reprise was comic relief as much as Ravi Kissen's Mangal act. But Chichi's time is up - he should stop monkeying around anymore.Really, he flies in the movie. He disappears and reappears. Something is made fun of but I am not being able to point a finger where. Tch.

Priyamani who plays Beera's half sister is a spunky livewire. Spunky people always don't get everything in life, sigh! A police gangrape told with a staccato stare, the next moment she is gone, caught in her creaking cot in the well. Police atrocities happen. I have not heard of men being raped by women police, however. The state of the police department in any place in India seems to be deplorable despite the collective faith conscious. The interrogation with the tribals in the forest is an utter joke.

Ajay Gehi (last memorable act was as Sunny's sidekick in Gadar) as the voice of conscience (Vibhishana) gets killed by the system(Dev). Obviously, this is Kaliyuga. Rookie cop played by forgotten hero Nikhil Dwivedi (of My name is Anthony Gonsalves fame) as the stark naked mistake of the police department is not a new tale in the twist. A lot of our young veer-jawan desh ke liye mar mitne wale are of this ilk, the invisible tail in between their visible manhood. His kidnap and mundaan saaf by the Lal Maati Beera bhakts is well, cinematic poetic justice for the suicide in the well.That he became a pschological shock victim is well, not a sympathy trip.What a punishment - buried till the chest in the ground and pilloried.Oh, stripped as well. If that could prevent crimes against women, if only.

The guerilla tactics used in the movie are the lousiest I have ever seen in these days of larger than life make believe. Almost, lost in the cattle class with multani mitti face-packs everywhere, on everyone. There is a tropical feel everywhere - the rains, the slippery mud, the overwhelming waterfalls, hamlets, pots and pans.

Everything is fair in love and war,so they say. Beera is smitten and bewitched by Ragini, comparisons almost epic and tragic, like Helen of Troy. There are moments of dignity in the questioned Robin Hood-Raavan yarn when Ragini's faith breaks down before Lord Vishnu's giant statue and she says she is not that strong and brave, and that she is only putting up a front. This is the same woman who scorned Beera in the beginning and refuses to allow anyone to take her life so easily, she just dashes off the cliff with that pride intact of a human being in control of her fate and actions. The distressing wife overtakes her in the last few reels of the movie after the controversial bridge-burning duel where Beera lets go of everything. She pleads with Beera to know if Dev is alive and ok, how tepid!

The brooding Beera has two annoying refrains - " Chik chik chik chik..." and "Bak Bak Bak Bak.." to display irritation and instill fear. Frankly speaking, he lost whatever little gravity he had, thanks to those two lovely refrains. He becomes the good rogue with a golden heart, who loses his heart and life for the lovely ice maiden of a Sita-prototype.

Treta yuga Sita was banished and she gave up her life to prove her chastity. Our Kaliyuga Sita stops the train, refuses to undergo the fire-test, err, I mean the blood test not because she is scared but she wants to give sense and sensibility a chance. There begins the Beera trail. As mutual acceptance begins to bloom, the wily and brute Dev corners the hunter. With a cry for justice asking posterity who the real Raavan is, Beera dies a heroic death. For Dev, work is worship. His work is to capture Beera, dead or alive. In this war, everything is fair. He forsakes his wife's love too in a tragic taken-for-granted way. This is the same man who is moved to tears when he visits the abandoned hide-out where his wife was held hostage. Vikram is business-like, cold and matter-of-fact. An ordinary husband, and not the god (Dev) that an Indian wife prays and fasts for on sacred Mondays.

The only real menacing fear in the movie came from Mangal. He had the choicest of lines from nailing home the truth - people fight for food, and one should not insult food to real guffawing rhymes like - Kranti ko shanti do. From the days of playing Lord Krishna on our telly to gyrating as the Big Boss of Bhojpuri Films and telly-hosting, this man has come a long way. Simple and intense, he is a quiet show stealer. With that shaving knife and Nikhil Dwivedi tied to a chair, Mangal's ritualistic jungle dance was chilling, almost laced with cannibalistic mania when he contemplates which body organ to cut off first - the nose? or gouge the eyes? slit the throat? or better still, chop off the ears? Of course, the result is symbolic - stripped of dignity, tit for tat with no hair and clothes.

Mani Ratnam makes films.He made this one too.Period.

Alive

2010-06-10T10:51:00.001-07:00

Romancing the rain,
I told myself,
Time is my ally,
The world is my best friend.

I love without a care
I live without fear.
My dream is safe,
I sleep in peace.

-Smiles

High Five for Rajneeti

2010-06-04T11:48:00.003-07:00

I feel so good doing a movie review after a long time, even Slumdog for all its Rehman-Resul Oscar bandbaja is not worth reviewing. I restrained the movie buff in me to watch a Housefull of Kites and Badmaash Company for the heck of it.

Rajneeti lived up to its hype. Katrina’s sunscreen ad interspersed with her Sonia Gandhi-like scenes and dialogues kept the hype going. After their Ajab-Ghazab on-screen chemistry, the PR people did their homework well in working on the Ranbir-Katrina USP.

Rajneeti has that perfect story, a taut narrative, amazing cinematic vision, cast and ingredients right from its promos with Manoj Bajpai (who?) complaining of missing his share of limelight. Rajneeti is not dynastic politics. It is a tweaked version of the epic Mahabharata with a little bit of zing from Mario Puzo’s Godfather, femme fatales, assassinations and murders. And yes, not to forget the names- shadowing their epic counterparts.

That power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, I never saw it come alive on screen so vividly in sleepy Madhya Pradesh. Even country cousin amchi Sarkar and its sequel Sarkar Raj pale into ordinariness. The starry cast wowed me beyond their chocolate looks and art house heavy weighted-ness.

Prakash Jha's movies have always been grim, stark and real, set in the heartland; there is a socio-political veneer in the narrative. The canvas of this movie is bigger, and a little larger than life and hard to believe at times. A regular Prakash Jha fan may possibly be disappointed at the 'kitsch' that one may think, it is.

The title prepares you for a lot of things, pleasant and ugly. Politics is deeply and downright Machiavellian. Only the most practical people survive. There is no right or wrong, no fair or unfair.

Darshan Zariwala as an aging high command reminded me of late Congress head, Sitaram Kesri. Naseruddin Shah’s disappearing act more than the guest appearance as a crusading comrade reminded me of a Leftist bachelor academician who suddenly discovers his sexuality with his young student-follower(Bharati). Ajay Devgn(Suraj Kumar) is the result of that tense night of passion. A modern day Kunti forsakes her Karna. Suraj Kumar grows up with his aggression misplaced beyond the kabaddi field in his biological mother‘s driver‘s house- he becomes the Dalit voice. He is the valorized sub-altern.

Kunti (Bharati), aided by her brother Brij Gopal (Nana Patekar) retires into domesticity as a political pawn. Time flies. Two sons - politics natural, youth mass leader Prithvi (Arjun Rampal) is our hot-headed but strategic modern day Yudhisthira and research scholar yum Americano-Indian Samar (Ranbir) springs a surprise as a suave and strategizing Arjuna. Manoj Bajpai (Virender) is their jealous but wronged elder cousin and the parallel Duryodhana. Tayaji in ICU is the perfect conniving Dhritarashtra. Nana’s mamaji act veered between Shakuni without the “nice and negative” elements and more of Lord Krishna. Boy, all these guys look so good in khadi. The dialogues are not historical but the message, yes. In democratic India, a lot of things happen in politics.

There is dignity in Manoj-Ajay’s friendship that evolved from a mutually satisfying power struggle. The bonhomie of Arjun-Ranbir is touching, one brother out to protect the other. There are some tender moments too, when Prithvi tells his wife that he also loves her a lot but does not know how to express it or the airport scene when Pratap wants his son to hug him, ominous it may be. The Kunti-Karna showdown was tepid. But Karna doing his elder brother bit of not taking Arjuna’s life was a tough moment. But for an Arjuna to go down the annals of history as a great warrior, there is deceit when he shoots an unarmed Karna who dies in dignified duty. Nana towered in the background.

Katrina Gandhi is what a few young 18-year olds in the theater thought she was. Of course, India remembers Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination. By far, her best performance after New York. Her wild hair and that bindi are distractions.

The Irish girlfriend with a painful memory and the assassinations are markers. Kiran Karmarkar’s nasty SP act was bludgeoned to perfection. Shruti Seth as Sitapur ki ticket hungry political wannabe in cotton saris also is a murky truth of so many women who want easy access to power. Babulal’s gay act was an unnecessary distraction, I thought. Ram Charit Kumar (his name says it all) as the family driver kept the maryada of values intact - Continue doing one’s duty. The Censor Board, given their track record have displayed some matured conduct. Don’t get titillated.

Sense of closure is required for every action. The farewell confession of Ranbir is deeply moving. Time and circumstance make you do funny things. In politics, there is no Devil and God. There are no winners and losers, only survivors. There is no room for grief.

A space called home

2010-06-03T14:03:00.003-07:00

Sometimes, small things really matter. I am a spartan in spirit and a pseudo-regal in taste. Being smart and sophisticated is not an easy art. You learn it the hard way through bloopers or by chance or initiation.Going back to old times when I came to Hyd with one big air bag.

I have somehow been never house-lucky in Hyd. I have had one or the other issues, needless to say I have to approve/affirm my den. Since Dec'06, I have had two stints at the PG - interesting places. A friendly lecturer from my univ informs me from her experience and knowledge of Hyd that Ameerpet is 'safe' for girls. Yes, four of us found refuge in a certain hostel which was a breeding pit of software engineering students. Figured out after a year, that Ameerpet Univ is actually a phenomenal truth!

PG round 2 happened in Madhapur because I was on a deputation-training. I tell you these Telugu hostel owners are great money spinners. 2 of us managed to call the kitchen home for 2 months. The deposit drama and threat is utter sham. They could not even find a remedy for a viral flu, I had to shell out 10 grand spending a weekend in money-stripping Image Hospitals, what image I have of Telugu-land!

Never strike friendship with hostel mates and decide to move out to together to an independent or separate accommodation. I was ditched by a Malllu girl and a borderline Tamil-Mallu girl, of course after we finalised a house and I (silly me) offered to pay the advance and rent, since the other two were broke (you know, the month-ending excuse).The Mallu would live provided another Mallu girl also stayed and the Tamill-Mallu girl would stay provided the 1st Mallu girl made up her mind. So much for regional collective responsibility. Those girls, I hope I am able to forgive them for their care-a-damn smallness.No offence.

Round 3 of accommodation was Lingampalli, close to Hyderabad Central University - the jinxed house actually, where I was ditched and all.I barely lasted 19 days in that house.What goes around comes around.Some Mallu and Tamil girls from office badly needed accommodation, they moved within a day's notice.

Round 4 of accommodation was more of a makeshift-anywhere-in-the-city but away from ditchers, Jubilee Hills..where getting an auto to and fro was annoying. All the richie-rich Reddys and filmstars live here and nobody takes an auto. The poor basti people took buses or walked. If you cant drive, to hell. This house was beautiful- nice woodwork, nicer (read bigger) rent, civil mates and nice maid. 8 months just passed like that. I hardly met tolerable neighbours. Buying weekend rations and vegetables in the rythu market was another activity. Again, space and difference set in. We moved on.We are barely civil anymore.

Classifieds work the best, again a matter of luck and timing. You get ok-dokey roomies-flatmates, houses and deals. You also have headless men making inquiries about the availability of the house and all.

Decided to go solo. Options were bad, and options just got worse. So-called concerned folks and people also said the same.There are no studio apartments.WTH

Round 5 was Banjara Hills, homely space but I never liked the quack of the doctor who was also our owner. A good 9 months passed with pets and parties. I learnt to differentiate between the sex and the city kinds, the predators and the nonsense in my environment.I had to de-tox everything around me. I decided to move closer to the workplace and also, someplace.

Man proposes, God disposes.Crossroads.Choices.Classifieds.

Round 6 was Kondapur, pretty much on the highway with a dusty breeze in the daytime. Wanted a new beginning to everything. Needed space away from the familiar mundane crowd. I lasted 3 months there. Jackie, the gorgeous female labrador still comes in my dreams, she has delivered a lovely litter. The other two inmates quit work in succession and also, decided to leave Hyd for good. I had just unpacked when this news bombed me. I was not keen on taking over. So, the TO-LET went up.Another lesson, a 21-year old and somebody waiting to be 30 have different agendas in life.

It was a nightmarish time. I no longer have just one air bag. It was a truckload of things. I sold a lot of things, gave away a lot of things. The rest, I packed again and moved to a couple of friends'. I am indebted, being homeless.

Round 7, found a basement residential flat in Erramanzil. I was not wow but I needed something closer to work.I hated moving in and moving out. It was not fair on my other roomie. But the daylight theft got me worked up.I dont ever remember cooking in that house, I also remember turning a year older in that house. Forgettable but 2 months.

Round 8 happens to be my current transit camp since last August. It's become my sanctuary. From a difficult Page-3 wannabe breaking my ear-rings to agony bonhomie with my other two flatmates. We meet when F.R.I.E.N.D.S. come on TV.

I swear, I will leave Hyd if I have to move out of this house. I am not as tenacious as a cat and dont want to be a survivor. Reminds me-- when I first came to Hyd, I moved out of the company guest house after the two-week complimentary put-up. I did that on 1st Jan. Someone said, get ready..you are going to change houses often, whatever you do on New Year's..you keep doing that all the time.

I have learnt to take care of rent and expenses. I have never ever slept alone in an empty house full of cartons and boxes, I have done that too. I have found my space to cry and laugh, not be answerable to anyone, including parents. Money cant buy that, even in your own house.

I dont think I want to buy a house in Hyd (whenever I can) or own a house. I'd rather go to the countryside, write during the day and learn bee-keeping (which I will someday) and pay my bills. The romance with a city finishes once the worst hits you.

"Men may come and men may go

But I go on forever."

Signs I tell you

2010-05-16T01:50:00.003-07:00

Ok, so don’t talk today. Why? My right eye has been throbbing for sometime now. Bad time. Alright. My left eye, upper side has been throbbing for ever. Am I hallucinating, my upper left arm is also throbbing?

In Charles A. Kincaid’s Tales of Indian Cavaliers, Princess Rukmini is about to elope with dark and handsome Lord Krishna. She sends a proposal (more of a save-me-from-a-bad-marriage letter) to him through a trusted Brahmin. Her left eye, left arm and left thigh began to throb vigorously when she nearly lost hope. Of course, she married her Lord Krishna.

I see only one magpie, not a good sign. Let’s not do it today.Okay, what if the magpie is a baby or a bachelor or a widow. No, you must spot two to be lucky, otherwise..

No, I sneezed once which is bad. I mean what difference does it make if I sneeze twice or two times - well, the placebo effect, pure coincidence? Things kinda never went wrong. And things were never made to happen when the one-sneeze happened.

Ok, did you see any horses in your dreams? It means war and death. Oh yeah? In fact, I sat on one and rode like a Victorian princess to my castle. The moat is clearly visible now also. I remember sitting with my corseted-gown, I had a third-wooden leg on the other side of the horse.

Trust all the signs and superstitions.

A visit to the Police Station

2010-05-10T19:39:00.002-07:00

The police station is 'forbidden' zone for so many. I nearly had a first time when a student's overpossessive pistol-wielding lawyer boyfriend's misbehaviour on campus got a lil' out of hand. But thankfully, a very vocal and senior faculty wanted to do the andolan*-reformation bit, so I was left out of it.Of course, the highlights were not pleasant - from a very thick-skinned students' union, my very foolish student and her apparent 'boyfriend' of a terror, there was an out-of-'court' settlement. That bastard lawyer who broke the law did not get punished, I hope he is reading this.

My brother ran away from home on two occasions, those growing-up adventures. Reasons were predictable - that man-to-man fight with dad over pocket money and confiscation of Batman comics, then that famous and occasional "Get-out!" which was taken seriously, and literally. Thankfully, the FIR never happened and pray, that never happens.

Recently, a colleague of mine lost about 8 tolas of gold, hard-earned toil of her late mother. The suspect is her baby-sitter cousin who is doing the victim act and there is no doubt, she is the one - the victim act only confirmed it, she has a growing kid. My colleague who is a couple years younger than I, told me it was weird doing the FIR thingy and all the futile interrogation shit. She did feel uncomfortable and there is no reason to explain that.

I lost my favourite camel-leather wallet last year on my way to the airport. Some few grand, my ATM-Debit cards, credit card, my PAN card,my health insurance card, my Univ ID-card and my library cards - quite some fortune! I recovered the most important ones but I need to kick myself for procrastinating to recover the rest. Anyway, I went to the PAN card center for a replacement. They told I need an FIR.

The Laitumkhrah PS, I decided to go there. When I got off the taxi, I just sprinted to the PS in lightning speed so that no one saw me going to that 'forbidden zone' for whatever reason. You never know which nosey Uncle of Dad's office spies and even better, report it to Dad before I reach home. No, I am not scared. Dad knows I have to visit the PS, it is not a 'shameful' thing.

It is a newly constructed 2-storeyed building with ample parking space, and a spacious compound. The stairs were not very dirty, barely swept that morning. The walls had posters of AA, Anti-Drugs and public awareness messages. The station in-charge office in the left wing was empty, no one in the chair.The right wing had people, I walked in with the customary, "Excuse me, may I come in?"

A dapper and good looking sub-inspector turned around, asked me to come in. There were a few other uniformed people whose 'stars' and 'ribbons' I could not see so that I can tell you their designation. I swear I felt very queasy - there was not a lady constable around! The SI asked me to sit down, when that evening round of chai-jingbam** came by. Impromptu, he asked me if I wanted to have a cuppa. I was pleasantly surprised - No, thank you. That is very kind of you. Very politely, he asked me what brought me there. I relayed, he was kind enough to lend me a sheet of paper to file a request for an FIR. Asked me to come the next day to collect the same.

As the paperwork was going on, I scanned around. There were two cells - one for females and one for males. There was also the very interesting 'Rogue's Gallery' - a nice and neat collage of all the weird and very weird looking criminals with those slates of information, a random 'Wanted' tag on one and the like. There was also a wireless machine and a blackboard full of cryptic information, almost like a complicated weather report chart.

I also chipped in another request to give me the file reference number of an ancient report.The whole station got down to pulling out all the old files without a murmur. They traced the file number after a patient search. The cautious cynic that I am, I never expected such prompt service especially for something so Jurassic. I could not thank them enough. I wish they had a feedback box. Many govt. offices have one but too many complaints than compliments can be morale-damaging. The bulky-brained (or lack of it) people think they are exercising their rights educatively enough but alas! The only and biggest disadvantage of democracy - one has to live by mediocrity, every dimwit feels important and has an opinion. Fatigue creeps in. Anyway, I got my FIR the next day, there was an attractive lady SI, very beautiful eyes and a steely frame who signed my document.

This is an open channel - Laitumkhrah PS, you guys are one in a million. Thank you, you have restored my faith in the system. You are responsible and efficient. You are nice and friendly to the common layperson. Way to go!

*andolan - protest/activism in Hindi
**chai - tea in most Indian languages
**jingbam - something to eat/goodies in Khasi

Watched Antaheen last Sunday and totally loved it

2010-04-26T01:27:00.002-07:00

National award winning Bengali movie, Antaheen (which means an endless wait) came a year ago. About love, realisation and longing, life and fragmented relations looking for wholesome completeness, the aesthetics of Aniruddha Chowdhury’s film is sheer poetry,tragic most times and Shantanu Moitra’s music lyrical and haunting.

Urban Kolkata is beautifully captured by cinematographer Amit Mukopadhyaya in Café Coffee Day mugs, Chivas and Jasmine tea, long drapes and comfortable cushions, beautiful lampshades and window sills, potted glory and wind chimes, that kite longing for freedom at what cost, panoramic landscape, the rain kissed terrace gardens and sunlight dancing through painted glass, the shimmering city in the evening as seen from balconies. There are page 3 launches and parties and Star Ananda is a hep corporate place with writer Kunal Basu making a fleeting appearance. The symbolic telephone is the protagonist.

Young and feisty Brinda ( Radhika Apte, a surprising non-Bong Rahul Bose recommendation amidst teeming Bong actresses) is a Barkha Dutt in the making. She is a delight to watch, her eyes speak much more. She makes life miserable for VK Mehra, the Eldorado builder and also, no-nonsense upright IPS officer Abhik (Rahul Bose) who dismisses her need for bytes. Abhik is cynical about love and Brinda’s relationship with her boyfriend Sujoy is as good as over.

Abhik has an endearing financial consultant cousin, Ronnoda (Kalyan Ray) - his friend, philosopher and guide who dabbles in the stock market, enjoys a good drink and good books. He is divorced and not divorced. His reel and real wife Paro (Aparna Sen with that frumpy mushroom cut) works as the marketing head in Brinda’s office. They stay apart but can’t do without each other. Paro is an avid photographer- her Tibet trip ‘cost’ her father-in-law’s life and her marriage, and also, her love for photography. The Tibet trip is possibly her best work which remains to see the light of day, her Ronno does not even want to glance at them. Tells a lot about contemporary society which chooses to be progressive with the high-rises and imported liquor but won’t think twice to blame a wife’s work for an already-ill in-law or a house which needs order .

Brinda shares a sister-like camaraderie with her Parodi and is completely won over with her snigdha (graceful compusure). Unknown to each other, both Abhik and Brinda share soul space online, from cute sweet nothings to typical Mars-Venus takes on the comfort of being strangers and yet, the urge to know more. Their real-life encounters end in sour debates.

Abhik stays with his graceful spinster Pishimoni (Sharmila Tagore). So used to living a life of loneliness with her potted plants and dusting old books and her needlework, her Penelope-like waiting for that phone-call from that gentleman with that nice voice is heart wrenching. Her jasmine tea is a conversation opener from her reverie. She does become defiant that she is not lonely and it is a choice she has made. She does miss the telephone call.

VK is unscrupulous, his ever-depressed wife Mita Vashisht (phenomenal waste of an acting powerhouse) won’t forgive him for their daughter Anjali’s death in a car accident eight years ago. VK’s Eldorado project interview with Brinda revives memories of his daughter and Brinda is visibly disturbed.

Paro’s visit to Ronno’s brings a new turn in their relationship. Her Tibet pictures adorn his study. They love each other but as Paro says marriage is the ability to compromise and feel needed. Her birthday gift of a book by Rumi is telling. She wants to live life her own terms this time - she cleans her camera stuff with renewed vigour. She is planning to move to Bombay on work. Will Ronno be able to stop her? Ronno does not stop her. Paro feels pained he does not stop her. That letting go is tough. Some decisions in life need to be taken without anyone’s help and crutch.

Ronno’s birthday party brings Abhik and Brinda to some civil acquaintance. They begin exchanging SMSes and calls generally and also, around work. Something tells Brinda that her online special stranger and Abhik are one and the same person. She wants to meet him and their rendezvous is almost arranged

A working woman’s life in a big city is not easy. From not missing deadlines to remaining picture perfect calm despite the storm in your head about a dear colleague leaving, a sense of abandonment, letting go of a relationship which would not work then seeking solace in on online chat with a stranger. Oh yes, we love pampering ourselves, it could be staring long enough at the mirror while brushing our teeth or simply lazing in the rug with enough cushions thrown around or staring long enough at the computer screen waiting for that one special ping. Brought back memories of my Hyderabad times.

Brinda’s mom packs her a sandwich before her last edit job, for some ominous reason she touches her feet. It brought about a numbness of the number of times we say 'bye' our parents before leaving the house and that feeling of how paltry life could become - will they get to see you again? Brinda tells her mother not to stay up, she uncannily does. Brinda tells Abhik - she is a night bird, literally. Think of all those youngsters who go to work at unearthly hours and shifts and for those fortunate ones who have mothers at home who stay up, pray and worry for your safety.

Jangled remains of that red Maruti Swift and a cell-phone which would ring but not answer tell the ominous tale of Brinda’s Eldorado quest, no one comes back alive. VK’s wife suspects her husband’s involvement and he swears no - in fact he wanted their daughter to grow up like her. Abhik comes to her house and then, he realises the truth. It is poignant how he lives every moment of their online conversation again, the Frida Kahlo on the wall and that fluttering kite on the antenna live to tell the tragic tale of love and longing. So close, yet so far.

Paro leaves for Bombay, Ronno musters courage and calls her if he can come stay with her for a few days.

There is a recurrent scene of a white pyjama-kurta clad man sipping road-side chai on his Royal Enfield whom Abhik encounters while going to work. He waits for him everyday, that peace and calm on that man’s visage gives Abhik some security in his life. Today, the man drives away. Today, Abhik refuses to buy flowers. Today, he does not look at the laptop. That greyed out ‘offline’ status of someone dear on chat is almost autobiographical. It brought tears to my eyes and I was reminded of what a loved one told me a year ago when I left one workplace. Just like his Pishimoni (wish we had more of her in the film) who lost the telephone-gentleman, his greyed-out but no-longer-a-stranger chat friend won’t ping him anymore.

Antaheen left me numb, nothing extraordinary or larger-than-life. Beautiful nuanced acting, very restrained and a lot of heart warming moments. Rushing from work to chat with that special online friend-stranger tugged my heart. We have our own ways of coping with loneliness and longing for companionship. We live, we love and we also yearn a little more. Life is fast, work means 24/7 busy (?), take some time off, go spend some time with yourself, with your loved one(s), share that special something, it could be nothing concretely substantial but just be there to admire the raindrops pitter-patter on the window pane or watching that sunset together by the sea-side on occasions or your apartment balcony everyday.

I love you, special one.

P.S. Thank you, Korak for sharing this film with me.

An ordinary examination day in the extraordinary life of an ordinary college lecturer

2010-04-15T05:33:00.003-07:00

Yes, we also double up as clerks - we think then we type, we write on paper then type, print and announce notices, we collect fines and we also remain standing for most part of the year for our lectures while our his and her highnesses sit . Life in teaching is always a lesson in itself. Okay, the ultimate finale is everything around is not even hitting average. I don’t see anything being cancelled out to make simplification easy.

I had invigilation duty almost everyday during all examination shifts and the 2-shift 3-hour jaunt is mercilessly so boring. People who should not get into trouble inevitably get into big messes and the smart ones with whom you would not mind a smart mind game are so committed to playing safe. I so sincerely get bored easily. I tried to multitask, it is not easy. I achieved about 19 percent of work besides penning down tips on how to improve and streamline tests and exams next time round. I can't knit or sew like some accomplished invigilators.

Anyways, as the guinea pigs scribble on paper for our sado-masochistic drive, it‘s another toss here. Your co-invigilator is always going to make or break the game. It’s a game of cricket for me, where I try all kinds of bowling tricks to get my wickets.

-You have the lame duck who is senior to you at work and lets out classified info who is like what.

- You have the eternal anti-hero who is victimised by the system, less pay- more work and the blah like "Everybody hates to love me but loves to hate me" kinda thing.

- You have the fence-sitters, the perfect fair weather kinda nice smiling faces.

And the students have amazing paisa vasool fun at our expense. First, they come in late. They take a long time to settle down. Then, they need to be told to switch off their phones. One class came and deposited all their mobiles at the teacher's desk. But most fish out their phones and keep it in the silent-vibraaaaator mode. So, don't be surprised if the mobile blares some Atif song or Telugu song or better still some baby laughing garrulously.

Then, the exam starts. Some pray, some distress, some de-stress. Some sit, some stare, some gripe. After one hour of breakfast digestion, "Additional!", which means extra sheets. By which time, attendance and autograph session is also over.

Then, the urge is awakened, the urge to visit the toilet. I am quite ignoringly amazed by the toilet chain reaction. One after the other, there is some collective responsibility and some of the boys will always seek permission to say hi/hello to their 'friend'. Thirst is an understatement of an excuse. The ayah on the corridor insists no water be served to the children as she animatedly signals the little finger code. Hey kids, like we don't know why and what. That graffiti on the wall is very entertaining.

Copying from books is forbidden, but some smarty pants bring along photocopies of notes and think they can get away.Even if we had an open-book policy, I don't think you pay much attention to the best practices.Listen, cheating is an art - either you know it or don't know it. And, if you are copying from somebody, please don't copy the mistakes. My god, you have no idea what happens after that - it is like wearing your friend's chaddi. You can conjure up the rest.

Cynic in the city

2010-04-13T11:24:00.003-07:00

The best welcome I could ever have - the whole building came out to see me and my bunch of friends dragging our luggage up the stairs. The watchmen here never help, they only watch. So when I was signing up for this PG accommodation I was asked, Marriage when? Engaged huh? I was like why, is that a criterion? The old wives told me no, it is not. But it is not a good idea to remain single and unmarried if a girl has crossed 25 years of age. Weird. Even at 32, these women are haggardly old because they married so young.

Even worse is to be seen with anybody male - colleague, friend or cousin of friend. You are a not-so-good girl. If your male acquaintance is introduced then it is ok-ok modern and corporate culture. You are a good girl if you don’t go out on Sundays and watch Rajnikant’s Chandramukhi with 12 other girls on that Big Bazaar color TV and be hysterical. Also, not to forget the suffocating obsession with Shriya and Trisha. Oh, by the way, one is a southern siren and the other a versatile actress.

We had an awesome bathroom cleaner who wore such fancy salwar suits and still demanded old clothes from us. I miss the wee hours of the morning when one of the ammas would wake up early and do the dosa batter after her sacred ablutions. Since I came from the Highlands, I was not used to cold water showers, I paid her five rupees everyday for 2 litres of hot water.The mornings were sacred -the smell of fresh earth, the wafting jasmine in the air and the incense in the chiming temples and the aroma from roadside bundis of tea and tiffins.

I miss the Kadapa girls, I fondly remember the henna days and the mehndi nights.I learnt to appreciate the humble FM phone as my ally.

Nobody will believe you that you went out for a late night movie especially when they see you dropped home by a male friend. Something fishy is always running in their heads.

When I left the PG, all the best wishes were around getting married and come visiting there with your husband and kid (not baby).

Guffaws.

My two pence of the Shoaib-Sania hulla-gulla

2010-04-04T13:41:00.004-07:00

While my students were worried about their OU final exams and how to reach college to collect their hall-tickets, a 23-yr old city tennis star’s marriage is national front page news, leave alone P3. I mean, alright. Now-wannabe Sania Mirza wants to get married, did I hear that right? OK, the state is worried about relaxing curfew hours in riot- affected areas, and maulvis are being unnecessarily dragged to bless and defend her marriage.

I was coming home from an evening out, barely half a kilometer from my place, I saw a trail of media vans and vehicles, and found out it was the ongoing saga of the Siddiqui girl’s tamasha. Of course, so much has been written about Sania-Shoaib and Shoaib-Ayesha. I feel, all the three deserve each other.

Now whoever Sania Mirza is, she showed amazing promise as a kid. With a ferocious manager dad, and the signature arrogance and aggression of her tees, tennis really looked good. The quick buck, instant and constant media attention and endorsements did her in. Her moment of reckoning came when she cracked into the top 25 and then, it was a spiralling tumble. A fling and friendship with a Bollywood Charlie lasted barely one summer when the chalta hai city woke up to her grand engagement reception at Taj Krishna( or Banjara) with the local but Universal Baker scion - the wah-wahs were many, and it was soon over before they could reach the altar of lifelong vows. The boy was dignified - spoke and discussed lil. Then, within weeks, we hear she is marrying Paki Shoaib Mallik. Sania does not have a great track record of sustainable consistency of behaviour in the choice of her partners, her game is also beginning to show that. Just hope, all goes well and she finds and keeps her intended for keeps. She is clearly a giddy narcissist. Suddenly the saffron brigade is calling her names.

Now who is Shoaib, ask Ayesha Siddiqui or Maha Apa for intimate details. Arrey, don’t get me wrong. They were allegedly married and the two were alone in a city hotel on two occasions. Ok, the little that I know -- many years ago he used to be an upcoming swashbuckling cricketer from Pakistan. Whenever he started hammering fours and sixes, my dad used to have palpitations, such was his influence. So, to cut a long story short. Ayesha is apparently not Ayesha but Maha Apa and how-much-innocent boy Shoaib feels cheated. His jija has valiantly defended him across all sections of the media. How stupid of him to have a phone nikkah which is apparently invalid. He does not look so dodo to agree to so-called Ayesha or Maha’s every damn tantrum. And, what chivalry, he agreed to marry her to save her honour to stop the wagging media from defaming a poor woman. Lawyers and social groups will take ages to churn wafers from this. According to latest alleged reports, Shoaib has been accused of two-timing, after 8-years, my lord, point to be noted. Shoaib says he never married for the record.

Ayesha, kaun hai? The be-spectacled woman who is being flashed in all media studios over phone and pics is apparently a teacher and the first (not yet former or ex) wife of Shoaib. We did hear about some phone nikkah many years ago. We never saw her pics, the Islamist tradition also does not favour much in display of pics and all. Now, her nikkah papers are scanned with great interest by everyone except people concerned. She has chosen to be reduced to a pathetic joke with her fatness being a reason for the apparent divorce, her Cinderella story has gone sour. Good sense would be to be large-hearted and let go, if at all there was any love, like she claims. What nutty behaviour! What was she doing in the last 8-years? Sleeping? And, why is she making her weight issue a national crisis now? There are enough and more obese and fatter people who get married and live happily. If she is upto changing Shoaib’s mind and also, retain him in the bargain, well she is in for more heartburn. The guy seems to be very firm about his Sania. She should be happy the way she is and not give another case to the plus zero health believers and activists to champion a non-issue of a case and pillory Shoaib. Religious heads are divided over legal issues. No winners, all losers.

Media, please stay away. The media as a pressure group is focussing on inane issues. Like relationships which don't last, some marriages also don't last. Give them their space. It is only a 23-yr old girl getting married to a fairly not bad-looking 28-yr old guy. It is also perfectly incidental that both sportspersons are neighbours and we are no longer hostile, remember Aman ki Asha. Shoaib-Sania shaadi could be the stepping stone. Let’s not worry what happens to their careers, they will be taken care of. They are potential national assets in their own rights, even though one is serving a ban. Bala Thackeray Saab, it’s ok, international marriages also happen, don’t be mean… I think you should spend your last few days practising tolerance and restraint, it is not easy I empathise.

Ayesha or/and Maha Apa, you are phenomenally a strange woma(e)n. You mystify everything around you with that inflected accent. Was it love? Or were you too star-struck? Or you are smart and acting duh-duh-damsel in distress. Get real, wake up! You are not criminal-fat! And stop craving for attention. You have had your fair share of dadagiri and mischief, what goes around comes around. No no more emosanal attyachar. Fat is also a shape like thin. Don’t think thin girls get away with everything, including men. Thin girls are disgracefully called waifs and worse, hangars (in the world of fashion) and football grounds too! And, yes. Don’t waste national time giving distressed interviews and feeling wronged. Giving interviews is the laziest thing to do. If you think you deserve better - Just go kick him in the balls and end it there. The country has better things to do, children have exams. Parents and families have to worry about exams, rations and bills, and life ahead.

Most of us think and are convinced, there is more than meets the eye. So, let there be no traffic jam in Banjara Hills, we love our neighbourhood.

Cheers!

Hyderabad Blues - 1

2010-04-04T11:49:00.004-07:00

All opinions are strictly independent and personal. No personal offence to be taken, no hard feelings to be harboured. No jingoism will be tolerated on my space. People with limited and intolerant comprehension abilities are advised to steer clear.

Hyderabad is in the news for all the not-so-right and wrong reasons. It took so much of divine providence and interference for the Jai Telangana hoola-hoops with KCR, their joker of a leader (who can’t even do a token fast)to cool their heels thanks to a scorching summer ahead--our Indian women are better off- we fast so many times during a week, month and year - by now we should have asked for so so so many states. All Andhras feel wronged and agitated and the blah about the entire issue but the actual and bigger worry seems to be the fear of enormous benaami being exposed. Rayalseema people also monkeyed around for sometime. MIM got crackling at some point demanding some haq-shaq for minorities and state/UT status for Hyderabad. Not to forget some Sakshi controvery around the YSR death-accident leading to some conspiracy theory.

The state had to grapple with the Guv caught cavorting like desi Hefner with not one but three women! What a year, 2009 was indeed the jinxed year! The effect continues to haunt us till now. Since then, we have had a new Police chief and a new and apparently no-nonsense Guv. Late YSR with his mission impossible ways had practically emptied the state coffers and with no legacy to command the same kinda respect and loan(good) will, CM Rosaiah is at his wit’s end. With a sulking smile of an expression, YSR sonny boy Jagan is a confused soul who needs some soul-searching sanyaas to be taken under the wing of his Bro-in-law Anil Kumar. And can you imagine, this first-time MP thought he was CM material. Don’t know but some political mileage was achieved by inducting the YSR widow in the recent cabinet reshuffle. TDP has become a corridor party.

With a threatening summer and annoyingly long power cuts, we are headed for greater days of darkness. Is anyone doing anything? Hello, where are the Jaago Grahak Jaago people? Where is the RTI man? We voted, and the result is before us, power hungry scavengers. I don’t know if it is with the moral fabric of the profession or the kind of people who join the profession. Unscrupulous. And, Barkha Dutt, please don't come to the city and have your discretion on who should be there for your TRP conscious show and where. No one is ready for the truth and those who think they do, and therefore, represent the truth are in a state of terrible denial. Please understand, they have gone mental.

By the way, where is the Indra-man? Filmstar Chiranjeevi turned out to be a wimp. I personally know so many educated but blind fans and political supporters of him from my previous workplace, who are incidentally known to me and alas, I can't even disown them. Everyone has an ulterior motive, dear friends, he is your on-screen hero. With make-up he looks good, did he need to dirty his hands this way, PRP? Anyway, the lesser said, the less controversial. Some followers disappeared, one benefited (I am mighty tickled though!)

Then, Old city got some nazar, Hindus and Muslims (not sure, if the religious identity of the miscreants were checked) got into some religious flag-tearing over some previous and upcoming festival and riots broke out. When did making way for someone become a problem? It spread (or was made and paid to spread, not in that order though) all over, curfew was the next thing. The reports are appalling, an egg came for 9 rupees and half a liter of milk was sold for 50 rupees. You know, no one protested when GHMC workers pulled down all the religious flags, haha!

Blame game, conspiracy theories, we still don’t know the whats and hows of it. Like we care. We care for basic medical and civic amenities, we need our power restored all the time.We are not MNC rich to afford generators-inverters. We hope the labourers don’t lose their daily wages. Manmohan, India Shining?

Amen.

This one for you, Abdul Bhai

2010-03-22T09:14:00.002-07:00

Where I stay, around the corner there is a fleet of autos. Each one have taken turns to drop me to work. They all have their own stories and an unspoken acknowledgement that they are all there for all my errands. I call them Bhai but they treat me like their lil’ girl and fondly call me “Madam” like my students in college.

I had so gotten used to Abdul Bhai dropping me to work. He knew which pothole to avoid and could read every crease of panic on my forehead that I was running late. There are days when he light-heartedly told me - “Madam, aap late ho aaj.” Of course, there is no fixed monthly payment arrangement. There are days when I take the bus or a loved one drops me to work. So, the meter never runs for these guys, I pay them the normal rate incurred once upon a time on the meter! And when Abdul Bhai is present, no other Bhai comes forward unless he has another set of school children to drop.

So there are days when Abdul Bhai has no change and very conveniently, I ask him to keep the change for the next day’s fare. So days went by and one morning, I don’t find him there and I don’t see him for days on end. I was curious to ask the brethren but refrained. One or the other took turns to drop me to work. I decided to keep the advance payment system a lil’ to my advantage. Abdul Bhai owed me 60 rupees before he did the disappearing act.

One Saturday afternoon I saw him catching a nap in his tuk-tuk. I was relieved he was back and so glad that my fears were proved wrong. But again, he never showed up in the mornings. I was like OK, he must be serving guard at some other place to avoid paying my money. I feel extremely horrible to admit this.

But on Wednesday he showed up and wished me, “Namaste Madam, bahut din ke baad..” I was like ahem ahem, managed to break ice, inquired about his missing-abouts. He told me his tuk-tuk gave him enough trouble to not turn up in the mornings. And you know what, when I got down near college, he told me with gallant honesty that he still owed me 60 rupees.

You might be tempted to say it’s only 60 rupees, big deal! I know as much - it is not that 60 rupees but someone’s trust and another’s credibility. He restored my faith and affirmation. Smiles.

This afternoon, I had a nasty auto-guy to deal with on my way home. He wanted to intimidate me with his auto-meter theory and that I was being difficult and all. It was pretty apparent I was fighting for justice with a buffalo in front of my home. There was an unnecessary ruckus. And guess what, Abdul Bhai and another Bhai came to my rescue. There is a certain chutzpah in the manner he conducted himself. He told me clearly, “Madam you pay just as much as you should. We will take care of the rest.” I took a peek back and see what the deal was. Very professionally, the nasty fellow was shooed away.

I was definitely not crying for help. But in a public situation with onlookers, we also have proactive people and one of them is Abdul Bhai. I just prayed for him, thanked god for people like him. I felt good to be in Hyderabad.

Thank you, Abdul Bhai. You are my new hero.

Smiles :O)

Auto Encounters

2010-03-22T08:59:00.003-07:00

The classic ones include tampered meters and boy, they fight and haggle like you are stripping their wives. I don’t know who takes panga - me or them, but I have always gotten away with my classic, “ bheekh mangna hai toh manglo." I will pay the extra fare only when you go down on your knees and beg, like beggars begging. There also this mixed breed who don’t travel by meter but by a fixed rate of understanding. Suddenly, they see a huge palatial mansion that you are standing in front of and the fare just goes up by 5-10 rupees or there is no change to return.

Encounter 1

I know this friend of mine from Delhi who is an entertaining holds-a-conversation kinda person. Whenever we have gone out(always more than 4 people)he volunteers to share bum space with the driver and they have such animated discussions from familiarity to empathy and by the end of the journey the fare has come down by a smiling but small margin.

Encounter 2

I also have this amazing ex-roomie and good friend who is a diva in my reckoning. She cares two hoots when travelling in an auto. After our momo-eating jaunts, we flag a shared auto and she charmingly tells me to take the back seat, while she props herself next to the driver. I know what’s running in all your heads, no the driver is too scared to be distracted!

Encounter 3 and minor ones

I have seen very few Telugu auto-wallahs, most are old city dwellers or migrants from everywhere. There have been interesting conversations with some. There was this young guy from Jamshedpur, who had come here to save enough for his wedding. It turns out he lived a few lanes away from mine. There was another chap from Kurnool who had 3 daughters whom he sent to school and his wife ‘ran’ a kirana store. I remember giving him a packet of murukkus for Diwali from my shopping bag. It was like until we meet again. There was also this guy who thinks KCR is utter rubbish and that YSR's tragic accident just is not right.

Encounter 4

Then, there were those days when my colleague and I ran into lousy auto-guys whose meters were always bullying. We began interrogating each auto which stopped by if his meter is tamper-free. Then we met this gruff old man, who gave us an earful for doubting his dignity and self-respect. Very comfortingly, he told us, yes there are enough and more people who have tainted the profession and brought bad name by fleecing poor passengers for a meagre buck. But he sternly asked us to keep faith and that there are enough good Samaritans also. Yes, I agree.

Encounter 5

Once I had gone to Osmania University on a Sunday for an examination. In the morning, an old man dropped me. When I was collecting the change from him, he asked me if I had come for an examination. I said yes, he wished me best of luck and told me he’d keep me in his prayers. I was touched. That very evening, when I wanted to take an auto to the bus station, I met an impudent chap who coolly asked me to fish out 100 rupees. I know the station is barely 5-6 kms from there and it was less than 50 rupees. I asked him to pray tell me why the special treatment of asking double the rate. He shot back, “Sunday” and the blah. He refused to go by the meter and confidently told me that his meter would clock 60 rupees and he wanted me to pay 10 rupees more. Then, I lost it. I charged the poor fellow who only wanted to earn a quick buck. I asked him what drove him to even say that - was it because I don’t look south Indian enough and too foreigner? And you call yourself a hospitable Hyderabadi, wow! I blamed it all on him. He readily agreed to ferry me by meter, I told him I’d pay him ‘that’ 10 rupees extra if his meter told the 60 rupees truth. His meter touched only 42 rupees, he said sorry and promised to be meter-nice to anyone. Well!

Whew! Take a break :O)

How I met the Tuk-Tuk in Hyderabad

2010-03-22T08:22:00.009-07:00

I am so bored of autos but then they are my lifeline. In my first stint in Hyderabad, this was a life-saver literally. Of course I am not disclosing the princely amount I paid as fares. A lil’ familiarity with types and kinds and areas, saves you a paltry fortune. Company cabs saved much of the groping in the dark. Then, there was a sincere share for the auto guy for the weekend programmes. And Hyderabad does not have a pre-paid system, so the transgressions are expected.

The other long term solution was to stay close to well-connected places. The bus numbers and destinations often don’t match, there is a hell of a difference when one letter is not matched with the desired number - there is a 127K,J,N,P and I don’t remember the others. The city planning and roads beat me, they have a wired pattern, Road no. 1 runs next to 10 and 12. So autos are the safest option to reach where you want without getting scalded.

Some auto-guys are amazing, I tell you! No one ever spoke so politely, with “achchi baat hai” and “ok, madam”. There are also others who won't think twice that their balls could get crushed when they vomit “kahan se aya re”.

My first auto-ride in Hyderabad happened in Ameerpet while house-hunting four winters ago. The guy took us round and round like David’s sling till he forgot how much he had to fleece from us. In fact he was planning to take some of us on a Hyderabad darshan, like we paid attention.

How I met the Tuk-Tuk

2010-03-22T08:00:00.002-07:00

This tuk-tuk is a funny 3-wheeler with that grunting snout. It looked like a hooded scooter for specially abled people. In my part of the world, an auto rickshaw was unheard of until recently when they decided to introduce as a novelty item. Hilly terrain, meandering roads, lovely dales - we’d rather walk and feel the breeze. The first time I saw one such 3-wheeler ‘auto’ other than my made-in-Japan Daito tricycle was in Guwahati. I just don’t agree with buses and more so, the drivers. They just toss you around like omelettes and the omelettes also throw up sometimes.

I adored autos because I dint have to take the buses and it was faster than the more eco-friendly but slower cycle-rickshaw. It comes at a premium - meters are always tampered, they are the ‘raj’. We all know about the flexi dimensional squeezes, lap one on top of the other, never mind. Every active male gave bum company to the driver in front, even though half in mid-air suspension with annoying pins and needles sensations if the road is delightfully bumpy.

There were those days when auto rides were nightmarish, if you got stuck in a local flood, and a neighbouring vehicle carelessly spluttered mud on your clothes. Also, it is never worthwhile to travel in an auto during the monsoon, you pay to get drenched. I have also seen autos involved in messy accidents because someone was rash, in most cases the auto-drivers themselves. They can and have turned turtle, you can imagine the rest.

Auto Chronicles

2010-03-22T07:47:00.004-07:00

I always wanted to chronicle all my bitter-sweet amazing auto experiences, however mundane they may seem to anyone. I have always enjoyed my auto rides in this city. It's the next best thing that can happen to a single woman (no, but I am engaged to be engaged) in a big city who does not how to drive, has not made much effort to learn how to drive and does not have that 24/7 kinda boyfriend or fiance who would double up as a willing driver, thanks to so many XYZ factors.

Ok, so learning how to manoeuvre a 2-3-4 wheeler was/is never in my agenda. I come from the city of the princely pines - Shillong, where walking forever is a dream. I was forced to take the bus and the Maruti 800-cabs only during exams, not because I had to but because Papa wanted to accompany and travel in peace. Yes, the grand Ambassador taxis were phased out due to "old age" and they were stylishly replaced by the Maruti 800 cabs - 5-7 rupees is still the standard fare. Autos were introduced for plain-er areas, but I have seen them struggle gallantly up the winding hills. Oh, how adorable they looked from behind! You know, my sister refused to travel home in the quintessential auto-rickshaw during a Dussera outing, saying it would not do justice to her formal clothes. I guffawed!

My folks don't think it is a good idea for me to start driving in Hyderabad, they are paranoid about rash and reckless driving. They think there is enough short-temper heritage and legacy I carry that won't be a comfortable proposition. So, one more reason why I have not learned driving.

Overheard a conversation at work why one particular lady never learnt driving, her loving husband vowed that it would be a dream to see his wife dropped to work in a chauffeur-driven car. He fulfilled his vow and lives his dream. His wife is happy. So, she has her reasons not to learn driving. Cute.

It was and used to be very romantic to have a loved one come to pick you up for a romantic and quiet evening far from the madd(en)ing crowd. As both parties involved grow into it, there is the greater need for practicality, like avoiding traffic snarls and saving time and hassles. It does take away a chunk of the charm but unconditional love, affection and acceptance and I say - "Remember the auto-guys?"

So here's to a series dedicated to my ever dependable autowallahs.

Smiles

Pyaar Impossible, really?

2010-01-14T09:20:00.003-08:00

The Princess and the Frog-Prince tale retold, Pyaar Impossible revives the boring geek to a respectable winner. He is not an Idiot, he is a desi Woody Allen, clumsy, shy and the perennial underdog. He is not the campus stud, but a nobody who goes, not almost, but completely and immediately unnoticed by which time people have arrived at the famous seven year itch. Abhay and Alisha, poles apart - they went to the same university and as the universe would conspire, end up in the same city totally oblivious of the purpose, if at all. If Priyanka was a natural choice for the super athletic PR hottie popstar, Uday with his unkempt hair and Dilton glasses handled the geeky look with admirable restraint. Uday’s puppy look was perfect and intact, and Priyanka didn’t have to move heaven and earth to look the diva.

There was an era when child artistes from Rishi Kapoor to Imran Khan, attained superstardom for their sheer screen innocence. Today we have Bachhan’s Cheeni Kum Sexy. My eternal favourite has been and will always be Jugal Hansraj in Gulzar’s Masoom. And, this movie by him has one of the worst over smart child artistes. I don’t even care to look up who this wannabe Aishwarya look-alike is. She has light eyes, parlour straightened shoulder length hair and perfectly manicured looks. She is called Tanya Merchant and is a Monster to all the nannies in the world. Her young mom is exasperated but cannot do anything to save her sanity. They actually look like neighbours -aunt and niece. The mom only hugs her and yes, hugs her. Very different from our Pears ad mommy or the perfect Indian Complan mommy. The kid is not “kid” smart and intelligent, she has been given adult lines when she threatens make-shift nanna Uday that she’d call the police and cook a you-know- story of girl alone in the house-predator kinda thing. Which 6-year old can think of something like this, unless she has been watching psycho-thrillers and not doing her homework and craft?

God, I am not going to allow ‘this’ kind of Tanya Merchant bratty arrogance and behaviour and precociousness -- I have very low to zero tolerance for such kids. The teacher in me is so no-nonsense though I wish to maintain that I will aspire to be a liberal but dotingly strict mother. Learning from my mother’s areas of improvements and also all other young, old and middle-aged mothers.

There is nothing special that stands out in the movie, not even Chop(py) Baby’s short and skimpy clothes. Her language was matter-of-fact and very identifiable with the timely "really?" and "Aww, how sweet!"

Anupam Kher just walked in and out of the movie as the mad-looking lost father who loves his son a lot, somewhere he has perfected the art of the mentor-guide role so well. Phenomenal waste.

The toast of the movie is Dino Morea - he looks good when he lusts and still looks good while playing mean. All hardworking people there, you would love to hate the Siddharth Singhs who bury you alive with your consent because you are happy with your principles and your geekiness.

The humour is flat, the takeaway lines very little. Uday did us a good favour by not acting over the top unlike his last adventure in Neal n Nikki. His heart is in the right place, when he says he is a loser. For that pinch of truth, this film is going to do well and recover costs. Don’t expect a double Chopra whammy. Priyanka did nothing but preened her hair. This movie is a patchwork from so many H/Bollywood movies, the Frog Prince fable standing out like standing out.

I yawned a few times in the movie but did not walk out.

All izz well?

2010-01-07T03:17:00.007-08:00

After jaadu ka jhappi all izz well is the new mantra. Suddenly it is cool for 5.1 nobodys and the archetypal teacher’s headaches to be called idiots. Aamir & co. call it the non-conformist, I think it is a convenient bandwagon.

With due respect and offence at the massive tweaks Raju Hirani brought to the original Bhagat script, 3 idiots is a refreshingly winning formula after the Munnabhai cult. The movie is definitely over hyped and it has lived up to its hype. A dash of Aamir pre-release marketing worked wonders.

Madhavan and Sharman are both aware of the cult status of being part of this movie. Maddy went on record saying he'd give a limb to be an Idiot!

The character actors are also more than happy for their brief screen life - Parikshit Sahni as the senior Quereshi is Everyfather and Boman’s lispy Virus does bring shivers as the bad Princy. Omi as Chatur, is a refreshing comic relief ... especially his struggling Hindi speech as much the looming fear and reality of the rat race that we are forcing our youngsters to with scant care about actual hands-on learning.

Mona’s 10 min labouring act could have been avoided given the ahem-ahem taste of Indian audiences. Virus’s 7min power nap smacks of hypocrisy of the like you know whom.

More of Jaaved Jaffri please, you wasted a phenomenal actor, are you listening Hirani? The movie has got more sunshine than it asked for.

Sharman’s family affairs is the actual truth of many households. Whether he wears his pants or not, he needs his sneakers. Telling truth, walk the journey. Inflation is a big discussion at every Indian table or floor, remember the price of bhindi has gone up! The great Indian religion does not deliver us. I thought religion taught that, karm karo phal ki abhilasha mat karo. So get that formula right, puja mat karo, ka(r)m karo - one could read it as kam (less)or kaam(work). Sharman learnt after 20 years, that he needs to discard those astrological safety stones to get a job in style (tie and wheelchair) and with attitude, he commands a premium. Rewind to the present state, his wife practises yoga, that’s still religion for the human body.

Maddy’s role of the endearing Farhan, wish we had more of him than the narration besides. As a father-fearing son, he does a cute job. His moment of reckoning is the embarrassing ragging scene when his face goes tomato red that he is not the classic cowboy hero on campus but another meek junior. Thunder stolen completely when the practicals of good conductors of electricity is performed by Rancho and our weary status of higher education is confirmed and certified by him that we only probably read and learnt about it whereas Rancho applied it for real. But he lives to tell the tale through his camera lens.

Aamir’s Rancho and Phunsuk Wangdu are prototypes of the proverbial bright non-conformists in the system, people who fight the system by being part of the system. They have the means and the spunk. Otherwise, they will be another Joy, who represents the deprived, over -looked potential driven to destructive decisions of madness for sheer apathetic responses from the one-man ruled systems. Absolute power does corrupt absolutely.

Where does Kareena fit in this riotous journey? She is the lil’ Virus girl who gets slurry speeched and goes ballistic at the choice of names Gujjus have for their snacks. Now, who does not love to play with danger? Her role is as miniscule as her much talked about 2009 size zero news. She does not sizzle but she manages to hold her ground and presence opposite the seasoned Aamir who looks a yummy 20yr old despite going strong on 44. She is still melodramatic from behind the frames, her sartorial sense many notches higher and much relieved to see her dancing earnestly after her cult Jab We Met avatar. Though silly, she echoed many an Indian woman’s fear when she cast aspersions about change of surname after marriage - Ranchhod Das Shymal das, then to her horror Wangdu! Please understand, it's sentimental, surely for an identity crisis. I endorse, men retain their wives' surname as well.

Wangdu is not exotic, it is Ladakh-Leh, it is a Tibetan name - it’s embracing and Indian.

Hirani’s movies do get sentimental and preachy, 3 idiots is no different. Virus has found his perfect chela for his gravity pen. All izz well. It's a journey for each one of us to awaken the dormant Rancho in us. For Chatur, it is a 5th Sept challenge, to woo and sign a deal with the elusive Phunsuk Wangdu to prove he has emerged the first among equals in the proverbial rat race. The pen (remember?) decides the winner. Chatur lost the race before he began.

All waltz well till the promo and premier happened. Suddenly the new found wealth and Bollywood health was not all well with a certain Bhagat who thought he was suddenly wronged. The media masquerade of mud flinging and slandering looks like a perfect advertising stunt (so everyone thinks) to shoot up the sale of the book and force the unsuspecting cinegoer to have some paisa-vasool to tell the difference between doodh ka dooodh and paani ka paani. The war of words and accusations is still on so many news and lifestyle channels and the TRPs are still consistent. Truth is never final and absolute, because the judge is not totally unbiased and everybody has his or her story to defend till the end of time. Chopra and Bhagat are no different from each other despite their illustrious achievements, each is a mean marketeer. Art suffers a bit in the process, not the output but the process and experience. The average and the slightly above average Indian is happy to start a morose year with Dev D and a scrumptious 3 idiots was the perfect end. Who came, who stole the story from whom, how original - intellectual property rights? Any takers? No one cares two hoots.

It is NOT the classic tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing. Not memorable music but decent stuff.

My first offering of 2010.

Smiles.

2 states

2009-12-17T05:51:00.005-08:00

With an IIT-IIM armour, Bhagat had a flying start to his writing career. "Five Point Someone" tugged all Indians whether he or she cleared IIT-JEE or not. I happened to witness a theatrical rendition by the Madras Players which brought life to the characters, it’s another bonus that most of the artistes were IITians from Madras. Raju Hirani’s screen adaptation of it,"3 Idiots" is much awaited. Being a first time book from a hallowed background saved him enough raw criticism.
I didn’t have the guts to read "One Night…" esp after watching Sohail Khan’s screen attempt of the movie. The music was rattling, the characters a lil’ messed up. The personas too mind-bogglingly Bollywood. I have the book, will muster courage to read it before the year ends.

They say once bitten, twice shy. Since the second book’s screen adaptation was so disappointing, I thought I should not even look at "The 3 Mistakes of My Life", pun intended. I made sure I had a copy of the book and will read it in my Yarrow Visited-Unvisited days.

There is something about Chetan Bhagat, he writes with no literary theory in mind and consciously avoids the heavy duty jargon that critics love and hate to problematise. There is no PoMo or PoCo jargon, there is no valorisation, there is no sub-altern. There are simple characters, don’t know if EM Forster’s round and flat characters theory works here, all his characters are lovable, incidentally most regional picks are for comic relief. One sure thing is he writes for a certain gallery that assures him applause almost deafeningly.

His inaugural speech at Symbi last year touched a chord. He has been called on various panels by many minion MBA institutes to bless future Chetan Bhagats. Optimistic but grounded, he is a reliable opinion maker when he says that our MBA institutes might be successful in churning out execs who dream a 7-figure to 8 figure monthly package but the reality is elsewhere.

2 states, literally and metaphorically is what I have been going through for a long, long time. I had picked it up for curiosity’s sake and very bravely recommended to most people by simply reviewing the blurb. But I am glad I did it pretty safely.The latest to be recommended was a senior steward in a Jet Airways fight.

Took me a month to read the first 20 pages, another 1 week to read the next 10 days. By then, I had recommended the book to everyone I knew, I remember buying at least 7 copies as gifts and recommended gifts. And, everyone had finished reading the book many times over, the hilarious pages I mean.

Serious reading happened en route home. I finished the book in less than 36 hours with all social dos and chores in between. Not bad stuff, this time. I like Ananya’s father for his wedding toast of a speech of a united India. I like Krish’s father for reconciling that one can’t live in a time warp, personal reasons included.

The cute stuff that happen at IIT or IIM shocked some of my colleagues at work. Do girls, esp TamBrams do that? Well, what has being TamBram got to do with that? Well, if one wants to call it scandal, then it is. Otherwise, it is no big deal, it is a big generous world there, so puts an insider. I recollected my brief stint for a programme in IIT-G. Nothing noteworthy, yeah but a starved percentage of the population come there, mostly males, to assert mental superiority about pedigree and the blah. The states of ‘before’ and ‘after’ for people in such hallowed institutions is also amusing. One is supposed to encash all the rigour by commanding a premium in dollar packages with MNCs. Some do, some don’t. Some rape, some blackmail and some get arrested. So no big deal about the pedigree, most get lucky actually. Popular campus lingo, these future enggrs find their female compatriots less feminine, therefore, non-males. Very weird and wired explanation, grey matter is totally a male thing.

Times have changed, career conscious Ananyas are everywhere. Some join family business onscreen, like Prachi Desai in "Life Partner". Some quit. Some go abroad for better prospects. If these Ananyas are not family-devoted, they are career bitches, at least branded for sheer lack of a better word or are waiting for their million dollar-crorepati baits.

What part of the book moved me? The parents. Parents become so larger-than-life. There is so much of emotion and things at stake. Ananya and Krish got everything, the DDLJ way. Happies ending.

Some relationships in the book left me thinking. Krish’s and his father‘s relationship, nothing is clear in the beginning. The italised flashback guru-shishya talk brought out the angst buried for years. A tale of abuse, respect lost and gained, trust and implicit faith, most importantly unconditional love. Many things can go wrong and many did between Krish and his father. Father-son bonhomie can either be great or terribly formal and uncomfortable. Personally I know of many male friends who are always ahem-ahem with their fathers. Krish blames his father’s mighty temper for all the wrongs in their family happiness. His mother wept more than he could remember, her defiant spirit is all due to the moral support from her extended family and hopes of a Punjabi bahu with assurance of bridal finery, gifts in the form of petrol pumps and life-long seva would delivering her from her social woes of a life incomplete.

The question is that of abuse. How much of abuse is glorified as chauvinist and paternal? How much of indifference and frustration is given vent out in the form of domestic violence and abuse?

Yeah, the humour is stretched. I don’t know how long Punjabis and Tamilians will tolerate being the butt of most jokes from Khushwant Singh’s days. The melodrama is clichéd and Bollywood-ish, too much of north-south spicing up the screen kinda thing, tedious and unbearable at times.

The epilogue is almost plagiarised straight from the last minutes of a Saif Ali Khan movie, when the crowd is clearing a PVR aisle filled with empty cans of Pepsi and butter corn with the credits rolling. Very copied-scripted.

Anyway, good bubblegum read. The only saving grace again, the two fathers.

Two red roses and chocolate.

2009-11-01T09:22:00.003-08:00

Thank you :-)

Forrest Gump said, "Life is a box of chocolates."

Never an expectation, but yes, it was a very pleasant surprise.
Trust me to not notice the surprise. The view from the magic keyhole is always not the complete picture.The lil' slice of life from there is concave and convex from both sides.

Life has more to it and, our journey has begun with/without roses and chocolates --our hands are full aand folded in prayer, hope, faith, trust,dreams, happiness, fear of the uncertain and the unknown. The blooming buds and the love and warmth of the chocolate hold us together for better tomorrows.

The sentiment wrapped around each petal of the rose and the prayer whispered in each blooming bud for a loved one is what makes the rose special for both the giver and the receiver.

Every rose has a story to tell. Chocolates, well. The same story in a breath of sweet fondness.

Smiles.

Buddha in the dumps

2009-10-15T04:42:00.005-07:00

Not quite out of sight. I guess, this is a result of spring cleaning before Deepavali. Not many of us enjoy watching a municipal bin but this is what I dont necessarily have to endure but well, it falls in my vision exercise in the morning when some maids do catch up on their saab-maedom gossip. Occasionally, a young rag-picker or a slightly older one would be seen scavenging for some stray fortune or mostly, separating plastics and glass.

Today, the Laughing Buddha has found an unusual home - the top shelf of a GHMC bin, quite the cynosure of all eyes. Feng Shui believers must have found a chink in the old man's armour ( i think he is non-violent and non-aligned!) and left him to his condition.
He is still smiling and laughing.
He is still rejoicing after being dumped.
But He stands tall despite the dregs around him.
He still spreads cheer and smiles.
He is my hero for the day, he still brings good luck to many.
Smiles.

No prologue and epilogue

2009-10-06T04:06:00.003-07:00

Scene 1

As i walk into the not-so-hallowed but well-grilled gates of my college after a blissful 2 week Puja vacation, an-always-manages to look hassled and important, colleague roars in her car without a honk or a hoot. I saw her from the corner of my left eye and also, had this tiny-winy gut feeling, she might just do the impossible of mowing me down despite my awareness. In 3 secs she proved me right. Despite Tony Uncle and Nirmal Bhaiyya hey-heyying her to stop her car and also, a bevy of young girls criss-crossing her path, she chose to accidentally knock me. She did. I dint fall. i walked on, her vehicle just kept nudging me without. Weird. Finally, i turned around, she dint realise I was giving her one of those to-be-stoned looks. Anyway, the matter dissolved almost quietly. I checked her car, it was the humble humara maruti 800 and what pride she had like she was vrooming in a CRV.At the office, I slowed my pace, she could not avoid me. The apology was reluctant and my pride spontaneous. A cheeky one which would leave a seasoned one at the wheel red - " Looks like you are learning.."

Scene 2

An RTC bus breaks down,axle and brake and some handful of lives on board. I was seated behind the driver.We were asked to get off. The conductor stops a running bus and fellowspeak, we were on board the new bus without any fuss and fare. Impressed.Duty, obligation and responsibility.Public servants ( not bureacrats).And we still call them public servants. Sigh.

Scene 3

Shared rick-rides, slightly more economical and minus the precariousness of hanging on one leg on the footboard or bored hanging inside an RTC bus in the evening.The knave took the wrong road, a lil display of stern straightens a sinning snake also. But the no-change/9 rupaiya hai got me on the right side of his wrong side.He thought i was mad, yes i am but his fingers would go off if he dared to wave them at me. Saved 2 rupees in the bargain. Jaago grahak jaago.

Scene 4

Another rick-ride,i complete the 3 women in the backseat quota. One prospectively coy passenger got him greedy of 4 rupees and driver fella asks me to adjust and squeeze my companion on the right.I yelled at the passenger asking why she is keen on sitting on somebody else's lap. Then the fella and i indulged in Gandhigiri talk. He got an earful and a decent mouthful of teacher-talk. He thought i was too much when i asked him to carry the passenger on his lap.Cut the crap of ladies and gents. If he forced us, i threatened to cut the fare, pro-rate you know..

Scene 5

Home. I never spoke so much with my man over phone as much as i did with Customer Care Service for update of info related to my debit/credit cards recovery and the jazz.

A Happy Finito.

Homeward bound and anchored

2009-10-03T06:12:00.002-07:00

Mom and my mobile alarm woke me up at 5, a call from 7 seas away brought a smile. Early morning haggling with the auto guy to reach the airport shuttle point, some festival tip to the maid and in 10 mins I was there, took my ticket and was too too excited to reach the airport - home, in some hours. 40 mins of light sleep and there I was, wheeled my stuff in, got my boarding pass. Looked around, a lot of Bengalis on flight, lot of saree bags and gifts for loved ones, newly-weds returning home for their first puja and some first time parents who din’t know how to keep their baby quiet thanks to wrong carrying postures or just plain indifference to understand what the toddler wants.
Kolkata stopover was brief but cool, I boarded the flight to Ghy and realised my wallet was missing. All my cards, 2 grand in cash and my identity papers were there. Flashback dint help me either. Tense and restless, the plane also hovered mid-air trying to dodge bad weather. Ghy was relieving, ran into papa’s arms. He still looked as handsome and vibrant as ever. The journey to Shillong brought back a flood of memories. I feel I am no longer as resilient, god, I threw up a couple times. I had not eaten a thing. Reached home, chilled to the bone. Mom looked a lil aged but both of us were so happy to see each other. Mama’s hug and I wept like a child. The missing wallet story upset everyone. I was busy calling helplines and blocking misuse of my cards. All well and a quip from papa, that I had extra money and some taxes to pay…that’s why divine intervention of the missing wallet. The precious things were my family pictures and a Ganesh ji pic given by a loved one. Dinner and I was fast asleep. Mobile switched off and bags half unpacked.
The next morning was a huge surprise, I saw papa in a kitchen apron wake me up with my toothbrush in his hand and asked me to go freshen up and that breakfast was ready. Woohoo, a propah English breakfast and we were expected to finish all ablutions before 11am. I did nothing but unpack and handover gifts. I slept again some unfinished sleep. The next one week was pure bliss. Mom and papa went to see the doctor, happy tidings. Mom wanted to cook and doc was more than happy she should do some light work. We took care of the heavy cleaning and washing. The only cooking legacy I took from Hyd was how to prepare upma and yes, one morning was upma breakfast. They thought it was the quickest preparation. The only thing missing was curry leaves and almonds.
Mom prepared my favourite momos and noodles. Week long feast. They insisted I must shop for a puja dress and shoes and of course, a wallet. I must have had some 20 at one go, chutney was home-made. Tongue-tickling and whacking.
Puja was fun, I met Surajit and his folks. I caught up with Koyal and Sujoy, Digvijay and Doyel. Bro and sis wanted to treat me. Both days of eating out, I paid the bill. One at Bar-be-Q and the other, my personal favourite, City Dhaba. Met some old students. We were asked to come have khichhdi at some mandaps. We got home dabbas of them, had them for breakfast. Mom and papa wanted to have dosas. Jeez, I was so taken aback. I packed 2 masala dosas and one paneer dosa from Madras Café, Chennai Junction dint serve very good chutneys. Lot of sweets, mishti doi and kheer.
I begged my sister to get me some aloo chat from that old time bhaiya who sits near Lady Hydari Park. She informs, he no longer sits there but near the Survey gate. Whatever, she never had time to get any and I was never motivated to walk there alone. So mom and I prepared something similar at home, it lacked the street side masala-tic appeal but it was many times safer and hygienic.
So, I approached my brother to get me egg-rolls from the Keatinge road chap, and yes, he dint disappoint me. Trust me, it is the best in India, it beats the Kolkata guys on Park Street. All for 9 rupees. I remember paying 3 rupees when I was in class 2. But it still had the same charm and taste, that small place is still a furnace and people don’t stop coming there. I had loads of egg rolls.
The Glory's Plaza pani-puri man has more competitors, I went beserk having a plateful at Lite Bites. The stuffing is glorioius and the pani tangy.
Irresistible weakness for eggs, I became a lil’ conscious and I was petrified of some break-outs on my face. They did. But my puja was not ruined. I still had more of them.
On Navami, I wanted to be at the Polo Matri Mandir. My favourite Lord Shiva and Ma Durga. I did some spring cleaning at home, since my feet were sore from walking in new shoes.
My bro and sis were pretty mad with me coz I dint walk enough with them. Shillong is ageing. The road-car ratio is the second highest in India. We waited for ages to get a cab, the Maruti 800. We paid 50 bucks, more than 3 times and came in an auto. How we laughed at our grandness. In Shillong, you cut a sorry figure if you travel by auto.My sis vowed to do pandal-hopping the next year in a car. Papa does not want to buy one now coz there is no parking space.
Lunches and rendezvous with dear friends. Some frozen moments for keepsake. I felt a lil’ miserable to be not waking up to papa’s brush alarm.
There were those sibling fights and they made it lovingly ouch for me by calling my age aloud that I have not changed nevertheless. Of course.A Shillongite never does.
Shilllong, I love you.
Mom, dad, I love you a lot.
Bro and sis, muah muah.

At 62-plus, where is that Indian-ness?

2009-08-15T11:00:00.001-07:00

When the nation turns 63 today, patriotism and Indian-ness is such a relative concern. My part of the country, Meghalaya and the NE region of the country has seen independence day observations of a certain kind - decades of ethnic violence and reconciliation - a constant struggle with identity. In colonial times, there were two princely territories and undivided Assam. The two princely states are present day Manipur and Tripura, remnants of royalty can be seen until date. Undivided Assam per the States Reorganisation Act of 1971 and later gave birth to Nagaland, Mizoram, Meghalaya and we had NEFA, now Arunachal Pradesh. The struggle is not over. The NE region of India is rich and diverse with tribes and smaller tribes, each with a distinct identity and ethnicity. They don’t come under the media glare so much like the Red Indians do in Uncle Sam’s, they are fierce about their preservation of their community. Indian-ness as a concept is not absolute and binding, of one voice over the other. But there is a clear unacknowledged divide of the mainland and the hinterland. Each one of us is very proud of the heritage and legacy we have inherited and are ambassadors in our lil’ capacity.

Interestingly, history is full of tales of crossroads of national and regional moments of glory, strife and sacrifice. Manipur had Bir Tikendrajit fighting the common enemy of sovereignty, the colonial British forces. Present day Meghalaya was predominantly Hindu/pagan comprising the tribes of Khasis, the Jaintias and the Garos. The Khasis fought under U Tirot Sing. Undivided Assam gave the nation many Gandhians and reformers. The Welsh missionaries and the Salesians set up churches, hospitals and schools, the popular notion of the NE being a western society began then. Naturally blessed with heavenly dales and unexplored virgin territory, the clean air and the pristine-ness. Not as flamboyant and rich as Europe, but it was no less.

The 1971 Indo-Pak war’s result was Bangladesh. Pre-partition times had people in the region going to Dhaka and Sylhet to meet friends and relatives, study and trade. Things changed overnight. The influx of communal riot victims to the Brahmaputra Valley took away scarce national resources and means. The immigrants are survivors, to snatch opportunity and set up a comfortable haven not alien to them. I still have friends who suffer humiliating comments on the basis of their religion and where they come from. The locals are also bitter, and from a fun loving hospitable race they have become insecure and need inner line permits for non-locals. Absolute dynastic non-mainstream power corrupts badly. The region suffered in the hands of some Mammon worshippers. The youth went mad, some protested, some gave up school and work, some became militants. The region wept blood. It is limping back to normalcy, the prodigal sons are making it happen after realising that someone malicious is misleading them for some other intent. Many jingoistic rebels felt, they were accidently born and proclaimed Indians. Only natural. The on-the-fence intelligentsia and the yellow-journalism driven elite play safe and want to be politically correct. How simplicity is bruised. People lived the trauma of ethnic killings, mothers wept their bosoms at factional violence. Unsuspecting victims of violence and bitterness. It took music and grit to heal the wounds, and take the bull by the horns. Terrorism became a business, the centre provided crores of funds, wonder if those funds actually made sense-- never saw much of security and para-military stuff doing their work, business thrived on protection money, the region was in the news for terrorism, tourism died many deaths and a separate ministry was created for us, endangered species that we are.

Anyway, the cosmic joke didn’t spare many who wanted to rise above the cramped life. Parents thought their kids were safer in metros, so broods left their nests. The parents worked double hard to keep the money flowing. Some kids went back, many lost in the metro madness. Things in the mainland ( err.. sorry, why mainland? Who created the mainland?) were not rosy. The Mongoloid features made them the butt of all jokes. The chinkies or the Chinese or the Japanese -- that is how they are known. They speak English well and not speaking in Hindi ( one of the national languages) is a crime, they dress well and are easily available and gullible. Nietzsche said history is recorded by the powerful about what they choose to. The NCERT and the other so-called national enough education boards have been governed by size, the big states where the big money went with every national Budget. State boards made local history available in second language studies, which sadly is optional.

They come under the scanner faster than anyone. One reason is because they are “aliens” and look different and easy enough to judge since they are not from this part of the world. All the national hoo-hoo haa-haa around being patriotic and Indian died the day enlightened and proud Aryans and Dravidians displayed national ignorance and brouhaha around where the NE is and also, the jokes. Damn it, the enigma of the NE became smaller in focus than a question around cannibalism and the like. The mainland IQ is definitely relatively poorer and also, majorly indifferent. Molestation and sexual abuse of women in the NCR and in many parts of India is not a new thing, people complain and protest, file an FIR and the road to justice and perdition is a long agonising one. A few years ago, when two NE girls were molested in Delhi and two others were attacked at Gateway of India, there was uproar and divided opinion over clothes and culture. Delhi Police did something more wretched by producing a pamphlet for potential UG people from the NE with a list of do’s and don’ts and what to wear and not. Regressive times. The experience of bias is strong. It is not a one-day paranoia. Sigh! I don’t know how and where parents involve themselves at a child’s growth, the callousness is shocking at times. The sense of alienation only grew bigger, the rifts just grew wider. Now, it is a tch-tch feeling, call it thick-skinned otherwise. And, I am affected definitely. I wish to believe a free India exists for all of us.

A Kargil, a tsunami, a national calamity and a 26/11 inadvertently brings the nation together because the battleground is the mainland. Terrorist acts and bomb blasts are mundane part and parcel of life here, it is not probably over magnified and blown for 24/7 satellite TV coverage. The stakes are low but the pain of being abandoned is bigger than the casualty.We used to watch/observe Independence day and Republic day within closed doors on DD-1, we had token celebrations where the Guvs took the salute and a few made it. When I was the Vice head girl in school, I managed to take 16 brave hearts for whom disobeying parents was regular, to the parade ground. Yes, I was scared what if we get caught in some rampant crossfire. Today, things are fine. We fought terrorism in our own way, we came out on the streets. We had to be accountable and responsible for our lives and future, didn’t want to die like cowards. If at all, in action, in protest. Music is a magical healer and, prayer too. The region is scarred but the flowers are blooming in the hills, giving a chance to their fraternity in the mainland a chance to bridge the gap.

We have to rise above the cosmetic clarion call of Jaiho or Jaihind..

July is cruelly the toughest month.

2009-07-24T07:45:00.002-07:00

It's the 24th of July and there is no single blog entry for this month! i am alarmed at my imposed lethargy and the feeling of not-upto-it, shyt!

Ok, some quick updates... a lot of birthdays,including mine. Don't know how i feel about mine, but i am sure all July babies had and will have an awesome one! My friend's hubby was surprised with 28 gifts! Yes, he turned 28 years old. Thank god, its not his 6oth birthday and his wife informs she is definitely not going to do this again even if it is a so-called milestone birthday. She is right, every birthday is a milestone.Well, the bad idea of gifting 28 stuff was mine. I never had and failingly don't have a wishlist. My family, friends and the loving and loved one more than make it up.But, I guess it was a subconscious desire.I am also turning 28 and maybe, I wanted 28 gifts.I lived my wish by suggesting my friend to surprise her man with 28 gifts. I like the pure thrill of giving and receiving,sometimes albeit selfishly.

To all my July babies, a Happy Birthday! The gifts are coming.Sorry for the delay.

I moved house in less than 3 months and yes,I miss Balaji Residency, Flat no. 304. The cacophony and the laughter. I miss Ragini, my lil' girl and our terrace talks and late night music soirees and those thoughtful and sometimes, thoughtless ramblings.I am very happy for you, Ragini. All luck and love with you, always.

New house,new roomie and a new beginning, some hiccups...living out of duffel bags, not being myself- yes, an abnormal me.A thorough lecturer by day,parsimonous by meal times and a wanderer for 3 weeks.Found sleep but briefly, i looked for my pillow.I am in my new house,still unpacking in my refuge.I say hello to the shelves, they welcomed my books. The room looks quaint and now, throbs with life.

I have a nice roomie and a nice neighbour. 6-month old Gauri is our ( Gauri's parents, roomie's and mine) heart-throb. All my stuff are in this house, except for some of my wandering books,part of my mobile lending library and probably,a phone charger somewhere.

Yes, the house-warming will happen, give me some time. The kitchen needs to be set up. Yes, Ma'am S,i will get sweets for everyone at work, courtesy my first salary at college.Yes, Ma and Pa,I have booked tickets for my Puja homecoming.

All well but the Guy up there needs to test my patience.

A day after i book my tickets, Ma calls me saying she has a tumor in her belly.I was and am reeling from that shattered feeling even now. No one in the family has ever had this. It sounds alien to me.I have seen Ma always so strong and binding. The fear of losing her weighed over me the entire night last Tuesday.I wailed, ranted and wept.Tears gave up on me. Why Ma? Ma said,it's only time that will tell. Pa asked me not to cry.I squirmed for comfort...So many miles away,I cling to that phone call again and again.

17 years ago, we lost Ma's mom ( around Ma's age then) to a similar fate in a state-of-the-art hospital.This palpable fear got us worked up and we feared history haunting us again.

Hello,You up there.You cannot do this to us again.You love us or love us too much, you can't and won't do this again.Ma has a lot to see and enjoy. She has had a tough life, her kids are just flowering today.All those nights she stayed up during our exams,and those sleepless moments when we were fighting illness or I did not call.You can't take away Pa's strength and love. Both of them fought heaven and earth to be together, they have stood by each other in the face of humiliation, strife and a palpable end to their love.

To cut it short, answer our prayers, in all sincerity.You owe that to her.

Letter to Pa and Ma - 1

2009-06-27T06:09:00.007-07:00

Dear Pa and Ma

It's been close to 3 months since i resigned. i thought i was pushed to being brave. Felt very lost and dejected at being the chosen one. i have more plans than i can execute. You allowed me to leave home. You allowed yourselves to trust me. You allowed me to trust myself. You have a fervent wish that the break from academics is temporary and that i will come home. You are also aware that i have outgrown that place but we also know that i always carry my home everywhere with me, the number of times you call me during a day and small notes and instructions, only if you were here physically.

It is not easy to say it was tough. i was a leper to some and a lost child to some. i was moving into a new house in days, all plans backfired on my face. Even tears deserted me. i go on with the backfired plans, life surrounded by cartons and bags. Wish you were there around, simply like you were there when i walked out of jobs over a difference or two. i felt a lil' alone. Before i could finish unpacking, my new companions announce they are leaving, not a difficult choice for them. The bogey is empty and it does not feel eerie. i am packing once again,finished some.

Many things happened besides the ones i tell you everyday. Did i tell you what happened when i landed in hyd? Yes,i did. The city dint feel strange. Did i also tell you, i moved out of the guest-house on the 1st of Jan, and believers laughed at me saying i'd be moving house so often? Yes, i live to tell the tale, i have moved house so many times. i made friends,hurted and reconciled so many times. i am still undiplomatic and call the kettle black. i never had to look for a job but found one. It's a humble beginning, i recall all my humble beginnings with you, Pa and Ma around. This time, wish you were here. No one was there to see me off till the gate,Ma. i remember Pa, you'd put a half-day CL to drop me to work and be with me. i dint get that extra pocket money to come and go by taxi. There are good samaritans in this city, some make me feel at home and some make me feel wanted. Some have been kind, some very nice and some loving. i hope and wish to believe that the samaritans and i become/are family.

It feels good to hear dining table stories from my senior colleagues at work, what their lil' ones do at home, warm moments of sharing a small meal. i also want to share such stories but i have none for now. i feel grounded but not rooted. i need some assurance that everything is ok and alright. It pinches me a lil' to have my meal from the canteen. i manage breakfast and i prepare dinner. i dont want to live like this. Pa, i recall how you'd beg and bug me to eat and stop me from working like a maniac. Ma, i remember how you'd coax me with those dishes you'd pile before me. i know what it feels when your labour of love is not acknowledged, i guess, i am paying for it. i dont have time to cook my lunch! i cook to eat and eat to breathe. it feels strange to cook just for myself. There is hardly anyone with whom i can sit and eat or discuss dining table tales. Few and far between. Restaurant matters are social dos and one-off meals are get-togethers. All my roomies were younger than me and rarely ate at home, if they did it was because their parents were here. If they dint, it was because there were social dos.

i am enjoying the bus-rides despite nearly losing my life. i am special and not special according to god's plan. In a week's time, i move into my new house with a new roomie. Dont know how long i will be in a room of one's own till a house of my own happens. This is to tell you how much you and your loving and caring ways are missed. Ma, i still bug you to wake me up. i miss Pa's pulling off the blanket in the morning. i miss shouting for breakfast while i am in the bathroom. i miss that 20 rupees on the dining table. i miss the shouting after i get back home to change and freshen up.

i wake up to my mobile alarm. My breakfast is on the move, sometimes i give it a miss. i come back to empty quarters hoping to reverbrate with some life and music. i read more and write somewhat. You always complained i dont read enough, i still dont but i have improved.

It feels good to know that in times of distress and those just-like-that moments, without a care i can call you anytime even in the middle of the night without having to say sorry. That is unconditional love to me, when my call is not cut with an SMS for some genuine reason. i dont tell you how broken i am but i pick up when i hear your voice.

Lots of love,Pa and Ma.

your Sana

Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty

2009-06-18T18:25:00.005-07:00

Quit work, officially. No remnants or traces but for the money, the letters of recommendation and the formalities. Felt weird when the cabbie dint come to pick me up, of course i told him not to come.I needed to go somewhere to come back to a new beginning. I already had a new start. Just wanted to make sure there were tangible beginnings.

Day 1

Took the Garib Rath to Bangalore. It is interesting to see Ivy League management people warm up to each other, one is a young veteran and the other, an enthusiastic newcomer. A lil' lady in a disco outfit looks around for her frooti albeit a yawn while her mother lulls her 3 month old brother to sleep. She was a picture of dignity and quiet for a 3 year old.Sharing food and opinions about rising costs in pre-school and the rat race in school education,all of us retired to sleep. Thankfully, no babies decided to cry.

Day 2

Bangalore station,prebooked auto queues and in no time, I was drained and fatigued (no breakfast and very light dinner on the train) on the Mysore bound bus.A hurried simple meal amidst tears of fatigue and helplessness at the assumption of things.In a move of calculated huff and impulse, I cancel the Qualis tickets to Ooty and just want to hit the sack. Plans looked dangerously derailed, temper flying like swords and daggers.An evening in Mysore, not at all half-hearted but bravely with a Plan B of coming back to Bangalore.I dint have the luxury of too many days and definitely dint want to spend that time travelling to reach destinations,yeah.A tonga ride around Mysore Palace, a roasted cob of corn in the gentle rain,Mysore bhajji and the fluffy butter dosa, lots of raw mangoes and pink cotton candy.Also, had this bright idea of wanting to watch Angels and Demons in a 70mm screen.Dinner at the Residency, decent Chinese.Met two men with your on-the-face wigs.Something told me that Ooty tonight.As luck would have it,the hotel helped me get a bus at 11pm in the nite, until then it was Apocalypto on the tube.I had to sit in a half ticket space on a full one,my legs cried for some breathing space.Bobbed my head many times till Ooty.

I hated myself for not getting enough warm clothes, at 3:30 am getting an auto to reach Wellington killed all my drowsiness besides losing the way two times thanks to the smartass driver.The cold clammy sheets and blankets in the hotel were god to me.

Day 3

Missed the 7:45 am heritage toy train from Wellington to Ooty and probably, Metupulayam.I woke up at 10, had breakfast at 11 and then the rains,magical moment it was.I dint regret coming, thank you. Read all the news and watched TV till enough time to run down to the station. The quaint ticket counter had punch cards and at Cunnoor,lunch was garma garam rice and sambar,and duplicate Irani samosas with onion fillings.The camera was the most popular hero. A Maharashtrian platoon of wannabe husbands and wives and lil' children sat next to me and one of the kids took away a rust biscuit from me through proper channel.Children never show restraint. Parents do get embarrassed but some go along.At Ooty,paused for poses and met so many Tamilians, including a TT who rendered a live MS Subbu number so willingly at the bookshop,both he and I exchanged bows.I got English August there. Home-made chocs and ear covers, colorful ones and the bus to Wellington.It rained and it made for the perfect setting for tea and pakodas, all kinds.

Dinner was light and Chinese again. A quiet walk, life comes to a standstill after 7pm. Ooty looked very beautiful at night,a feeling of oneness in the wilderness amidst the modern settings.Heard some citizen from the city use the f-word very generously over phone in the room-balcony above.The feeling of winter and warmth is exhilirating.

Day 4

Bye bye Wellington.While waiting for the Ooty bound toy train at 7:45am, I meet a Tamil family who quizzed me as though I have applied for permanent citinzenship in the United republic of Tamil Nadu.Who?where from? and the blah.Happens,a chink in the armour case.Took 1st class tickets, sat in 2nd class because the cabin was deliberately left with no space as 3 Bengali families spread their generations all over.The meandering ride in the misty morning had a beauty of its own.A south indian breakfast and Mysore bound on a tata winger.A Haryanvi family with 2 children and an Oriya couple.The Haryanvi husband is abusive and impatient and his wife a picture of fortitude.The Oriya couple, matter-of-fact.Some 42 hairpin turns and landscape by the passing window including Bandipur.Tender coconut water and some slices of raw mango.Reached Mysore on time for the express train to Bangalore not before having the railway meals.It was sheer bliss on the train, economy flight-like seats and modest goodies- biscuits and a bottle of mineral water.The same routine of getting a pre-booked auto to my friend's place,and getting rebuked by the driver for lack of correctness of the address due to being the first time.Ok, extra 20 bucks and disparaging looks of horror.

Correta is a million dollar baby, the same spunky girl with loads of love,letters-mails-chats kept us connected and here,I am meeting her after 11 years.Peals of excitement and it never felt 11 years, it was just yesterday when we parted at the grove in college.Dinner at Millers Steak,a cool place where waiters are dressed as rodeos and we cut a cake for someone special and also, had loads of non-stop laughter and chatter.

MG Road for reliving old memories dint happen as desired,definitely maybe the next time, sweetheart.In the biting rain,and a backpack to cry for with my camera and non-commital autos, I hated the romantic weather for the first time.At the bus station,a callous remark makes me go jittery, is this what i asked for?do i deserve a lil' less or more?The bigger worry is will that one-legged tramp pull up his shorts?No,all shame washed away, the world can watch and not laugh but the world whipped him for being indecent.He sat in the mud and rain,to hide the remnants of his manhood just in time to remind me of another experience at Majestic -- a conductor who forgot to close his fly is found scratching his assets in public, eeks.

Bye bye Bangalore, it was good times.Laughed, fought, cried.I would not go to sleep with wet clothes on.I wrapped the Volvo blanket and did a stage change of clothes.Sleep descended.Selves reconciled.

Smiles.

A Post-mortem of my living obituary

2009-06-06T11:04:00.005-07:00

Just my 3rd day to work and my gingerly feelings continue. I am at the bus stop, a fresh waft of jasmine and a promising dull sky. Looking forward to my first ever teachers' orientation programme in Hyderabad in Tarnaka at Satyodoyam. Boarded a 10H, I sensed trouble. I was in the midst of my one-on-one with the fellow up there whom believers and non-believers call God. The conductor was a middle-aged foul-mouthed resentful employee. The driver looked tortured and was not any less than an angry irresponsible piece of shit. The bus started its dance of tandava from nearly banging an auto on legal parking area to running over many grannies. On hindsight, he should have. I would have been avenged to see his balls crushed and lynched by the mob. I sat on the left, first seat reserved for the "physically disabled", the rest were occupied. After Jubilee Checkpost, at the Venkatgiri blind turn, the driver screeches and we avoid a major disaster of becoming the dear departed by inches. An Infosys office bus and the tandava bus at loggerheads, in right angles, two big monsters fuming. Life came to a standstill, my life definitely did, my heart stopped beating, it flew out of dear life. I flew from my seat and crash landed at the footboard, all expletives buried in the nether world. I was clinging to the window rails and one hand held my huge bag. Divine mission aborted. Recovered and straightened myself, tried to breathe, yelled at the fellow up there for this -- was it a trial run or a prank? Agitated fellow commuters stood stunned, asked me if I was fine. Oh yeah, I am. Resumed the journey. Looked at the watch, it was 8:23 am, lucky moment, blithe me! Nobody said anything and I dint feel that outraged, life is that cheap. Driver shrugged, I forgave him. Infosysy driver blew his top, it was more of get-out-of-my-way. Called up Father Sunder, no prayers for that fellow up there, He cheesed me off.

I am not fatalistic but still wish to go on record that the driver is not a catalyst, it was just not his day. That's between me and the fellow up there. He better cancel any plans, if any. My wishes are different -- I want all my loved ones around me when I die, I want to make sure they are smiling and promise to keep smiling after I go. I felt small and insignificant that moment. A terrible moment of vulnerability. Did not have the heart to call anyone -- did my loved ones get any sign that moment that I could have been gone? I don't want to know the answer. Doubted if people who loved me really loved me or was I undeserving of their love? That fellow up there told me love saved me. I was angrier -- love is not some premium you pay for the rainy day, why is it such a big investment? I don't want that love to be bargained for my life, I feel I am poorer today. I live a life of debt, where I am supposed to be scared and unsure because anything can happen anytime. I have to make sure I say i-love-you to all my loved ones, I am not complaining. Just that, I hate this feeling. I hate all my loved ones now for loving me.

I am not scared of death but the close encounter and the near-death experience is scary especially when I shudder to think what my loved ones would have gone thru. How many will come to bear my pall? Confirmed news from the morgue, a call from the police station. Thousands of miles away, an anxious but childlike voice (Ma) will answer "Hello, Sana.." My home receives STD calls from one number regularly. Very rare one-off cases of that number not being mine. It's not Sana, she fumbles and gets nervous. Her phone antics are still amusingly and lovably clumsy. An old frail voice will take the call, Pa. The flashback to old times and the old lanes in Shillong, where a young father takes his daughter to nursery who celebrated her birthday two times in a year. She's fades into a nobody today. All achievements in life pale into shallowness. The regular rituals will happen, from a funeral to a memorial amidst tears and more tears for some more months, years and then just a lingering memory. Pa and Ma will meet some people who touched my lives in this big city. The only regret is they might not meet some about whom I did not get any proper opportunity to talk about. Whoever is reading this now, please count yourself in and stand by my family for that big celebration of life after I am gone. You are family to me. Do get back to my loved ones and do recall and regale to them about the good times we have had.

I am alive and crying and feel like an absolutely lonely stranger in this warm city. I am still cheesed off with the fellow up there for making me the chosen one that morning. Listen God, I have my parents' grace as my shield and therefore, you have to go talk to them and take their permission even if you want to joke with me. You can't and won't -- both of us know why. I know you love me too. I am just a lil' tired and want to lie down and rest my head somewhere. I am sorry Pa-Ma for not telling you this. Forgive me. The STD calls will happen more oftener. And yes, I don't feel gingerly anymore.

Gingerly...

2009-06-04T12:10:00.002-07:00

I have been feeling gingerly in a long time. Don't know how to decide what is it that ails me. Can't live or do without parents but have managed it so far reasonably ok. Not that going back to Shillong is going to help anything. Loved ones can't see me in a well, i am on life's highway, full throttle.I miss meeting Aroma for nuts over that cheap egg roll for the heck of it and ranting like a chick lit heroine. My soul sister, we assure each other we are a call away.

I want to have a picture perfect happy matinee show of life. I am doing what i love most -- teach, i am looking forward to writing, i am not envious of anything right now. I do not have all that i want but Pa tells me to be contented for happiness' sake. Just that, that gingerly feeling comes back. Some questions,responses and observations which make me assume and shake my faith a lil'.My friend thought i am a philosophical types after i commented about the backspace key that we wish in life, some remote consolation of recalling things that we can script change and control in a limited fashion. Taking a step back, making some room to listen without that crass interjection of a comment and give me that space to breathe and ignore that annoying lil' habit of mine as unconditionally as that flaw on the moon's spotless visage. Being understanding and all knowing is painful if the burden is borne alone. I don't know if this is the way i want to usher things and let it be.

Loved ones are beyond comparison and relative judgement, their enthusiasm could leave one snubbed but all they want is to earnestly make every effort to stay connected and valued. One is trapped to play to the gallery and go through some angst or anguish them with brutal honesty. The worst nightmare is living out your imagination, either ways one punishes them for their simplicity and tears flow in silence. The benchmark hurts, the expectations disappoint. Tears roll and the heart hearkens for the skylark to sing. One needs to be human, assures my friend. It's only natural and there is nothing necessarily that has to go wrong to be fine. I draw strength loving the important people who have touched my life.

Gingerly,

Kiran

Eng'lease' -- whither did you go?

2009-06-03T09:27:00.003-07:00

One life so far and i can't claim i have achieved much but i can fairly and proudly say i have enjoyed every experience. There were tough times but they only made me appreciate that i was the special-ly chosen one put to test because someone up there loves me a lot and the collective but individual loves of all the special people i love held me, took care of me and made me spring back whenever, wherever.

I was and am a lucky child, touchwood. Grew up with awe-inspiring but heart breaking tales from my folks that nothing came easy for them. My Pa did not have money to pay for his matric exams, only 50 rupees those days. His father (my late grandfather who lived an English gentleman's life) would not give him or allow other potential benefactors, the reason being studies can wait, the boy needs to apprentice with a vet. His dreams of conquering the skies piloted almost unsung. Ma had to trek 8kms up and down in dusty hawai sandals to reach that govt school, studying in a different medium other than the mother tongue (Bengali), sorry i am not talking about English. The pain of having to keep pace in English all of a sudden in college, thanks to ever changing rules and sudden change in affiliation. There was no concept of helpbooks or tuitions, no TV or lil' radio, very few newspapers and mags. I got all the guidance, went to a prep school, got my books and fees paid on time, avoided tuitions, went to tuitions (what drama and ritual, getting dressed and ready like it was matinee time), got my 1st chinese pen in class 4.

My Ma taught me my first ABC, got me double promoted in nursery. Pa taught me how to write short simple sentences but i end up writing wound up stuff. Pa fought with me not to do an Economics major but English. I love you, Pa. I am here today because of you. But it amuses me and endears me with so much of tender affection when my Ma shies away from speaking in English to/with my friends and over phone. There are times, she calls me up and gets her script ready and right when she is about to speak to new people in new places. I tell Ma, its ok nobody minds -- it was never your mother tongue, you can rightfully and willfully make a few errors. No one should get offended, it is just one form of gentle encouragement. Pa also avoids all the grandiose associated with having to communicate in English. But when he does, the man is a Gandhian... simple but hard hitting, tender and provoking. I have been bugging him to write, god only knows when he will pick up the pen.

I won't say i excelled in the subject or is it the language? But i had my own sweet way with it, loved playing around with the lil' vocab that i acquired and the parts of speech. I taught poetry and fiction to young collegians. Pa and Ma were very thrilled that their big lil' girl is a Ma'am in college, the dough was not great for starters but the satisfaction and smiles is a million bucks! Getting those roses and cards on Teachers' day was an added high but those marks and thank-you notes after exams was the ultimate reward. Research in English almost drained me out, all complicated theories why someone was inpired like that in a poem and all. It killed me that creativity was fighting for space with criticism. I also learned that criticism is not all anti and negative. It became very "yo" to be critically inclined since no one was creative any longer, ok a bad one. Struggled with my fledgling creative spirit and balancing off with the demands of research, problematising-the-issue as one of my theory friends puts it.

Thanks Pa, if not for my English background (yes, the placement of the adjective can be misleading)...i would not have ventured out and met a whole new world altogether. Yes, i was mourning that i was not selected for higher research, they told me i was still raw. Sulking did not help any cause. I decided to take a break from teaching and learning English. Google happened. Learned that i had to facilitate a new kinda English in whatever capacity -- Global English (psst..actually Amrikan English catering to Amrikan clients based there). Ok, felt like it was a very glam-sham posh call center thing (the calls happen later on Avaya deskphones when one gets promoted, they call it direct sales) with sophisticated methods and means. Pardon my analogy. The point is, i learnt a lot of English-es, regional flavours and tweaked ones too! Found it extremely amusing how one and all take the language for a ride and also, everyone is a champion in mastering the language -- the excellent emails and the awesome test-scores, the blogs and the status messages and the ultimate showcase stuff, pick up a twisted, clipped accent in a whirlwind overseas visit of 15 days -- the uhms and the not-so-Phoebe like ahans. Oh, we all lou our Eng'leash'.

My English also underwent a Hyd'badi makeover. Pa and Ma feel i speak with a South Indian accent. They are aware that a Kannada is different from a Telugu as much as a Malayalee is from a Tamil. But you get the drift...Whatever it is, my lou for English got me a research registration at my alma mater which will help build a writing environment -- yes, i want to write in English whatever and anyever (some exercise of crass liberty here) i know in other languages too. I also pray in English. Of course, distressing prayers are in my mother tongue. I know how to speak and also, slang (using it as a verb,allow me this one as well) in my native tongue (everyone does, even in other languages) but mastering the 10k lettered stick shaped script is beyond me.

These experiences of pride and prejudice about the language has taken me to a new pinstripe turn, kinda back to where i was, where my heart was, where i initiated with teaching ABC to kindergarten smarties and now, playing-blogging with the letters and the words.

Yesterday was my first day of learning at school, stripped and shorn of all virtual and superficial essence. There was the fear of treading new ground with no Pa and Ma around. Today was my first day of badging at work, in the hallowed world of teaching at college. Met no students at the gate to greet me or smile at me. The bland gate took me in, the freshly watered garden promised me lovely blooms, the wind whispered the monsoons are on their way to give me wonderful company with chaiand pakoda. The quiet corridors, windswept with light blossoms told me not to worry, the guardian angel is watching over me. It was a new world of shared lunches, protective concern to the point of baby-ing me, ma'am-ing me at my so-called glorious achievement, gentle nudging and teasing to make me feel at home as one of their own, my own, our own.

A kind prayer welcomed me.

Smiles.

Show the finger

2009-05-13T22:02:00.004-07:00

Anatomically, the human hand is such an interesting blessing, a thumb and 4 fingers. Some childhood granny's tale has it that the thumb is Lord Shiva, the index belongs to Lord Yama, the middle finger is Lord Varuna, the ring finger is Lord Vishnu and the little finger is Lord Brahma. When taking or giving bibhuti/sindoor or any form of tikka, I was advised to use the thumb and the ring finger to collect and the ring finger to smear and apply. Pointing at someone with the index finger more than being impolite, it is also inauspicious.

Often, during childhood I used to wonder why that huge statue of Indira Gandhi almost like a Trojan horse in the State Library showed her hand as if stopping the onslaught of humanity. Turns out, it is symbolic of Congress (I). Yes, when I studied polity in high school and forms of government in college, I learned another, more original meaning of Congress. The dictionary,too.

Anyway, Hindi cinema encashed on the hand a lot. In the 80s, spines shivered when Gabbar menacingly demands, "yeh haath mujhe de de Thakur!" and all the other hand stories. Emotions went rife when someone was shown the hand precisely for whatever reason. The last that I remember is Dil Chahta Hai, when Aamir in the end shows his palm/hand (burning with rage) to Ayub Khan, Preity's childhood betrothed. You must have got the message, back off and don't mess with me!

Come to the fingers and the thumb. Kids love to hold someone's else'shand, index finger and the blah. They also love sucking the thumb. What pleasure, whew! Let's not get Freudian. A thumb-up (yes, I refuse to say thumbs-up) means so many things. A thumb-down means :'( . If the thumb with a closed fist motions outward (ok, I am patchy here) means asking for a lift, hitchhiker style.

Showing just the index finger means one, the counting style. The same goes for all, similarly. But, caution. If one were going to flash just the middle finger in whatever state of mind, yes. That's trouble. It is outrageous and at the same time has a huge fan following. Whatever it means, I know many friends who got caned in school for flashing it and also, for not knowing what it meant.One should not finger around so much, the puritans say.

Showing the little finger means one needs a pee-break. Just an excuse.

Anyway, elections are on, results are due. Yes, yes, my vote,your vote and every vote counts. I could not vote because my name was missing in the rolls but I have a voter's card. Sad. Digressing again, come back. Alright, all the fuss here is -- the Bachchans also went to vote like any Indian. Don't know why our leading dailies take great pride indulging in yellow journalism. At least 2 leading dailies featured the Big B parivaar in pristine white doing their bit for India. All is ok, except showing the inked middle finger -- Big B, small yo B and Bahu B, Jaya B just grinned ear to ear for her happy family. One could have flashed a V-sign, the middle finger would not have been so apparent. Sigh!

Check today's TOI, page 7 -- an imbecile Karunanidhi in his trademark gogs (sorry GTM, I know you won a 1st prize for fancy-dressing up like him on Halloween's two years ago) exercising his adult franchise so immaturely in full public view (I thought it was supposed to be secret ballot) using his index finger, the camera angle is interesting.

My audience with Lord Balaji from Chilkur

2009-05-10T22:03:00.004-07:00

I remember Surekha tying a sacred red thread on my wrist and telling me not to ever remove it, it is from Chilkur. I didn’t know or research much into it. The sacred thread was there on my left wrist for many months and a day came when it wore off. I have it at the altar of my prayer table. Aunty has been asking me to come there since last year, it’s especially auspicious before exams, for visa purposes, yada yada and the Lord, I am told is a generous deity. I finally went there last Saturday. Life is not full of strife, but there is always a time to meet and do some heart-to-heart. I slept at some 11:30 pm on Friday. Woke up at 4:30 am, bathed and got ready. The drive was peaceful. We thought we lost our way, no that part of the city has changed in the last six months. Lot of high rises, expansion of roads and development in the urban sense -- forgotten farm houses, the sleepy roads, dust picking up and as we entered Chilkur, the village folk woke up to sacred chants, courtyards being cleaned, broomed and watered.

Beyond the makeshift car park on the right, one can see the pristine and calm Osmansagar. Barefeet, chappals and sandals in the car, we walk towards the temple.Ouch, there are broken coconut shell splinters everywhere. The road to the temple is lined with small stalls selling puja ka samagri, a means of livelihood for the locals. It is indeed, a small fair. The temple is overflowing with humanity. A patient bunch wait in the inner precincts of the temple. There is a labyrinthine queue outside, waiting for the darshan of the prabhu. Hundreds trying to complete their pradaksham, 108 in total with a lil’ chart and pen in hand. I almost fainted seeing that. There is a starting point, smeared in red vermillion. People are not supposed to break coconuts there or light incense. But yeh toh public hai, they just do what the rules ask them not to do.

Chilkur is different because there is no hundi or donation-box, there is no VIP treatment or special fee to meet the Lord and the Lord loves flowers. The priests are different, truly. Aunty asked me to do 3 pradaksham, 3 is auspicious and then stand in the queue. I did that like everyone else – fathers, mothers, children, students, grand-parents, young people, married and unmarried, employed and unemployed. It is a different feeling altogether. This toddler and I make faces in between chants of “Govinda, Govinda”. After my 3 revolutions, I stand in the queue, Aunty chided us for starting late. She is worried we will not get to see the Lord in the inner sanctum, until the last gopuram. Yes, even I felt a lil’ guilty. The entry is restricted after 6:30 am. The priest kept us updated. We followed him in the many prayers in between. He told us interesting facts that hundi means hawala, illegal money collection. The temple trust however accepts donation from the devout in some bank account. The priest spoke in three languages- English, Hindi (apparently for the Tamils) and in Telugu. He was fluent and very eloquent in all three languages. Being a Saturday, the temple visits and hits are double than normal times. It was also a special day per the panjika, I found out later it was Buddha Purnima. He requested the pilgrims to stop the pradaksham because there was no place to stand and assured that the Lord is very generous and will not be furious and, that one can always come and complete them another day. No, yeh toh public hai – they will do what they want. Our exasperated priest then announced that even if a devotee completed 108 pradaksham going against his request, his/her prayers would not be answered and he would make sure he/she is punished for his disobedience. All we did was laugh. There are conspicuous signboards telling us to pray to God with our eyes open. I am a social pariah for not closing my eyes in prayer, closing eyes is for people who need to concentrate and are not attentive. My turn came and yes, in total filmi style before the clock struck 6:25 am, we were in the inner recesses of the temple in time to pay our obeisance. Very relieved, we retreated with prasadam (ghee laddoo) to the Siva shrine next door.

Peepal trees with a very soothing courtyard, the Siva temple was a temporary resting place for the teeming devotees. Aunty asked me if I want to be part of the Siva abhishekham – one hour inside the small almost underground cave-like temple. That was rhetorical, she smiled and her smile asked rather triumphantly, “how will you escape this?” There were others waiting, only 9 will be allowed to take part in it – 4 women and 5 women. The priest made us stand around in a semi-circle around the giant black lingam. Yes, pleasing this Lord is elaborate – giving him a bath starting with water, then followed by milk, curd, pure honey with ghee, bibhuti, then a turmeric facial coupled with rose water, tender coconut water amidst chants of “om namah shiva”. The small fan in the background was of small relief. I began sweating profusely, at one point I was worried and panicked I won’t complete the puja. But then, until the call happens you or I can’t decide anything. The world moves because of God. I will complete the puja if the Lord wants. I did. A young boy priest came by to break coconuts and there was more laughter than somberness. The puja lasted more than an hour and I was happy at the end of it. It has been many years since I did some service to my favourite Siva.

Aunty stayed back for some service and prayer and we rested in the courtyard and saw people and monkeys in clothes and human form breaking coconuts and in the process, I nearly lost my eyes. We were mobbed by beggars and members of the third sex. We ate a lot of ripe guavas and took a short drive to Osmansagar. Thank you, Aunty for taking me to Chilkur.

A love story

2009-05-06T22:55:00.004-07:00

An old story from the closet--

Many months ago in some neighbourhood, there was a little boy who loved to watch the stars. He met a sweet someone in a faraway land. The day his prayers were answered, he shared his happiness with everyone and all prayed to their gods too, please take care of both of them, they love each other and their beautiful love story should be protected with the all enduring love of loved ones and well-wishers. Their world changed forever. Love does that. You become more responsible. Priorities change and perspectives differ. From ‘I’ and ‘me/mine’, things level to ‘our’ and ‘us’.

Days passed, the precious princess of my young friend just grew beautiful and more beautiful in his thought and spirit, and in my imagination. I waited for the day to meet her, I met her. She is truly beautiful in heart and spirit. She will always remain so, my friend.

They say everything comes flawed. Ah...

Things fell apart out of nothingness. When things seem ok and good, the ordinary things of life should not affect the zeal of love. Each in his and her corner longed/craved for that extra something- for one, it was time, for the other –space, small things matter, they do? They don’t? I am clueless.

With space and distance, and silence come indifference -that spoken word, that hurtful tone, that unspoken but apparent indifferent casualness or whatever…

Sometimes, we get so absorbed and ‘lost’ in matter-of-fact things and doing the usual stuff. The angst and the ego fight hard, nobody wins. It’s a losing battle anyway. Sad but true, power makes you ruthless. The power that comes to you when someone loves you immensely; it does unnerve you and things get scary. Too many people give you advice that it’s too early to predict anything, take your time but not forever. Love enslaves you but for a greater but beautiful journey. Sometimes we miss the point. We indulge in trivial things and those trivial things gain importance so much to the extent of fuelling things apart.

In retrospect, I don’t know what to say, both of them are exceptional human beings, very lovable.

The love story just ended (?), so I presume, personal yet individual needs are of greater importance.

Only, if you knew that there is no room for ifs and buts…

Charlie with PMS

2009-05-05T09:49:00.004-07:00

PMS is an excitingly spicy fodder and gossip for many males that I know. If Freud wondered what is it that women want, the new generation man thinks most of the hidden answers to most of the difficult questions are trapped and embedded in PMS! Yeah, the smart Adam of the species wishes to be understood as understanding and sensitive that the Eves have those glum days and they care, some do actually. So much for the Martian understanding and well, ahem!

For us, it is not a big deal! We just want you to be a lil' sensitive, sometimes we act funny (the urban male dictionary has so many alternative and bizarre meanings) and are unusual. But that does not have to beat your rocket science for you to figure out. Like you just don't get it, we also don't feel up to it sometimes. You call it mood swings, we call it PMS.It is another thing that this syndrome need not necessarily strike you before, during or after the "shudho dhara" (like one of my friends nomenclatured it). What happens during this period is a lil' difficult to predict --boring pimples to taken-for-granted irritable behaviour and, unusual cravings and weight nightmares.Do I look good?Why do I dislike this food? The list is long.

Met dozens of male PMS cases and I'm sure you did too. Most, I have observed revolve around food, they get a lot of food for thought that way-- to cud-chew,to complain,to reflect, to savour, to criticise. Some have a compulsive i-hate-my-boss bout which gets intensified during those mood swings.Some have this i-am-angry-with-you-but-dont-know-why thing.Some have this i-need-to-be-alone chant.Why do I have to wake up at all, early (forget it)? And, all that jazz.

I shrug and really fail to understand this pattern of consistent and inconsistent irrationality. You don't have those glum uncomfortable moments of having to check and change.Imagine if you had to, you would have been undoubtedly so clumsy!

Whatever you had for dinner and went to sleep. Gosh, your tantrum was intolerable this morning.I meet this Charlie who apparently moves around with a clipped accent. Getting up early is a compulsive problem but the evil empire beckoneth you. So, I see those smoked swollen eyes.Almost breathless and an indifferent did-you have-to wait-for-long apology?No, it was not an apology, it was a F-O-R-M-A-L-I-T-Y.Whatever.

I was away from the maddening crowd trying to be a good Bathsheba to my books and studies. Sorry, my bad. I didn't warn you I'm back in the madhouse. But then, a mad person will never admit he or she is one. They are normal [sic]. Time is frozen by chunks of minutes. The world their father's heirloom of an oyster. To be different in the madhouse is a big ambition. So, to break rules of every written order is fashionable.Ok.

Man comes and yells at me, what is wrong with me?Why do you have to reach work early?Me? I am fine,are you alright? Which side of the bed did you have to jump off? No, there is only one side, the other side is against the wall, back against the wall, did you say? If you claim you are not a lunatic and even coming late and hijacking the rest of the world is normal, then you have PMS. I can't whisper anything to you to keep you quiet. You decided to tell the world that it is one of those days.Well. Women never had to apologise for anything during one of those days.Truly speaking, they pamper themselves without hurting and offending others and also, get pampered. This Charlie had to and did say sorry.I would have skinned him and fed him to the crows if he did not. Lack of education. Charlie, you must not do things to feel sorry during one of those days. We understand. We are brethren.

So much halla gulla that Charlie has PMS.

Preeyanka

2009-04-23T07:01:00.003-07:00

It’s quarter to six, the sun is still warm on my legs.

A ticket for one and some samosas to revive me,

I wait for the warning signal, my FL-12 is due.

No ladies coupe for me, I need leg and breathing space.

Light blue checks in pink, two bangles in each hand

Those nimble hands looked for the familiar clap.

Father and daughter, tender moments of catch-catch.

Generous, they shared their seat with me at 2^nd’bad,

“What is your name?” from a weary heart to a warm one.

This little bag of bones goes to a blind school in Malakpet.

Does not like the curd-rice and rasam they serve there,

Her laughs are feeble but full of life.

It’s summer vacation, the school called.

She is gonna be home until June 20th, err 12^th (she corrects).

Father’s youngest and dearest.

Even stoned faces after a day long work smiled.

She sees what she feels and lives what she feels,

Her “abbo!” for every shy expression and delight.

Father and I talked about Hyderabad and Delhi, Maharashtra.

They speak Telugu, Hyderabadi Hindi and are Kannada,

Preeyanka wants to grow up to teach Telugu.

One brother works in Satyam, brings home 6k!

Another in the printing press,2k less!

Father has a plant, from a humble 5k to 15 lakhs.

Asked me how much rent I pay?

He imagined my salary, I laugh gently.

The vis-a-vis of the complex and the simple, their humble thrill.

Her little hand slipped into mine, played a few games, talked.

Asked me if I can come for tea, uhmm…

Hitec came, bye and be good. I should have.

a listless dying

2009-04-21T06:16:00.002-07:00

dying is an art, believe me.
it can be passive, it can be quiet.
it can be national news, it can be anonymous.
it can be routine and in doses,
for all you know, it may be cheerful and not morbid.

you also have everyday dying,
where a lil' part of you ceases in various forms.
a small part of you gets bored and corroded
another part of your thoughts gets used to things and patterns,
habits and likewise.

like today, something died
the fairytale reality just took a U-turn
sensibilities and attitudes change
in the name of accommodation
many become martyrs.

my belief shook a lil, my fears a lil exposed
close ones go and those living live on
you choke on your own tears
a lil worried to share what i feel
lest, i am judged

so, dying becomes easy and
frowning cowardly.
you die in a crowd or on a hill top
you die alone, and misunderstood
like i care to explain why i die.

Arundhati

2009-04-21T04:34:00.001-07:00

I watched Arundhati, a Telugu supernatural thriller. This movie eluded me for a long time. Since there was a power cut on a Saturday mid-day, it was a good idea to spend the afternoon watching a movie. The plot is beautifully woven with mythology. You can see the essence and power of Shakti at its regal best. The fable of Lord Indra’s weapon, the Vajrayudha (made from the backbone of Sage Dadichi) is borrowed here. For a Telugu movie, the role of the protagonist is one of the best I have seen, author-backed and believably real, that too for a woman!

Anushka’s alternate roles as the regal Jaijamma and the modern day Arundhati is beyond description. The supernatural spin might be a lil’ too much but she handled it so well. There are a few aha moments. I especially liked young Arundhati, with her doe eyes and when they spewed anger, they sure were full of fire. She was a delight to watch when she danced, when she practised fencing, horse- riding and also, when she pronounced the death sentence (almost with that finality) to her dangerously errant cousin and brother-in-law, Pasupathi (Sonu Sood). The ritual of entering the water to wash away the temporal-ness of her present life and take up the mantle of the kingdom was a strong poignant moment. There is a confident aggression which converts into a steely determination later on.

This lady loves red, her red saris and the self-portrait. As long as things were under control, they were. When famine and disease afflicted her kingdom thanks to the mischief of Pasuapti’s pret atma, she wore the saffron robes and gave up her life to fight the ultimate battle. That is another moment. She didn’t flinch at her painful, slow and self-inflicted death. Those kohled eyes and the patch of vermillion, they are images that stay with you.

I won’t discuss the plot with you, it is up there for everyone, pretty predictable. Sonu Sood was good, extremely menacing and maniacal. I would hate to meet his mother (in the movie), she looks very hideous and scary. The Aghori Babas added that exotic flavour. The rest of the cast are the usual uncles and aunts, children and parents. Sayaji Shinde as the ghost buster Anwar was reassuring. Not as spooky as a Goosebump read.

school shoes

2009-04-02T05:54:00.002-07:00

I hated the buckle girlie-shoes from Bata, I loved Naughty boy shoes, but when I got kicked, I got kicked badly. Admired Liberty shoes but never got to wear them. I used to reach school early and I normally sweat my guts out playing ready-ready with a few others. Before even Assembly began, my shoes were a dusty brown. Never got penalized. I had ways to get them cleaned. Running them on your black socks by the shin was such fun and easy, and if you dint want to dirty them, then use some thermocole. You have to bear that funny annoying noise but it works.

When Papa was away and Ma was busy attending to 2-month old Bunty, she caned me one afternoon with the clothesline bamboo for getting my shoes dirty before Assembly. It’s funny because she got the longest stick which was difficult to maneuver and I hopped from one side to the other. I never dirtied my shoes after that. I only made them worse in the rainy months. The instruction is never to step outside, your shoes will tell the truth. I used to step outside only during the 3^rd period for a toilet break and it used to rain heavily and my shoes go soggy. I tell the truth, if I had played in the rain, I would have caught a cold or a fever. Papa threatened to not send me to school if the shoes don’t dry and I was never allowed rainy boots.The sun alwys unfailingly showed up.

Once I was a big girl, that is class-5, I became super finicky about my shoes. Nobody should even step on them by mistake. After that, Papa never had to use much polish. Classmates laughed at me that I don’t polish my shoes and that I make Papa work. I fought with them many times. But hey, Papa has taught us how to polish shoes, just that he enjoys doing that for his children. Today, Papa misses doing those small lil’ things for any of his children, because we have all grown up and we have our ways and means of cleaning, polishing and maintaining them.It is another ritual when after breakfast I go and stand infront of Papa asking him to tie my shoe-laces. I always trusted him for that and also, that I will never trip on my shoe-laces if Papa did them. I learned doing them when I was a big girl :)

Not so Virgin and 'hatke'

2009-03-23T07:19:00.003-07:00

I don’t think I like the Virgin mobile, think hatke ads on TV. They are so not tasteful. Almost, an oxymoron. Yeah, we have had outrageous ads in the past. Society and the moral police never were ready for creativity, per se to thrive. The bizarre is always unwelcome.

I am not moral-policing. But, I don’t see greater humanity and society moving anywhere close to ahead. We all want our children to be good, polite and nice to all forms of species. Our youngsters are fed on Jaagore and Jai Ho over time from a tumultuous Rang de Basanti, where sex read gender is not a qualifier to fight injustice and wrong things around us. You are human and sensitive, so you get affected, so you voice your feeling. If you don't care pretty much, then you are a wayside indifferent amoeba.

It’s seems mighty tickling for the whole nation to see a young lad on a hospital bed, his limbs plastered and his mobile ringing. Who is the caller? Not his parents. Or his ‘girl’friend. His friend in the other room. Both con-call to see the super butt of the made-to-look dumb nurse, who obliges to search his pockets, almost sincerely. Yes, our nurse is ‘hot’ by their and most TV viewers’ standards. Poetic justice when a not-so-manly compounder walks in. Reality check- our nurses are clean and professional(read nice), some are rude, some are careless, most are married (smiles) and hang me, if I am wrong- most underplay their sexuality, they are demure and ‘ordinary’ if you get what I mean. Our nurses know they are at a danger of being propositioned, I have heard weird tales from some who serve in different kinds of hospitals, especially defence hospitals. So, they are extremely careful of being caught come hither. Of course, you have exceptions. Which profession/ walk of life does not?

The newest Virgin ad is plain stupid. Some new Virgin handset needs promotion and branding. That way, I have always found Idea, Vodafone (formerly Hutch) and Airtel extremely innovative with their campaign quality. Target audience is never an issue. If Virgin thought by being cheeky, they will get the numbers…well, they need to re-think. Two friends, one fop-‘smart’ and the other fat-‘smart’. Fop’s girl is a rip-off of some wannabe P3 regular, jaunting in heels and shades, complete. The usual, I-know-what-you-are-up-to fishy thingy just that, she is really, truly gullible, or made to be one. Fat’s act is believable, DRAMEBAAZ! The flip/slide of the Virgin phone is the cue to fib. I lost the advertising sense of the product, even if it was think-aloud, played aloud SMS. Not being dumb, seriously. Granny is serious and hospital, is always a forever saviour. The ultimate is hiding the pub-entry seal (induced laughter). Need some salvation. Dumbo walks away, the two FFs waddle away like ducks. End of ad. No, this is not even sexist.

I am annoyed. The sense of cheating is rife. Someone’s simplicity even in the form of stupidity or dumbness is taken for a royal ride. The usual suspects. Make up, a hug, a pseudo kiss, maybe some feel-good sex- is that how cheating is covered?

I am still annoyed. Remove the Virgin tag. Maybe the hatke bit also.

Prologue to the almost

2009-03-12T06:30:00.006-07:00

I've been lucky with some things in life-studies, work, friends, love too. No further questions and touchwood.

Not that we pursued, we hardly knew we existed. Again, not out of indifference but just out of sheer ignorance, you in your corner, I in mine- different worlds indeed, poles apart. We almost missed. Trust Coelho and his Alchemist magic.

I was never for love, but was always happy that people fell/rose/whatever in love. It was cute to see two people clumsy and crazy together, doing sweet somethings and nothings for each other. Often, the cynic (psst: no sour grapes) would also pass a mean one, tch tch!

I will tell you of a few close ones, really close ones. I shudder at the thought, not that they were bad…I would have been a disaster.

In school, friends bullied me royally to go for this guy because he was the one for so many, my logic- I am not. I was branded a chicken, scared of being caught by parents and all. I am one of the plainest of plain Janes around. Nothing can tick anyone or me. Period.

College in an all-girls environment, nothing romantic crossed my mind except for Jane Austen and Emily Bronte books. To have a mix of Darcy and Heathcliff is potently maddening, I thought.

University did not go without its fair share of crushes and you know, the occasional fight. My good friend broke up with his girl and for a year, was head over heels in love with me( I call it rebound). His cosmos married me off to his family- his parents doted on me, his siblings adored me, his aunts would just go ga-ga. The perplexed soul in me was wary. The poor chap had two dummy affairs before me to provoke me, sad. That also, dint work. He confessed to me that it was difficult to think sexually about me. I told him, give time. With time, both of us faded away from each other. We are still very good friends.

Another friend with 9 years of faithful love around him tells me to be faithful is tough. I was like whoa.

My friends love me and my chirpy chirpy yap-yap. Often the admiration gets diluted in some form of infatuation which is very normal. Keeping quiet is not a solution but running away from them, yeah.

A short stint at IIT got another mad boy on my trail. Thankfully, his crush lasted that summer and he is happily married teaching home science to his wifey dear.

Yes, I’ve had my share of crushes too. One- a goalkeeper at school, because he kept balls so well. He does not look great anymore.

Aamir Khan, in Dil Chahta Hai, well too filmi to believe but I had a crush on him.I also liked SRK in some movies, the middle class kinds.

While teaching at college, I was not resigned but never looked into that aspect at all. My parents once in a while asked me if something interesting is happening. I would brush it away in style.

My first 10 months in Hyderabad had me hooked to travel, shifting house 3 times and watching every new movie release. No time for love and bleh. Pretty much loved my singlehood and all the drama until love took me in style.

UTI and I

2009-03-10T09:28:00.002-07:00

Started some months ago but i probably never realised it until i was badly hit,very badly hit. It's a horrible experience. I have heard painful stories from my female friends. Don't know how they went through what they went through.

With me,it started with an irritating backache,on the lower flank of my back, taking turns. Normally, i'd most oftenly dismiss it as a lifestyle issue, sitting before the computer or a monthly warning that those blue days will be here.Or i'll blame myself for not exercising enough, and i would get into a cleaning spree of wash-clean,clean-wash till i broke my back literally. So, what did i do those days? My best friend was my lil' red hot water bag and my can of Moov spray, some sleep and i was lucky if i got that amazing back-massage.So, this lil' dangerous menace never showed its true colours actually.

I am for water therapy all the time, do not consume non-veg food, stay off junk most times and live liberally on fruit juices and salads.Sometimes, they also fail.

I was in training for close to two weeks. AC and i are,well,not the best of friends.I have never used a fan all my life, forget AC- hazard of growing up in a cold climate with practically no pollution. The onslaught of AC- i contracted sinus, i always fear i have a backache, ACs do affect your spinal cord, trust me. So coming back to training, i would unfailingly call up maintenance and bully them to adjust the AC in the said training room.I live like an Eskimo- jacket, socks,a stole doubling up as a muffler- i would not have been outrageous if i wore mittens, the rooms are freezers. nevermind.

So the backache continues, my yoga and breathing exercises dint help me. the pain only gets more excruciating and unbearable for me. i would not contort my face but it was visibly palpable to people around me that i don't look well and slightly colourless and trust me, i never enjoyed being greeted this way.

A new symptom, brief fever everyday in the evening. I'd die to go home,swallow a paracetemol and curl up in bed under a sheet whispering mom and dad's name. i do that.Then, the usual chores.

The biggest and the most annoying symptom, frequent urination.I blamed the AC.My friends blamed my constant sipping of water, i thought that was good.With them, came the pains, a lil' below my navel,almost like someone is,very ruthlessly folding the different pouches and chambers into a small matchbox for a split second.My face did contort into a grimace.I'd hold my jaws together and let it pass.Leaving the training room every 20-30 mins was becoming very embarrassing but sorry.Thankfully,no one noticed.at one point i thought i should stop drinking water in that freezing environment then no loo visits. thankfully, i dint make that mistake and i am glad, i am alive.

Last wednesday and thursday were "the" days.I pulled on. Friday, i gave up. told myself, its viral. take rest, lots of fluids and i should be fine in the weekend.No,temperature was 104.Gowtham dragged me to his place.Aunty gave me one look,at my backpain and my posture. she shook her head and said, urinary infection dear. i dint reel but i reeled the following day. it was too late to visit any clinic/doctor for tests and all. i made gowtham promise he wont take me to any hospital.Some symptoms were similar to that of sunstroke, but it is always better to be prepared for the worst.Away from home in the lap and warmth of another home, what i adore about my extended family that i found in Gowtham's is their cheerfulness.they took me with open arms and aunty immediately asked me what i wanted to have. earlier while coming home, i very longingly looked at the roadside boy selling tender coconut water,ah.had that, a crocin, a full sponge bath amidst shivers, i went to sleep.

Next day, my fever left me.i motivated myself to move around with the anticipation of seeing a doctor finally.Visited a lab, met one of the few gentlemen not eroded by time and harship, Dr. Raghunath.very gentle spoken, kind who addressed me as "amma" throughout. asked me my life history,was very interested to be educated about literature,rather English and also, the quality and respectability of english in my part of the country.he reminded me of my family doctor when i was a kindergarten kid, Dr.JN Sinha.i begged him to give me an injection to bring the fever down or at least, a painkiller to kill the backpain. he refused both. he said let the body strengthen on its own, he would advise only a paracetemol until my blood and urine reports arrived.asked me to eat whatever i liked.asked me how does it feel when a doctor unnecessarily taxes you with unwanted investments and taxes.what he said dint cross my mind then but yes, now.he personally supervised in the blood test.i had to wait until 7:30 in the evening to confirm my worst fear. i was running from nursing home to nursing home waiting for a GP to show up. i swear, i hate doctors who hold to ransom their patients' lives by making them wait.they cannot play god.i went back to good ol' raghunath, unfortunately he does not treat for he is only a pathologist.i said that's why i came to you.i know no one. he personally called up a senior surgeon,dr harsha from the hyderabad nursing home at basheerbagh and got my medicines prescribed.for that, the bonhomie between and among doctors is an admirable quality.from cordialities to how your daughter is doing and repeated apologies for having disturbed. i am sure the surgeon humoured or old gentleman.another urine sample, called culture test.reports due on monday.

The relief of having a prescription and the impatience of starting my medication asap just ate into me. Poor Gowtham handled my cantankerous behaviour.Came home, downed some solid food,I swallowed all pills at the same time.My body was throbbing with fever,my back achingly painful and head heavy, I slept. I remember aunty and Gowtham giving me a sponge treatment.Uncle and granny amma were concerned. Forgot who called, who SMSed.apologies.

Sunday morning, woke up feeling much better and in better spirits. I remember, I was chased with food. I literally behaved like a brat.Aunty would cajole me to eat a lil, drink a lil'. Everyone would stand and stare.Ok, behave. Now eat and drink if you want to get well soon.I also had a head bath in full gutso and gusto(err..something wrong here),washed my clothes despite protests and felt myself on cloud nine. By afternoon after medicines and lots of barley soup, raagi soup,tender coconut water, good home cooked food, I take to slumber. I also run a fever again.We had plans of going out in the evening to pick up clothes for Gowtham, I had to drop out. I slept with a nagging headache the entire afternoon, carried on the same battle the entire night. regretted terribly having a head bath. Formally announced/SMSed about my condition.

Monday morning,same nagging headache. Spoke to Dr. Raghunath.Uncle collected the report,I slept like a log the whole day.Bugged Gowtham to allow me to play a lil' with his laptop. He is my lil' big brother. I was just rewinding in time, of all the haa-haa times and also, the uh-oh and hmmph times.The sense of responsibility and the enormous affection he has for me just humbled me. I admit I am impatient, even with myself.I am as good as normal now. Have to stick to another 3 days of medicines and I am good to go.

Wanted to go home but some music stopped me.I leave on holi and am mentally prepped to carry a bottle of Dettol to sanitise all WCs I use and a sanitiser at my desk,drink boiled cool water and lots of fluids. Even if this is paranoia, I could not care less. iIgot away with very lil' to lose. There are people who suffer more and longer and don't trust Wikipedia information on UTI, I was scandalized. Stay safe.

Smiles.

PJs

2009-02-26T05:58:00.000-08:00

They just come by the bucketful. They are way too contagious. Poor women have been afflicted by this malady and they are so good at it that they are giving complex and stiff competition to the resident PJ kings. In the beginning, it does bring the laughs and the money, and also, the babes. Then, just the drink buddies survive them.

In the beginning, there was man, then Oscar Wilde. Then, slapstick tramp, Charlie Chaplin. A Dieter Hallevorden? And then, the stand-ups.

The already dwarfed men, eclipsed by their own breed of averages and mediocrity made the art of PJ-ing a new religion. More often than not, I am expected to appreciate and spare a few laughs, leave alone a smile of intolerance.

For some, it is a compulsive disorder/order. For some, an acquired taste, can we call it art? For some, a comic relief to be different.

PJs have ranged from the corny to the horny to the cocky to the total bullshit kinds. Too much of it is nauseating. A lil’ is relieving. None is bland, anyway. PJ-ing requires perfect timing like any punch line. It also needs Himalayan patience to tolerate and survive them. At any random moment of PJ-ing we know when our audience is with or against us. Some jackasses think punning on words is PJ-ing, I beg to differ. It is not. To pun, intended or unintended requires tremendous wit and versatility. PJ-ing is not an effort at all. Remember the best and oft-quoted ones and know the pulse of your audience. You also have to worry about the backfire bit. Trying to be cute by PJ-ing is deadly and fatal.

For some reason, I'm not giving the full form of this dreaded word.

DevD is No Emosanal Attyachar

2009-02-18T22:09:00.004-08:00

After decades of iconic status, Devdas has a Second ‘screen’ Coming besides Sarat Chandra Chatterjee’s epic inspiration of tragic love lost and the cosmic comparison of two feisty women. Anurag Kashyap’s screen adaptation is not just a refreshing change but coming of age of Hindi cinema par excellence (sorry not Hollywood, Hollywood is not even a benchmark).

People will either love DevD or hate it. It is surreal and psychedelic at the same time.Kashyap challenges conventions, brings alive frustration which is not religion for the angst driven but evidently there. KL Saigal, Dilip Kumar and SRK made Devdas iconic enough. Every guy on the road, in the boardroom, on the bus or in the stall thinks he has been one, however much he hates, he is secretly proud of the Devdas record/stint in his life. You know, ‘the been there, done that’ feeling.

Sometimes, DevD irritated me with the excess Punjabi-ness from dialogue to sexuality (no offence!) Abhay Deol (resident Devdas) does not need a standing ovation. He is a Jat with his acting heart at the right place, head firmly between his shoulders. Mahie Gill (Paro) and Kalki Koechlin( Lenny/Chanda) are superb. Secretly, they have done many hardcore and pro-feminists proud for whatever execution of ‘boldness’ in an otherwise MCP society. Sigh, I hate to confirm this but second wave feminism is still at its infancy in India.

There is no unnecessary melodrama, there is no poetic justice. There is business in everything. There is ego. There is esteem lost and recovered. There is the self, lost and found. There is negativity. There is also some hope. There is pure lust as much as ‘growing-into-love’, shedding of social mores, treading dangerous ground and the bizarre. Music and choreography, arresting and haunting.

London bred DevD, amorous and wild, never knows why ‘Sattu’ earns him a whack. All he is keen is-has she ‘felt’ herself? Lovers/crushes/infatuates who live by phone, separated by distance will shyly confirm this and some might feel outraged. Asking for nude pictures via email speaks of a confederate fed on secret porn and the thrill of the forbidden.

Paro does not disappoint. All that matters is him. She is not afraid caught making out by her father, and stuns the neighbourhood with her studio-cyber matter-of-fact deadlines. The sugarcane-mattress incident makes her a slut and the humiliation of being judged by someone you love most leaves her stoned. The last time you see her smile is at her wedding when she breaks into a jig. Paro does not carry the scar on the head to remind her of her pride. DevD does.

Lenny (later Chanda) who loves Madhuri songs is a happy go lucky schoolgirl sold out on bikes. I wonder if it is her mixed parentage and upbringing which makes her friendly to any Tom, “Dick” and Harry. Children of such mixed backgrounds are usually more outgoing and found to be prone to trouble. The MMS scandal makes her Chanda (let’s not miss the allusion to the moon who is the night goddess). She is a decent girl by all standards, finishes school, bikes to college, and is a bubble gum candy goddess by night.

Some digressions.

Averagely rich Indian men love frequenting brothels and joints, those who can afford have exclusive women to themselves. How many DevDs are there to take the Chandas home and live happily ever after? Or will you be drunk and broken-hearted enough to be a DevD? Not that it is an ask . The controversial question of virginity is, for most men . Getting the perfectly balanced equation of a complete woman is always a challenge for the uninitiated, trouble for the mocking kinds and mystery to the wannabes. Some happy men assume and wish to believe that it’s all in the mind and too utopic and fantasy-driven. It’s a wedge, I say. The factors helping and hindering the search are many.

The use of shades is a brilliant technique. Each character plays a façade to prove a point. The starkness of things that are, the brutal honesty and the bizarre nakedness of acceptance comes sans shades and the brilliant travesty of the narrative reveals then.

The protagonist of DevD is the gold ring, thoroughly underplayed but...

Go watch DevD.

Sigh!

2009-02-17T20:04:00.000-08:00

The sink takes the painful trickle,

The floor takes the weary tap.

The ceiling, the burden of being stared.

The walls almost feel criminal of having to box and guard you.

The furniture feels the creak on its old hinges ,

The doors and windows wish to be treated gently.

The utensils are sample agony aunts,

The crockery, victims of buttery absent minded fingers.

The clothesline does not mind being roasted.

Fighting gravity is no mean job!

The portico died long ago,

The veranda doubles up for her.

The humanity of inanimate life,

The helplessness of muteness,

The taken-for-granted feeling,

The saga of the mundane.

Billo Barber- yawn, yawn

2009-02-15T23:34:00.003-08:00

It’s time we did a stock taking of our love/admiration for SRK and Priyadarshan, separately and together. Billo Barber had slick trailers, the “Marjaani number” almost looked unbelievably ethereal and at mid-40, SRK still looked “physically fit” to move it.

Well, the regional version starring Rajnikanth salvaged some respectability in the last 25 mins, according to my friend. The Bollywood remake disappointed throughout.

Priyadarshan’s kinda stuff is beginning to wane, seriously. One should not expect anything out of his stable anymore, like we used to with RGV movies.

Let me go about one by one.

Lara can’t do a village belle/woman act. Period. Her last one Mumbai se Aaya Mera Dost was terribly forgettable, do you remember? She is not just rustic, enough is an ask and especially if you are playing Billo’s wife.

Priyadarshan’s sidekick comic relief is also getting repetitive. The same mundane fast forward stuff, slapstick-ish and all.

Get Om Puri some author backed role. He should stop doing favours to friends and retire from acting if this is what the industry is. Has he forgotten what he can do, Dev for instance?

Asrani is fading away literally. The sad truth is such is the shelf-life of such characters- we all do crazy things for a living.

Rajpal Yadav’s over-gesticulating histrionics, if you may please, are not sustaining enough.

The item girls came and left. No we are not talking about Mallika or Malaika or Rakhi. We notice them. It is Deepika in some re-incarnate Love Story 2050- Part 2? Gawd! What is this fetish with Sci-fi and space stuff? Arrey, we don’t understand UP village stuff and space masala mix.

Priyanka in her post-Fashion avatar almost catlike is not as sizzling as she thought she was. Sorry babe! Take a break.

Kareena! God, her unnaturally long synthetic tresses were a huge turn off and her jhatkas were her only saving grace.

Last evening, SRK on Headlines Today went showering praises on his item ladies that each went out of their way to do their bit-the bhaichara and the dosti of Bollywood! Indeed, he was touched to have them on screen with him. For a flagging 46-yr old what better ego boost than to have babes half his age cavorting with him. That should be an elixir for his sagging haggard (metro) sexual image.

I also thought SRK’s cameo should be a cameo, not hogging the camera to pieces. He is there throughout the movie. Does he hate to play second fiddle to the lead actor? He makes sure he has the best cinematic moments and the great lines about everything nice and mushy. It’s a survival trait, we see that and we don’t mind you getting old.

What does our homegrown Bill have to say to all these? He runs away from the madding crowd as expected. Poor Billo, it was supposed to be his fillum and he is eclipsed by a Khan superstar until the end of the movie, so glad the movie finished. He is a method actor, will do all it takes to do what he has to do. His on-screen kids half-obey him until the last frame, his shop goes through the pangs of recession thanks to some zany marketing from competitors. He upholds his dignity of not succumbing to borrowing ways. The simple man prefers to keep things simple. He does not go ga-ga that he used to be/is friends with the now star, then pauper. His value systems are honest. He has some nice warm moments as a doting father and a caring husband. Irrfan Khan’s Billo act is warm.

I can’t believe K-Jo wept at all the dosti bhashaan in the movie. I was not moved,man! Now call me an untrue, unfeeling, insensitive friend.

Betraying Judas

2009-02-11T03:36:00.001-08:00

Betrayal is as old as time. Life betrays us when time is up yet we choose to celebrate scores of birthdays. There is a Judas in every atom and aspect of existence.Failed love stories is a classic metaphor. Even blood relations have not been spared. One can only move on and oh yes, cheer up, like my dad says the worst is yet to come.

Being Judas is a way of life for some, a cultured practice for some, and a survival instinct for many. I don’t know my Scriptures enough to wonder if Jesus was emotionally attached to any of his disciples. We know the Son of God loves mankind and died for them.

Being cold and mercurial is a dynamic trait, and if one is philanthropic, quite a toast! What about the less ‘fortunate’ kindly kindred who can’t be Judas and who are emotionally attached to what they do and for whom they do?

Close Judas encounters and heartburn in and around, and a heart-to-heart with a much loved one revealed that it is not a joke to be going through this upheaval time to time. Call it tragic flaw, some of us are little Christ figures. There will be frayed cheating cases but the degree of hurt and scar is much deeper in case of a Judas middling our affairs. More often than not, enemies don’t betray us. It is always people who are extremely close to us, who we are very fond of who take it upon them as a moral birthright to do a Judas. It is a battle of wins and losses, in the end. I see the ruins around me and yes, with a fair share of blame on Judas, I move on. The healing is slow and painful but it does not take away whatever life I have in my hands. It is not so big to bug the rest of my life, at least I choose and want to believe that. But I also do not want to sound like the classic deer that closed her eyes to sinister trouble around me.

Coping with betrayal is not easy. Some go into some emotional exile. Some erase trust and faith from their very existence. Some say, if you can’t beat the enemy, be with the enemy- we have more Judases. Some try to forget. Some struggle to forgive. Some consider revenge. The hurt is enormous, a lesson for a lifetime. Such is the scenario with every betrayal. We commit the same gross life threatening blunder of getting betrayed again. We also betray, sometimes out of choice and sometimes, due to circumstance. Does a Judas deserve a justification? Does a Judas have a conscience? Why can’t one listen to conscience before doing a Judas?

You know what, what goes around comes around.

There is a cosmic payback time.

Why change and harden oneself for a breed of hyenas?

LuckByChance

2009-02-01T23:32:00.004-08:00

A beautiful medley of flawed characters. A convincing and heart-warming debut by Zoya Akhtar. The craft is the same, the handling is different. A befitting tribute to the many scores who come and ‘struggle’ in every sense. You do find the sepia dim light world of the ‘behind the scenes’ so fascinating and nostalgic. The names rolled were biggies but the frames of the common man striving as it were for his means for a square meal a day. After the Slumdog mania, this was a refreshing treat indeed. The cameos are delightful, everybody breezed in and breezed out. The casting couch is subtly hinted at. Besides talent, it takes patience to weather the storm and be hailed as the next big thing before becoming established as a star. Until then, you slog as the sister, the nurse, the dancer and the bleh. Konkana(as Sona) delivers a warm performance after Mr and Mrs. Iyer, Page 3 and Omkara. The concept of small town dreams getting mixed in sawdust is not new. Frankly, it’s over exploited. It’s just that city dreams have some lucky channel to see the light of day. Pure fluke.

You have a cynical friend who will always give you the ‘true’ perspective, who will laugh at your chikna pictures, who is content with keeping the actor’s spirit alive by doing a sonny’s role on TV and doing theatre in the evening. You have another friend who you want as an SBI introducer to Mahesh Bhatt and Co. and you arrange a Grandpa’s clock and you are re-affirmed friends for all times. You find a convenient neighbour turned girlfriend who is there by your side under the starry nights when your claim to fame is a finished product from Nand Kishore acting school. You get a lucky pass to a premiere and see the silver world in colored vision. The cheesiest pick-up? line ever-“ I am in this world because of you” leaves Nina Walia(Dimple Kapadia) misty eyed. The presentable elan is evident when she conducts herself as the dominating all pervading yesteryears actress turned manager of a bimbette of a starlet/star daughter Niki Walia( Isha Sharvani), who in Vikram Jaisingh’s(Farhan Akhtar) opnion “lives in a cake”. KJo sums it up well, somebody’s discard prepares a newcomer’s rise to stardom. Climbing the ladder of success is not easy. You kill some, you win some and you make strange bedfellows only to consciously repent and wail later. The gossip is sexless given by a presumed gay journo. He used her and he used her and he also used her. Many ‘hers’ and many ladders. Reconciliation is tough but the best healing power. Even then, some are born to be selfish by nature, the need to cling to people, the need to cheese off friends, the kind to be human and frail, the need to accept them the way they are. Some form of love it is, sigh!Rolly(Rishi Kapoor) as a fading producer brings a touch of those olden days when he tells his wife(Juhi Chawla) that the times have befallen especially when a gentleman's word no longer prevails, only money and big banners earn you respect.His lucky number is 5 and his wife expects him to wear the pearl to keep him calm.His younger brother(Sanjay Kapoor) is a different kind of director and so also, his producer brother-in-law,Sanjay Choudhury(Aly Khan). A pilgrimage of growth for the frayed human conditioning, LuckByChance strikes a chord when Shah Rukh Khan as SRK passes the wisdom never to abandon those who knew you in your tatters.

There is no "happies ending" ala Om Shanti Om but there is an urge to dream and dream,you might strike lucky. Sona realises that when she wins the fridge and the Mumbai skies tell the story of the new poster boy in Bollywood.

Mercy, it’s a weekend

2009-01-29T23:25:00.003-08:00

Aww, it’s a Monday again! I have heard that dreadful sigh so many times, every Monday. The only cheer is if it is someone’s birthday or I’m going home that following week. It’s only a Tuesday, damn! The week is so darn slow, only if we realised how cunningly time flies and how ouch it hurts when you know you have not accomplished much in that useless period, except watching people around you and commenting mundane random stuff which is of no significance to whom it may concern. It’s a crisis when Wednesday arrives, you don’t know if you should be happy on the edge of the cliff of a weekend away and the feeling of being right in the middle of the nowhere of a week! According to my roomie, Thursday is the most irritating day in a week, why? Coz it’s a wannabe Friday. Maybe, it is. It is holy also, to some at least. Don’t ask why. Too tired to set the context and in other words, explain. See it’s already Friday.

We all loved to be in school, college and university on all the days, including Sundays for all the "right" reasons we'd love to giggle about. Homework, assignments, library and project work are secondary (laughter!). When it comes to work, we have a “grr” feeling despite a smiling/not smiling pay packet. We celebrate our survival that we have a job as evidence of our existence during the week in happy hours and bitch about uh-oh people, sad state of affairs,sigh! We crib that the nation is going to the dogs. We also tch-tch publicly when a bunch of opium influenced monkeys take up moral guardianship of all Indian women. Yes, all fathers and mothers forgot to make their daughters modest and coy! All these in the span of a week, not bad.

Come Friday, we want to sleep, watch movies, party, get sloshed, recover from the hangover, do grocery shopping, clean the house, read a lil’ and maybe, catch up. By the time the action items get diminished, it’s Sunday afternoon and some of us are already broody that it’s Monday in a few hours, eeks!

It’s almost a universal routine to be sad and serious all through the week, do your bit at work, and attend to the social niceties for the sake of it. It comes naturally to rush over everything and close the day and hide in your den, just like that. During the week, I can also be moody, and you should understand, it’s work pressure. There could be none and the lack of it can kill my identity. So, I simulate there is one and it allows me to be. How sham!

I am at the mercy of a wretched weekend. And all we accomplish is nothing. Pay a maid, she needs the money and you create disguised employment and your weekends are taken care of, at least by what the routine looks like.

Like the Joker quizzically asks, “Why so serious?” And Prufrock says, “I shall grow old …and wear my trousers rolled.” We are growing old. We are in a state of panic, of course. When your life has become a “looking-forward-to-the-weekend”, it is. We need therapy, not on a weekend, please. Let’s make it on a weekday.

I am looking forward to MondayJ, blithe me!

The witch of...

2009-01-15T23:25:00.003-08:00

I will probably never finish this one, over a year now and I have barely finished reading a little over half. Nevermind.

I read about witches in Western fairy tales and more often than not, they are evil, have long noses and ugly distorted faces with dirty clothes and that hideous hat. Her favourite black cat and her broom. She, also, has a wand. In oriental folklore, the witch is a demoness, has fangs, is extremely ugly to behold, wears human bones for jewellery and well, the list is endless.

However, Mandrake is a magician, not a wizard. My grammar teacher in school told me that the masculine counterpart of a witch is a wizard. There is lot of positivity associated with the word “wizard”. We love wizards, we love “The wizard of oz” and we also, love magicians.

Most hate witches, a few secretly wish to be and learn about the darker side of knowledge. Not all of us can be fairies, nice and smiling and walking around with that halo and those heavy wings to be there at Cinderalla’s beck and call.

Witches and fairies wave their wands. One is loved, the other hated. The offended fairy turned ‘witch’ casts a spell and Sleeping Beauty sleeps to be woken up by a kiss of true love from her Prince. Sleeping Beauty would be sleeping still and story never a fairytale had it not been for a nasty fairy (turned witch?).

Sabrina is an adorable new age witch who lives in Archies comics, in an upmarket neighbourhood and attends school in Riverdale with Archie and gang. Nicole Kidman did the rest.

In real everyday parlance, the ‘w’ in ‘witch’ blurs to ‘b’ and the obvious is nasty which some take it as a compliment.

I believe all of us are witches at some level, we love to be wicked and bad sometimes, don’t we? Sometimes you wished this or that, and voila! Your energies are so influential, your wish comes true.

Sometimes, your good intent is misread as an act of villainy and the letter blurs from ‘w’ to ‘b’ and you become a heretic, like Joan d’Arc. What was her fault? She saw visions, she wanted to help the Dauphin and save her dear France. She was burnt at the stake.

We have witch-hunting drives until now. The seers and bizarre looking mendicants are always offered alms and whatever.

If you knew a thing or two about the occult, people normally are ‘uh-oh’ about making conversation for the sake of it. They find you weird and wired. They get some glam quotient hanging around for the next “what’s up” session.

When things don’t go the way you want and you are partly responsible for damage control, you become a witch. You fight, to defend you become hoarse and harsh, rude is an understatement. The river flows again. The witch is forgotten. All she gets is, get berated. It’s in her legacy to be hunted.

There are days when I feel like a witch especially when I can’t promise “everything’s gonna be alright”. There are also occasions when I am told and informed by friends and loved ones that I ought to stop being a Joan of Arc because I am fast turning out to be a heretic and there is not going to be any divine intervention except the “I-told-you-so” familiar helplessness.

Work is worship. I am Everywoman, therefore, a witch? Roles I love to play which the world has no choice but to watch.

The Sunscreen song

2009-01-12T20:41:00.006-08:00

One of those songs that I can listen to forever,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfq_A8nXMsQ&feature=related

"Ladies and gentleman of the class of '99.Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen."

Horoscope

2009-01-12T05:52:00.003-08:00

Reading the daily forecast in the newspaper is such a drama. But whatever you say, we all routinely grab today’s newspaper and go thru’ the horoscope section. Some of us want to believe that everything is true, some don’t. Some take all that with stacks of salt and some trash it. My mother will call me at odd hours asking me to tune in to Aaj Tak at so and so time in the morning. That certain learned one aka Panditji is very accurate with his bhavishyavani. There is also a follow-up call. Geez!

I don't remember visiting any soothsayer, astrologer or any parallel creature in my entire life for all that jazz.At the time of birth and after, there was a terrible mix-up and wrong foretelling and reading of my birth chart. For want of money or patronage, two astrologer brothers almost killed each other and half cursed all elements around for not proving their words. Two other astrologers confirmed the "correctness" of the birthchart I have now. The annual appointments and visits to them increased over the years and also, the talisman count. My waist had a nice band of amulets and charms, and a big copper drum used to adorn my left arm. I hated wearing anything around my neck. One astrolger, Late Pandit Lila Saikia 'predicted' I was going to be a big lazybones, I am J . My parents had nightmares that my laziness was going to be my undoing and all. Now tell me, has anyone been spared by laziness? May Pandit Lila Saikia's departed soul and now re-born soul be at peace. Your words "came true". The lovely waist band of amulets and the arm band is at the bottom of Wards’ Lake.

You come with a certain fate or destiny written by that someone up there right from a dog-bite to death. If we knew all, living would become so mundane, cautious and cowardly. No offence but correction of certain celestial positions due to alternative consultation is, in my opinion, going against the laws of nature. You wear this stone to avoid this ill luck and that, to prevent accidents. Your hand is loaded with gems and lookalikes of all hues and prices. There is a halo of protection that you like to believe it exists. It’s a placebo effect for some, for some almost hypnosis. For some, a maddening religion to the point of voodoo and magic, let’s not get to the blackness and whiteness of it.

Trusting your actions and a strong faith in whatever you believe make it easier for me. Look out for signs, listen to your pets (oh, they come with strong intuitions) and listen to your gut feeling, my day almost certainly will not be as apprehensive especially when today’s chronicle tells you not to do this or that. There have been cases when they have repeated say last Monday's horoscope this Wednesday, letter to letter and you feel so betrayed and do nothing but sigh.

A friend of mine tells me believe it if it is positive and makes you happy and not to, when you are scared.

Have you read your horoscope today?

Of dates and calendars

2009-01-06T22:13:00.004-08:00

To check on a day/date or anything, these days I go to my mobile and scroll 'Calendar'. It helps me save birthdays, create alarms for so and so time and days, and the like. It is always convenient to have a calendar around.

Calendar hunting is my dad’s favourite January pastime. Every family store, from clothes to stationary to accessories-all, that we visited in the past one year…we make another visit for a calendar this time. I get frustrated, do we need to this Dad? Why? See, we will buy books and maybe get a complimentary calendar or better still, let’s wait till Feb-March when the Tourism deptt. releases calendars. We will buy one. NO, he roars. What’s the fun in buying? Might as well go to Archies or St. Paul’s.

One place they give calendars without fail is your local wine store. Sad, we don’t drink and therefore, Dad says it’s a lil’ too much to ask from them. Why? Why? So, tea companies, tailoring shops, grocery stores, textile shops, chemists, booksellers and the blah- all kinds and all shapes. Our cable network provides a table calendar to all its subscribers. Our LIC and SBI friends- calendars and diaries. By month end, we have about 20-30 calendars. Our house is not so large and spacious to accommodate all. Then the other problem is Mom wants to retain all the god and goddess calendars with the auspicious thing about them. I am almost ready to run away from the house then. No,let’s keep Lord Ganesha. No,no Lakshmi. Arey, the kids are still students, Goddess Saraswati. Hey, what about Lord Shiva and his consort, Parvati? The glossy paint and paper quality of the calendars, well. Let’s give this to our milkman, he will be very happy. This one to our chapraasi. And, you might want to give this to your college peon. Thanks.

My only concern is the house should not look like a men’s saloon lined with bhagwan ka pictures or babies (a favourite with most calendar printers). They beat Anne Geddes’ baby pictures,seriously!

Jan-end, one slim calendar from my college where I teach is in the living room. The LIC table calendar is in a corner, pretty and informative. The fridge in the dining room has the SBI table calendar and my mom wants a bhagwan ka calendar in the kitchen, ok, there you go. The bedrooms, one big wall calendar each which, mind you, has all the Hindu calendar dates and notations of when the ekadashis, the poornimas and the amavasyas are. Diligently, one clips the college holiday list for my reference. By evening, that sheet is sized to half thanks to my dad’s visual aesthetics sense. Thankfully, none in the loo or in the bathroom.

I prefer looking up the one in my personal diary. I have my notes and ramblings on them. Last year, I got one with a small fitted mirror, quite some vanity! Oh, how I loved to peep and stare at it at work! You needed to put it at the right place to get the desired effect.

Our office calendar is something different, though it is still called a calendar. The normal chants in the morning are "I didn't check my calendar", " Block my calendar", " Can you calendar?", " Look at my calendar, no time!". Well, it's a high-school routine like thing, almost like a planner which is very dynamic and user friendly.

This year, a beautiful one of Rajasthani miniature paintings of Radha and Krishna. I didn’t want to put it up, the pictures look so fragile and rich at the same time. I want to frame them, will frame them anyway. It’s a sign again...

Oz-trail-ya

2009-01-05T21:37:00.002-08:00

Ok, so let's catch a movie tomorrow evening. Me, you aur the rest of the gang. Where? Which one? Ok, let me know the numbers, tickets will be booked online. Amidst the "I am a huge fan of Hugh Jackman" chant by Suvo, a few calls, some answered some unanswered...we were set for the evening for A-U-S-T-R-A-L-I-A at IMAX.

Baz Lurhman, the man I adore for the suncreen song loves his work to be magnum opus. Lady Ashley (Nicole Kidman) is a an Amazon of an Australian and so is Drover (Hugh Jackman). Beautiful people can carry off average stuff . The show stealer is Nullah, the Aborigine delight.

With his grandpa King George, he sings, narrates, warns, foretells, guides, and saves Oz from calamity, saves a frenzied herd of cattle from jumping to their deaths. Subtle racist bearings come to the fore. Nullah has to keep quiet lest his White father, Fletcher beat his mother. Drover lost his ‘Black’ wife to TB because she was black. The yellow race of the Japs is the alien invading intruder. It is a historic moment when Nullah’s uncle enters ‘The Territory’ for the poor man’s whiskey. It is another undoing when he is about to be served in an ugly water mug. The Darwin Harbour bombing gets the Ozzies together almost like what Pearl Harbour did to the US.

The camera work is breathtaking, panning across the landscape. The underwater scenes, the maddening rush of the cattle reminded one of the famous bloody battle of might on National Geographic. Lady Ashley is delightful with her stiff British mannerisms, you do lend your empathy when her suitcase goes wham on the bloke’s head and her lingerie fly everywhere, almost a sense of violation. An English lady’s house will have tea always and her garden lined with rose bushes. She made a small England in Oz. The broken windmill is symbolic of life stilled and stalled until Mrs. Boss arrives.

Fletcher’s mercenary instincts are apparent especially when he takes supreme sadistic pleasure in strangling a fly. Suvo interjected, don’t cry “It’s only a fly”. He’d go to any extent to be the King of the Beef industry, killed Lord Ashley, fed King Carney to a hungry crocodile and married his daughter. His menacing croc leather shoes tell you the remnants of the tale.

There are warm moments when Drover implores Lady Ashley to talk to lil’ Nullah when he loses his mother in a tragic accident. Her condolences are lost in the import of spreading newspapers so that her fragile skin does not touch rough earth. It’s funny and heartwarming given the sincerity of the effort. She sings and tells a story. Folktales, lore and music are a part of life. A loving warm relationship forms, almost mother-son like, each singing to the other. The climax is so Bollywood- lot of fight, the lovers unite, the lost seeketh the found, the righteous emerge and Fletcher dies like a maggot, pierced.

King George is the real victor. Western civilization comes to terms with the Aborigine law of going away to come back to be the sentinels of a fierce race.

Nullah will come back and say- “I sing you to me”. You can dream and talk to the moon.

Aloha 2009

2009-01-05T05:34:00.004-08:00

2008-many good things happened to me- met an engaging 21st century Darcy who is more Wall.E like, a zestful life, “I am feeling lucky”, Ph.D registration, and many small vacations besides visiting home. A good 30 minutes into 2009, I knock a glassful of a diligently prepared drink. Somehow, I retrospect I was not in my elements. No, I am not offering any excuse on the broken glass and all.

I started the day on a great note, wore my heels and went to work. To match the heels well, a short cute skirt and also, a nice top. Besides silent admiration (for the skirt, top or legs, I leave it to you), some sneer and banter which almost ended in blows between two of my friends, and whistles, I caused some hearts aflutter. So far so good, me thought what better way to end the year.

Until late evening, I didn’t know where and how New Year is going to be like. Thank god for small mercies and patient friends, we made it. Invited a bunch of others. Food, drink, music on Deb’s guitar and lyrics on the Net and conversation- the night was young. A panfire of coal for our bonfire, Suvo refused to part with the kitchen that evening- paneer samosas, chilli paneer, Thai paneer, chilli chicken, Thai prawn curry and what not! He never cooked so madly in life, he blames my skirt! God, scandalous it (the skirt) is! The actual reason is he plans to open a restaurant and he is an amazing cook. You never know when a good time is to encash your latent talent in these days of recession. The rest, well…one sang and sang, another tried to sleep, another could not help but sleep, another was on phone, another in everything and yet another tried to be up to everything.

I have not learnt the manners and mores of drinking. If I did, I would probably have been a lil’ more careful and attuned to where possibly will glasses be. Not near my elbow on the parapet of the terrace. There I twirl and there it swings down, down with the drink, full on. Crash, shards and a troubled soul. Friends laughed, assured me the glass committed suicide. I was not OK after that that evening.

He and I had a power-packed hurried shopping to picking up friends on the way and also, the champagne and the like. The uncorking of the champagne lit me up but briefly. Not a nice feeling,seriously. Then the glass disaster. Remembered the old wives’ belief that it is a bad omen, some bad news on the way. Tried to sleep, my eyes gave way at 6 a.m. in the morning. Before that, I wept a lot…a lil’ due to happiness and reassurance and a lil’ due to that lurking feeling.

Saturday lunch with a friend gave way to some random talk about the demise of a senior colleague in my team, I was like what!!?? The broken glass haunted me and still haunts me now. This morning, the worst came true. What more, 2009?

In Memoriam.

Ghajini

2008-12-29T01:24:00.001-08:00

Whatever the title is supposed to mean I mistook it for one of the many names of Lord Ganesha. I have somewhat watched the Tamil original (Telugu dubbed) but not the Hollywood original Memento. Aamir Khan as Sanjay Singhania, Chairman of Airvoice is convincing as much as the revenge thirsty short term memory loss patient. They say one should never argue about/against the script and narrative. I beg to differ but yes, the story was rife with loopholes.

First things first, Asin’s bubbly girl act is (yawn) de ja vu. She is not vivacious but loud and animated which is,perhaps,coming of age in South Indian cinema. Aamir’s body, shirtless and waxed or in Van Huesen shirts and suits is delicious. Asin’s body of work in South Indian cinema is laudably enormous given the settings and stereotypes. The movie is raking in the moolah and will go on to become a top grosser. But to each his own. Ghajini is not menacing the way he is made to be. Is that again the way Ghajini is suppossed to be or an anti-climactic ploy? His Haryanvi Hindi is also, not matter-of-fact, signature. Standing up against Aamir’s revenge and thirst requires some gravity that he failed to display. He could do as much as he was asked to. Ah, remember the days of Ashutosh Rana in Dushman or Sangharsh, not your larger than life villains but uh-oh. His white shoes and gold baubles make him a late 80’s celluloid copy of a chillad don. His cronies are depraving, gross and not up to the mark. They surely look dumb and dumber especially in the fight scenes. It’s another thing if the director wanted to maintain/highlight the impact of Aamir and therefore made them look paltry. The crucial scene in which Asin is holed up in her own house is bone chilling. The helplessness and the slipping hope, and when hope arrives, it is tragically late.

This fetish for playing balancing two characters is the current flavour of/in Hindi cinema. We saw this earlier in Rab ne Bana di Jodi also, where modest Surinder Sahni loves playing the loud and stylish Raj. Here the rather loud Kalpana likes and begins to love the quiet Sachin after a night long monologue of to be or not to be. There are tender moments in the movie that make her appealing, probably that’s the way her character is shaped.

We could have saved Kalpana if the filthy rich Sanjay gave a thought to providing an undercover security blanket as much as he got her a swanky apartment in upmarket Bombay. But then, Ghajini would not have born. Trash it, it is a bad idea. Ghajini is not meant to be a villain. It is someone’s revenge story, justified or not is hardly consequential. Ghajini had to be hunted down, he was. And revenge prevailed. The killing scenes are gory, the methods even more chilling and the thuds deafening.

Jiah as medic intern Sumitra is supportive. Wish if someone could have toned down those tonged locks and skinny jeans. Her fear is palpable as much as mine. I will hate to close a window in the dark lest you know…

Tinnu Anand's quintessential aspiring act is endearing. But this Aamir who grunts like a beast and kills without remorse is different. Power-packed and earth-shattering, he did look scary and I would hate to meet him.