Some stuff Textual, Some stuff sexual

What I store in my heart, forever

2011-07-11T09:37:00.000-07:00

It all starts slowly. It all starts when you are not looking. It slowly gets out of control and it slowly becomes a part of you, in a way, you had never fathomed. She, this woman, to me is beautiful. A person who went great lengths in protecting the people she loved most. She would toil away, waste away to make those people in her life comfortable. She asked for nothing in return. She simply wished that we remained fearless, and free, if lucky, without pain.

But she did this, all while bit by bit she was being mangled, broken and asked to prove herself again and again and again. No one worships Sita, they all think about Ram. The selfish pig who abandoned Sita for pride and power.

My broken Sita lived in fear. Her skin reddened by occasional blows. But even though she shivered she was my shield, and my sponge. She would fight, she would cry, she pleaded, and she even kept mute -- she did everything to resist. All while telling me stories about fairness and love. And while I watch her be my sponge, a part of me died everyday. I watched her teary-eyed. I prayed and cursed god. I never yearned for Ram. If Ram was a devil then let me be no Sita.

Seasons passed, times changed, we meandered into each other's lives with restrain and maturity --- but what I saw never got erased. It bore deep into my consciousness making me who I am today.

And as my Sita grows old... as she sometimes cries over silly fights, I feel a surge in me to protect her-- to be her sponge and her shield against every grief, every blow. I wish I can reverse everything. I am no Sita, I never will be.

Inception

2010-07-17T12:42:00.001-07:00

It’s inception of an idea as primeval as that which had infected Muybridge, who with his simple photographic flipbook got his horse, Sallie Gardner, moving. It was simulated reality ---- a motion recreated and stored as photographic evidences which later came to be known as the foundation of moving images. Nolan too toys with this idea of projected reality in his part-Matrix, part- mega-mind blockbuster Inception.

The genesis of the ‘projection’, a crucial thematic trope deployed by Nolan deceives and entices the spectator much like Sallie, a horse that moved when a series of 24 stereoscopic cameras captured it frame-by-frame galloping.

Caprio swept ashore, opens his eyes much like the spectator who is struggling to find some answers from the very first projection, the very first frame. Which part of filmic reality am I trapped in? Is this the beginning, the end, the middle or a subconscious jungle of absurdity and obscurity (a place where cinema takes you often)? I go on to figure that like me the protagonist too is grappling with that unbearable existential angst of ‘getting out’/figuring it out.

Layered universes begin. My memory of Matrix premonitions me that Neo could very well be Caprio, and that I am stuck in a dream that hasn’t ended. Will we get out through a telephone ring, it seems not, the only escape is death. Death -- that can free us of our projected realities, cinema and our ocular attachments.

The plot thickens as the mind is overpowered by psychedelic effects and gravitating stunts. Intersecting these universes – none of which are ‘real’ (even in filmic ‘reality) — a maze is created. This maze, designed not just by the pale and svelte architect, but by the mind that is positioning itself within the film asking questions that outside the cinematic and narrative context may sound ridiculous. ‘Is this real?’ Nothing is. Nothing will be.

‘You should never use projections from memory’, yet, Nolan a graduate from UCL does so by placing UCL’s library – a school he graduated from (and so did I) in the scene where Caprio is introduced to the enterprising architect Ellen Page. Deceiving with memories is a dangerous thing Mr. Nolan, it shattered the illusion of the dream, the dream/ cinema I had go on to believe is ‘real’. Nothing is real. Nothing will be.

Yet enthralled by the escape routes, the maze, the lanes and crevices that Nolan had set for me to crack, I push myself harder, faster, deeper into his lucid dream. Footpath’s are ravaged, buildings crumbling like cookies --- nothing is still, not even the mind.

Was this Nolan’s warning that cinema is deceptive, a trick that we all love even though knowing it is a blatant lie? It is an idea so intrinsically ingrained in our systems—sensory and emotional--- that no matter what object I design to wake up, I never will? The truth is --- I don’t even want to wake up, just like Caprio. Inception has happened. Now the idea will only grow. But like Mal should we all take a leap of faith? Credits. (My movie ends here)

Bheja Fry

2010-02-19T08:00:00.001-08:00

Patterns of anxiety : I thought initially I would collate all the 'stress' factors in a neat tabular format for this piece but then I decided to stick to my conventional method of expressing myself which is one long, often incoherent ramblings detailing the most routine to the most bizarre incidences of my life. I tend to always almost obsessively fall into a pattern of enormous 'paranoia' right before a crucial decision of my life. Yes, many do term it as a chronic case of indecisiveness while others affirm that it is usually a mild bout of allergy towards anything permanent (or so it is defined) in life. Jobs, boyfriends, cities, modes of transport are parameters that are transient. Today I am in print, earlier I was in television. Choice, easily transferable , boyfriends (again not quite easily trade able but one can hit the delete button for myriad reasons; often the reasons are completely rational in the human brain), modes of transport (depending on money, time and also whim). But when it comes to issues like say for instance - marriage - my brain signals innumerable alert messages at the most inappropriate, inconvenient of times. For instance, picture this, till yesterday I would have replied to a sms that read: I miss you with an equal fervour, read again: I miss you back! But if I receive the same message minutes before I know my life will alter in one clean stroke, my brain will signal- this is an annoying pattern to text in to the 'to-be-wedded' the same message as a token of assurance. Its routine you know, I do get bored when you I do anything routinely, even if its say a simple thing like brushing my teeth, I rotate my brush in various angular positions while humming a 60s song literally frothing at my mouth just to induce some excitement into that morning ceremony. OK let me not detail this further or illustrate it with graphic descriptions of how one introduces ingenuous way of crapping or pee'ing! No that's not the idea. But the deal is, why make emotions routine? Isn't it painful? Isn't it stupid? And please cry out loud lord, isn't it just plain simple boring? Ah, so this was anxiety number 1. Next, references. Move over privileges of singledom as the albatross of marriage will hang around your neck and suck the blood out. Yes, that skip and miss glance the minute you utter the phrase: I am married. Even though your brain says, you don't need to repeat that or chant that, your heart knocks loud enough and says- you might as well, lest, the guy mistakes you for someone who is available for a coffee and a harmless soiree of flirting. So, the brain again works you up by telling you - memorise you'd be married in less than XYZ time. Its much like a suicide bomb, you are strapped onto a contraption that will take off any minute and your identity of this fun-I care a fuck- single woman will be collectively blown apart and also take other eligible perfectly flirt able guys along with it. My brain is already scribbling obituaries. Next, I cannot hormonally find someone exciting, is what the ultra-conservative brain in the garb of a 'moral beast' dictates; how can you? Don't you have someone to make-out with like a rabbit? So, chuck the check-list or literally 'TO DO' list. All those loving habits like concern, meeting all the time seem to suddenly pile dust. The brain again louder than before makes a note: as if its a ball-point pen that is constantly ticked on and off; your social habitual somewhat bordering on distasteful habits will be monitored, frowned upon or simply be tweaked around with.

There are many things that at present contribute to 'a frame of mind' that is constantly rejecting the events that will go on to occur. It is constantly forewarning, humming, buzzing, negotiating, dictating - 'matters of heart' they say; now isn't that just being sarcastic!

He says, She Speaks!

2009-08-06T18:25:00.000-07:00

He says -Jaanti nahi hai main kaun hoon!

She says- Jaanti hoon, shakkal ayene mein dekh le chutiye!

He says- Utha ke le jaaonga

She says- pehle apnaa to uthaa le

He says- Tere ko kaun haath lagayega

She says- Ja apni Ma ke pallu ke peeche chup ja!

He says- Bohot bolti hai

She says- Teri kya band

I say- Common Hindi films! Bring on the saucy dialogues and the raunchiness...

Night Shastra

2009-08-06T18:22:00.000-07:00

Shot of coffee

and a pile of books

Burning the night lamp, youtubing and facebooking

high on energy even post 3am

Wondering when slumber would kick in

when I would shut my eyes, and wander away

Erotica, sex, travel... that's what dreams are made of & lots more.

Guess, its the coffee doing it again!

;)

Diya

Rakhi Ka Chachundar

2009-08-04T16:31:00.001-07:00

The coy Indian bride dolled up in layers of finest embroided silks, hand crafted designer jewelry, padded with dangerous layers of cake declares with a tacky garland on national television " I want to get married". RS and her latest tactics to get a mugshot in tabloids is infamous, but do we really need to be bludgeoned with a sledgehammer that she is the "it" girl of the industry. How far does Indian television have to go to make private emotions like marriage, child-birth, death a televised eroticized glossy package in the name of entertainment? Do we need a Rakhi and her string of seasonal men let's call them Sawants to tell us, what it feels like to be married. It is perhaps the most excruciating eye sores on national television to have a siliconized, plasticized babe parrot a script on Indian conjugality. Hats off to RS to titillate the audience not just with fake tits but also with fake emotions. To then choose, no offence, a man with a name Elish (a diabolically thorny fish in Bengali cuisine) as a prospective groom is another Rakhism which just adds up to her colourful career as the "loud-mouthed" bimbette on Indian telly. Gushing with all her fake prosthetics towards a man she has romanced on a digi cams oddly enough is what the Indian telly seems to offer as wholesome entertainment. Whatever happened to shows like Dekh Bhai Dekh, Udaan, Zaban Sambhalke, Office Office I wonder! Are we so creatively malnourished that we need a Rakhi to entertain us? If so, bring on the tits, and all those mustard Elishs who claim to have found the "one" while the nation sat laying bets- On Rakhi's next stunt to stardom.

cowboy films and ice cream

2009-05-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

I write things that can mirror my state of mind. On most occassions I write with very detailed perspective. But today the memories are a bit hazy, so pardon me if I sound slightly loony or incoherent. It is in my most private moments, almost sacred moments, when I remember a lady who raised me from the age of 2 to the age of 21. She played with me, scolded me, shared icecreams with me and even went to the common community library with me. You can say, that it was a relationship unlike any other because we had many interests in common. Butterscotch flavoured ice-cream for one. She was much higher up in rank in generation. My mother's mother my Naani. I don't discuss her, I don't share her, I don't want to even acknowledge in public that she had a presence in my life. Why? Not because I didn't like her, it is because I loved her immensely and I choke when I talk about her. I feel the loss all over again. But today its different, I want to write a little about this woman I loved so much.

She was raised in an educated family. Her father was a lawyer. She was married at a tender age of 13 to a morally upright handsome doctor who had also fought a leg of the British rule with Subhash Chandra Bose in Burma. Her family was from Bangladesh, at that time a part of undivided India. She had 6 kids, 5 girls and 1 boy. She raised them well and was considered a strict disciplinarian. They all lived together in a tiny house in Kalkaji.

I have hazy memories of that house. I remember the time when my grandfather came and gifted me my first barbie doll. I was sitting on the charpoy playing with the neighbourhood boys. All I can remember is that my grandfather came and kept that doll on my lap. It was a perfect plastic blonde doll wearing a white dress. That's all I can recall at this age when none of those props or familial surroundings exist. I remember the time when I stayed with my grandmother. We both sneaked away in the evening to the Vadilal ice-cream shop on the corner in CR. Park and bought our favorite flavoured icecream. Two butterscotch ice-creams with chocolate topping. Vadilal was the only company that made that flavour and we never missed a chance to buy two of those sticks and have them on our way back home. I also remember the times I walked with her to the local library. She browsed for hours through her bangla section, while I searched for some Daphne Du Maurier classics. On the way back almost everyday she would crib about how vegetables had become expensive and that the local groceror charged 50 paisa more for a bunch of parsley leaves. She wasn't happy that people were careless regarding the value of money and that they never counted paisas. I would inevitably ignore her complaints because I thought of them as petty. Yet I would pretend to hear her so that she didn't feel bad. I wish I undid that attitude today. She knew I was from a different generation and that I didn't bother about counting paisas or the groceror charging 50 p more. Yet she always told me how it was upsetting. It is with her collective savings of so many paisas that she gifted me a gold ring. I always wear that on my left hand thumb. Odd finger to wear it right? But there's a reason. I fiddle with rings so much that I wear this one on my thumb as it almost is never easy to slip it out. It remains there - a ring made out of god knows how many paisas reminding me how painfully she saved money to give gleaming gold rings to all her grandchildren. 5 daughters 1 son, all at least having two kids.

The other thing I distinctly remember are the serials she avidly watched. Apart from a string of bangla serials she watched Zee TV's Antakshri, a soap opera called Paraya Dhan, Gudiyaa etc.

She had successfully bribed grandad into buying her another television just for her private viewing. Grandad almost always watched old cowboy films and squealed in great pleasure when the bad man would be bumped off. His usual routine would be to attend to his patients till 5 in the evening and them promptly shut his chamber. He would then watch television till 7pm and have his dinner by sharp 8pm. Finally he would go to sleep warning us not to have too many icecreams at night. He was also great pals with Vajpayee who came to his chamber for his rickety knee. Grandad had a impressionable female following as he was still very handsome at the age of 70. Tall, fair, white shining hair infectious smile and a firm grip when he shook hands.

Naani kept to herself to her puja, cooking, tele serials, cribbing about grocerors and library rounds. I was her regular company taking her to shops and getting her ice creams in the evenings. She would even listen to me patiently about my school or college.

There are so many things I still remember as if I can see them living in front of my eyes. Then one day I went to Calcutta for a visit with my family. I didn't speak to my grandparents for those 10 days that I was away. I returned by the Rajdhani train that reached around 9pm to Delhi. Deciding it was too late to disturb my grandparents I decided to go to my parent's house and spend the night there and then in the morning go back to CR Park. I was excited to meet Naani because I had bought some new magazines for her in Bangla and some odd books. The morning I woke up Naani had passed away in her sleep that previous night. A part of me died that very day and I just can't seem to get it out of my system that I was never ever able to say goodbye to her. I still search for her sometimes. I stopped eating icecreams after that. It's been a while since I have eaten an icecream let alone have a delicious Vadilal butterscotch one. I can't look at cowboy films. I hate them infact.

My grandad became frail after she passed away. I was in LSR that time in my final year. I used to visit rarely because the house reminded me of our time there so much that it suffocated me. I would come stare blankly at my grandma's room and leave. Grandad looked lost. And I would kiss and hug him anyway to tell him we are all there for him. But he too just patiently awaited his death. I sometimes want to rewind and go back to that age when I had them in my life. I want to know why I was never able to say goodbye to a person who I loved perhaps more than anyone. I still remember her, remember him and wish if they were watching me today - what would they say to me?

If you ask me...

2009-04-24T15:26:00.001-07:00

What I really think?

If you ask me what I think of those who lack conscience

I would say - Conscience is a slimy bastard but you gotta admit it 'the damn devil' gets you all the time!

If you ask me- About good morals?

I would say- the mother and the whore, they both are a woman's body

But what seperates them is a fake morality! Both are beautiful. Both are creatures of this world. Why slander the other if you can't make the choices a whore would make to live, love and sustain in this world?

If you ask me- Do you believe in God?

I would say- Even an atheist believes in something, for me that is god.

If you ask me- Do you want to be rich?

I would say- Yes, on my own terms.

If you ask me- Are you in love?

I would say- All the time, everyday, every minute of my life.

If you ask me- Do you trust others?

I would say- I trust those who deserve to be trusted.

:) If you ask me- do you blog frequently?

I would say- Only when I need to de-clutter my mind and feel the need to say something.

love

2009-04-24T15:13:00.001-07:00

I have experienced lust, I have had my fair share

I have been framed, I have played the blame game

I have mocked others who have been foolish

I have myself walked that road soon after and felt utterly wasted

But then things changed,

I spoke, I laughed, I cracked weird jokes

I found a spirit unbroken and charming

I was surprised it was me, the same me, cynical and discerning

what was happening, it was unlike me to not be bothered to not have my body signal warnings

I could in a long time, just be me

not be ashamed of that other person who barely understood -the paradoxes

I could turn my arrogant self on to the world I didn't approve

And I wasn't told to agree all the time

I could breathe, I could face my demons, I could really see the shades in this world like a

flipper colour book

I was no more trapped in the fantasy land full of handsome dysfunctional androids

I was with a real person

I was with a real man

I thus- was in Love :)

Diya: Socha Hai!

2008-09-03T01:37:00.000-07:00

Diya: Socha Hai!

"messing around"

2008-09-02T02:34:00.000-07:00

Rumours and stress

and all the shitty mess

Some say it's inevitable some say it's best

left alone....

I met someone ..just the other day

Chisled looks and a hungry prey

walked off... didn't want to waste my time

but perhaps for dinner he should have been just fine

switched channels and watched heads pop

much to my amusement even heard them scream

like a bleating sheep waiting to be seen

Washed some dirty linen in a private room

smoked a few joints and licked my chocolate spoon

and the kick !!!! Untamable.... outstanding

Socha Hai!

2008-09-02T02:00:00.000-07:00

Mainstream Bollywood cinema a decade back would have perhaps been apprehensive in rolling their precious film spool on rock music, punk adventure and an undying spirit to make music. And with "Rock On" hitting the theatres with unlikely heroes in unlikely characters, the film begged a viewing!

The film came out to be honest and well researched but in parts lacked luster. Luke Kenny, the odd channel V face was seen delivering a power packed performance and standing forth in scenes like an old mascot of the industry. Farhan Akhtar as lead vocalist played up the image of the star with finesse. His seasoned vocals and chiseled good looks added to the oomph factor any boy- rock band has. Much like "That Thing You Do" where the lead vocalist had everything from good looks to a pretty girlfriend (Liv Tyler) and a stint at the local radio... the comparison was inevitable.

Purab Kohli, a former VJ turned actor, fitted the cosmos of interesting characters by his slapstick humor and inopportune jokes. As for Arjun Rampal, model turned actor with a baritone voice, played the under-dog, the true blue artist who is unquestionably the most talented amongst the lot.

The characters all had a purpose and they all formed a unit "a band", with much success in the film. The chemistry within the band members wasn't forced nor was it uptight, it was just right. But what the film failed to deliver was tightness, a sense of insight and also a feeling of attachment to the characters. Just when one thought that there was more to what meets the eye, the film would slip into a vacuum. And you are left craving for a little more detail by the end of the scenes.

Farhan's disdain to his past and music is not at all well established and delved into.
It is something that is left to the audience to make sense with flashback sequences. The fear of the character’s past and the heartbreak was left unexplored. What was even more jarring was the aloofness between Farhan and his wife (Prachi Desai, TV Actress) was unconvincing. The cliché about the glamorous rich wife with pretty friends (Koel Puri) and an insensitive husband was so out of place that the scenes became uninteresting and also slowed the pace of the narrative by a few notches. Prachi Desai’s character seemed a cardboard cut- out of bored housewives with too much free time and lots of money. The texture of tension between these two characters and the skeletons of farhan’s past could have delivered the much needed punch into the narrative!
As for Joe (Arjun Rampal), the drudgery of his shackled life was pondered upon a tad too much. And Debbie's nagging was exaggerated to a point that made a viewer feel irritated and incapacitated. KD's sentiments towards the band only boils up to the point of the last gig when in the green room Farhan says that Joe may not come to play! KD's outburst and his resentment towards the inner politics only gets reflected in that one scene and one wishes that this complexity within the band could have been revealed earlier. The “namak’ as they say in the movie was just not there.
The focus on Arjun Rampal and Farhan Akhtar in parts of the film left the other two languishing in the narrative as extras. There on and off appearances without much to say was odd. Though KD is made out to be this jester his detachment with the band at some level is just a matter of one time outburst almost like a kid throwing a fit!
The interspersed scenes between Anu Malik and Luke Kenny are shallow and it clearly does not reflect the character's boredom or frustration.
Luke Kenny anyway had measured scenes and dialogues and is done away with as a frail dying man in the band who becomes the raison d’etre for others to realize their commitment to the band and their friendship. (why do people have to die in Bollywood to make things work)…..Cry out loud, he was the only one who perhaps deserved more screen space than the wannabe actors trying to mould themselves as draconian rock stars! Luke I feel for you man!!!

The band's re-union so to speak is a whimper. It could have been dramatized (not emotional hyperbole/dramatization) but the scene could have been longer and shot better. Farhan’s entry in that dingy basement could have been juxtaposed with some much needed flashback scenes … I mean editors you need imagination to cut a re-union scene… L

In parts the film seems to fall flat and in parts it reaches a crescendo.

The music is refreshing with rock notes. The composers Shankar, Ehsaan and Loy mostly stuck to ballad rock so as to appeal to the more pop'ish gentry of audience. The reunion gig's song (Tum ho T0) borrowed traits from Pink Floyd’s sense of music and noticeably so! The only song that perhaps makes the demarcation from just a boy band to that of a coming of age band.

Tracks like Socha hai, Pichle Saat dino mein, Ye tumhari meri batein all reflected and smelled like the teen spirit. So for the sake of good music, I would say "ROCK ON"

And By the way “ WHY MAGIK???”

FOR GOOD ROCK FILMS RECOMMENDED—
SCHOOL OF ROCK
ALMOST FAMOUS
PAANCH
DOORS
THAT THING YOU DO

Dial X

2008-08-18T12:20:00.000-07:00

It's 1 am and I am still onto Kureishi to put me to sleep. But the darn book reads so well that slumber isn't kicking in yet. So I decided to play detective on internet and trace common threads of fucked up paths I have chartered so far. Doesn't make sense?? I was googling my ex boyfriends figuring out where they have reached in life. (yeah I know what an unhealthy screwed up hobby). No, I don't do this on a regular basis but then some sort of a twisted voeuyer nudged me and told me to go on...
Normally when I close a chapter, may it be on any translucent aspect of my life I close it so darn well that you can't see even the slightest trace of dirt. In my case of broken over dramatic affairs I have tightly jammed the lid. And today for some strange suicidal reason I decided to blow the lid off and gasp in horror to the kind of childishness I have indulged in my past. Past is an interesting reference point to start... it gives you a ghastly insight into your subconsicous and tells you who you were 2 years before. And as you count dates back you tick the dates ahead of wisdom and common sense. I am reckless still, impulsive rather and I shop for emotions as foolishly as a maniacal lottery winner .. who doesn't know what to do with pots of money. I have been too vunerable, too stupid (yes) but i have lived .. I haven't stuck to any normative code of conduct or any bible of chastity .. I have done what i have pleased and in the right manner ! And even though Kureishi still dumbfounds me with his literary charms... I must say I have been smitten before!

American HIstory X

2008-06-15T08:26:00.000-07:00

Last night I decided to finally catch the very controversial Hollywood flick American History X. At first glance the name kind of put me off. I imagined the film to be one of those very preachy, self glorifying American films with innumerable special effects. But out of sheer boredom, I decided to fight my initial skepticism and watch the film . The melancholic opening that of a sea shore was not perhaps the apt pre-cursor to the raw violence that the film would go on to narrate. The first scene began with a "big bang" quite literally. An explicit love making scene inter weaved with the setting up of a greusome crime that would go on to occur. I was glued. Edward Norton's character as Derek Vinyard is introduced with such chilling violence that one condemns him of being a brash product of racist hogwash. A firm believer in white supremacy ideology Derek is this self proclaimed Skin head who is loud about his politics of hate. A victim of circumstance Derek is a product of his father who is killed in a black neighbourhood by alleged drug peddlers. The murder of his father sets afire for his first racist pangs and learnings. In the course of the film we see this man's downfall and his progressive reformation in prison is narrated by his brother, Danny. Danny an impressionable teenager is fascinated and at the same time curious about his brother's hate, his involvement in the white supremacy movement and the path he his brother has sworn to follow till his dying day. Dannyn though a bit hesitant is compelled to join into the skinhead movement inorder to survive amongst his fellow white friends . What was most captivating in the film was how Danny is a witness to the scene of butchering that his brother Derek proudly executes. Derek who after a intense love making session in the same passion and heat kills the black men who tried to steal his vehicle outside his house. Danny watches on unable to understand the urgency in his brother to kill those two black men. Danny undergoes the most horrific change that night. He in his own state of helplessness has transformed into a Ne0-Nazi. But Danny doesn't come out as strongly as Derek and throughout the film he tries to reason through his history paper titled American History X about why his brother chose this path of blood, cynicism and hate.
Though the film delivered some nasty punches it also had some forced moments. With Derek befriending a black man in the jail who despite of being aware of Derek's grissley crime decides to be morally responsibile to reform Derek . In the jail's bathroom homosexual rape scene we see the vulnerable victim of hate in Derek. The subsequent emotional breakdown of Derek and the his final path of redemption keeps me hooked and intrigued. Though predictable in parts as to how the film would end I would say that in a long time I had seen something so powerful and honest. The 118 min long film offered no solution, no theory and no moral standpoint. It just in its brief interludes of violence, madness and racial hyperbole grabs the very essence of disgust in the audience regarding how hate can be futile and a path of peril. All in all the film makes you sad. It makes you sad about how hate is such a wasted emotion. It wastes a person completely.
Even in my day to day interactions I have people bewitched by this entire concept of propagating a certain doctrine of caste, race or perhaps some sort of twisted supremacy. The playground of blood and gore is so aesthetically set that I won't be surprised if people completely sane today turn into savages. I won't be surprised then, that barbarism can have a modern set and people are sitting on the aisle of the amphitheater with buckets of greased popcorn. But then I also know it would be so uncomfortable to swallow the pain, the hate knowing that in the end, it is all SO STUPID!

THE TRUMAN SHOW

2008-06-11T03:32:00.000-07:00

My new post is about a new kind of epidemic. Many scientists have expressed concern over this fast spreading malaise in which it starts with news channels injecting a peculiar hallucinogenic drug that inevitably penetrates into news junkies tuned in, with such intensity, that he suffers from abnormal visions and perceptions of reality.

The scientists attribute such epidemic to fire guzzling, lava snorting monsters who have set their desires on this universe. Thus opening various news channels to satisfy their perverse urge to create their own kind of alter reality.

Today news stories have become a pure work of fiction. Sources say that even M. Night Shyamalam latest hollywood horror cum fantasy flick is bland in comparison to the fantasy stories that comprise most news bulletins.

Having said that I would like us to observe our own news viewing patterns. Isn't it pathetic that we glue ourselves to the set as parasites feeding off peculiar stories. Many anchors take the onus to understand what is brewing between two film actors and why they stand apart from each other in an award function. News about their private lives is injected in our system with such intensity that it is almost impossible to not be concerned why Saifu and kareena kat are not adoringly holding hands at IIFA? (as according to a recent television channel report). And in between our tea breaks we as an enchanted audience, speculate how the distressed couple is handling all the media humdrum and of course the pressures of their relationship. A sort of moral obligation is thrust upon us to dig up past references of their life, speculate and believe in this alter reality.

Scientists say that those who are viewing these channels for grisly crime stories, alter magic reality or celeb gossip are fast becoming victims to a very severe case of hallucination state. The audience often have fast heartbeat, they salivate in front of television and have a rapid decline in appetite for anything healthy. The fantasy world of this news industry is so seductive that reality is no more an open book but a filtered understanding of what is NEWS.

Yes, we are all living THE TRUMAN SHOW... only that we are not Jim Carey's and we don't get paid a million bucks.

Real or surreal

2008-05-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

Many a times we realize how reality is not what we believe it is. It is something that is constructed painfully and thereby mediated to a person/a group. Reality is what your mother will try not to tell you till you have the first heartbreak, the first tryst with eve teasers or the first dissapointment in the curve of your life. Reality is sheltered and often not revealed till it is demanded to be revealed. I shall draw upon my personal experience largely to substantiate the point I am trying to make. Many a times we walk into a space that we have great expectations from it may be a personal space/relationship or a proffessional space/ work space or it may even be a spiritual space/mental space etc etc.. And many a times we try and percieve a reality that keeps us going on a day to day basis. We kick start our machinery every morning in this hope that today I am entering this space with XYZ on my mind. And I will do my best. But what if, when reality is revealed, it says all that you percieved or all that you did for the sake of this space was not required! It often raises a lot of questions. Why did I create and be part of this space? Why on earth I didn't realise the futility of it all? And how come the reality I had imagined is so very different from what's out there.... then you reflect upon and see that often reality is a hushed secret, a dirty double ended joke which we just didn't get!!!

Teri meri News channel

2008-05-28T06:09:00.000-07:00

Comedy circus redefined... ! I work for a so called organisation which boasts of very high ranking/ TRP's and often claims time and again that it has thwarted competition, wiped it clean! Daily rounds of tortuous edit meets set the mood of the day which is to follow ticker lines of many channels and then decide which story requires follow up and reportage. We trail emblazoned paths searching for clues to a murder mystery, as self proclaimed detectives. We even suggest how a heinous crime is committed in the dead of the night, how an enraged father kills his own daughter and then the domestic servant (Arushi murder case) just with the help of the police who are themselves clueless and crippled with missing links. We stop at no cost in following a great scoop but we often tend to forget how innocuous we sound when we side with one version of the story and weave a desi racy crime pulp fiction. Then follows innumerable lives (sometimes staged, called SIM SAT) and this horror is mediated in living rooms of thousands of couch potatoes/ news junkies/entertainment junkies!English news channels tend to give the impression that they are in the business of news even urging the audience to feel the intensity of this news with tag lines like "Feel the news", "if it's news its on XYZ TV, News without views.. and many cheesy lines the unimaginative content team tend to advertise in trail blazing font...Much like the sci fi genre news is also entering the realm of abstraction and fantasy. Where it can misreport or suggest a reality which in the first place does not exist. We are all in the business of manufacturing consent.. through coercion, repetitive bulletins and morose commentaries...If Jade Goody came to India we send a team of "special investigators" from our channel tracking her every move and televising it as one great story on a 24 hour news channel. And even better if someone had a wad robe malfunction (cry out loud) it becomes a heavily packaged news story with many graphic elements literally....So who are we making this skimmed reality television for... we hop skip and gloss over issues and present them with innumerable graphic elements.. we copy paste each other and flash BREAKING NEWS tag line... breaking all bounds of shamelessness and we pat ourselves in the back and wipe the cream of our whiskers..But then ... number one is a line that always works.. even if no one is watching.

Candy Floss and Headline Love

2008-05-03T01:58:00.000-07:00

What's love got to do with it? Pretty much nothing! A transient feeling that is as whimsical as perhaps the delhi rains... Love in this day and age is found packaged in dating manuals with headings screaming "how to win a man with a few seductive moves!".. Many flip through the glossy pages hoping to decode the great mystery. If love was that easily purchased off a magazine counter then we all would have the best of men, the best of relationships, the most eroctic encounters and of course a very predictable/similar carnal or romantic experience.
So why do women (not all) invest a lum sum amount on these magazines to satiate their carnivorous appetite of finding the right match, experiencing a dream date, flirting with the right kind of man, seducing your partner for good, mastering those 100 sexy moves in bed.. etc etc.. the list is endless and unimaginitive.
Well, I tried to answer the question for myself when a street kid vendor came up to me shouting "Madam BHOG (VOGUE) le lo!" And the first header on the cover was something like "Those 5 secret moves you should try on your partner!" Call it a bad take off of classic Kamasutra. I would have perhaps picked up the magazine out of sheer boredom or curosity but that 70Rs investment on an article that promises a great life didn't seem worth it. No the answer is not that I dont want to know the secrets of enchanting a man! But it is more to do with how does it drastically change my life? What's Love got to do with it? And Madam Turner I am sure when you crooned the song... you pretty much nailed it.. Thankyou.

2008-04-26T02:51:00.001-07:00

The one thing that really fascinates me in films is it's soundscape. The intercourse between sound and moving image is like marinating good foreplay and intensive sex. Really the pleasure of watching a film doubles manifold when you also experience a great sound scape.. it is like the moods intensify! Which is why I guess there was such liberal usage of punching sound effects Dishum Dishum in hindi films and obviously the heroine would be crying hoarse to lend emotional drama. But if anyone's seen The Truth about Charlie, you'd come across this amazing use of Aznavour's tracks like honeyed texture all across the power packed intense drama sequences. Wang Kar Wai also used soulful operatic sounds in his flick In the Mood for Love. It conjured up this desire to be really be "in the mood for love". Ever wondered why a cinematic experience in a theater is so intense, so passionate.. surround sound my dear, surround sound! It sucks you into the plot even involuntarily and it makes your pulse a little faster. If I watch the same film at home without the fancy gadgetry of sound I would be tempted to take breaks, do something else etc etc...
2046 had a halluconegic background score that was apt for it's set up and storyline! A man who takes a fast train into the year 2046 to rejoice lost memories of love. Incidentally the author who writes 2046 in the film is writing the book in the hotel room with the number 2046...
While Tarantino roped in Nancy Sinatra for Kill Bill track who would have ever wondered the protege and daughter of a cult figure would so masterfully croon on a racy pop flick and lend authenticity...
So as many would wonder why an experience in theater is far richer than a simple viewing at home.. pay attention to what the sounds are telling you! It reveals a whole new side of the plot... you thought never existed!

Summer of 2002, coming of age

2008-04-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

IN the summer of 2002 I had an opportunity that would change my outlook on life somewhat and i took that opportunity. All of 19 with no such plans in my head as to what to expect out of an internship programme, I decided to give this ASHA STANFORD plan a shot. Before I knew it I got selected and then the surprise unfolded. I was attending an orientation session in the fancy NATIONAL FOUNDATION OF INDIA office in Habitat. The moot point of the orientation how this internship is to be taken forward. I really hadn’t planned to take up an internship programme to experience "the grass-root phenomenon" as told by my NFI organisers. For me it was an act of defiance , a teen rebel when parents didn’t allow me to back pack and take off . So I found a cover up, in the form of an internship programme fully sponsored and most of all it assured me of a one of it's kind rural experience. What was that rural experience I didn’t have a clue. Silly though, I am blogging about it at 26. Something the other day reminded me of those blissful days I spent in the Asaniboni Santhal village in Karanjia district for 45 days. It was an internship that I still can’t forget. My first tryst with no electricity, loos or fancy food yet it was so rich at so many layers. So to go back to that air conditioned NFI room, we were being briefed about our internship roles and what all we are supposed to do in our rural programme.

I obviously a wee bit disturbed of being paired with someone from St Stephens for the trip to Orissa and much to my dismay the person had three names coiled into one (very confusing). A guy who obviously didn’t seem fun or resourceful apart from the fact that his dad was an IAS officer of the region where we were supposed to be staying at.

I sat listening to every word that came out of the mouth of the organisers very intently because I was mentally preparing for a safari. Never having experienced the rural /tribal India my mind was conjuring all kind of celluloid images of grandeur and adventure. Untill Mr Stephens opened his big mouth quoting some Edward Said excerpt in a non academic discussion. I knew exactly then what I would be encountering in those two months with this guy who I barely knew. Either we’d be killing each other with our bare hands or we’d be doing something better (which by the way didn’t cross my mind then).

So when we first reached Bhubeneswar and we were put up in the CYSD guest house. Not homesick at all, I was more irked with the number of mosquitoes in my room buzzing and making havoc. I managed to catch a very intermittent sleep before heading out to Karanjia 220 kms away from Bhubeneswar. I knew we’d be staying in some tribal village. At first my first concern was where would I be doing it!??? You know, my daily absolutions. I was very very concerned. Obviously no such arrangements would have been made. And where would I be taking a bath, then came where would I be sleeping etc etc... Oh the list was endless. THe need to roll up a joint finally kicked in (the maal gifted to me by a very dear friend in times of crisis) .. yes I did panick and those heavenly drags where enough to numb me of my sanity vanity fears for a while.

Coming back to Mr Stephens the least helpful bloke throughout my stay at Karanjia, was already in his mode of madness. He was mean. He was arrogant and he showed no interest in the internship apart from pulling practical jokes on me. Till one day I lost it when he bolted me in the eerie guest house at Karanjia till late hours in the evening. Not to mention the other day when he almost lost balance on the bike and I got a sharp cut on my leg thanks to his reckless driving. I abhored the man! He tried and tested my patience till we shared a harmless kiss when we came back to delhi. That later. I was in Karanjia as of now hating this man plotting how best to kill him feed him to the wild boars or rip his head off with my hands and serve it for dinner to the tribals.

Then began those wonderful days at Asaniboni village. My room was one of its kind, a sweet cum shed with chickens, cows, goats tethered to poles. On the other side of the room was this neat bed put for me. I mumbled grumbled at the amount of noise the animals in my room made but I finally had a fantastic sleep only to be woken by a ill mannered hen sitting atop my mosquito net co cooing away !!! Yes it was a natural alarm ... I thought I would only hear that sound in digitally recorded Chinese made alarm clocks. This was the real deal. Morning was at Brindaban Tudu’s house with Jackfruit pancakes as breakfast. Mr Stephens made faces. He hated jackfruit. I saw an opportunity to seek sweet revenge. I nudged him saying he has to eat it because it is terrible to offend their sensibilities and their hospitality. When no one was looking Mr stephens would plead me like a bleating goat to eat his pancake .. but I didn’t budge. Infact I ignored his mercy calls and sat chatting with the women of the house.
Maybe that ignore didn’t go down too well with him, because when I went for a bath in the nearby pond... my clothes were missing. I could feel my entire body shrivelling up in the chill and of course the embarrassment. Till one of the girls of the Tudu family gave me a sari and I felt like punching a few jabs in his face right then. Next was the evening siesta when they cooked a wild chicken for us.. and also everyone danced and played music. The air was intoxicatingly fresh and so was the liquor that the tribals brewed in the morning. I didn’t realize that I would be served the morning liquor in a giant glass in the same evening of it being brewed by a serene old lady. I vehemently said Oh No! I don’t drink.. !!! But Mr Stephens again stepped in using the same line that I had used oh u are offending their sensibilities, please you got to have this. With some 30 people staring at me, I had no choice but to gulp it down and bear the burning sensation down my throat for the next few seconds that refused to settle down. I thought I dealt with it bravely and even had a smirk on my face that said so you thought I couldn’t drink that!! An impressed Mr Stephens promptly shoved another glass to my side saying this is for friendship!!! Oh that just did it.... that glass that I had still brings those ghastly feelings of having consumed spurious liquor. I didn’t remember the rest of the evening. Clearly as the Santhals told me I had passed out!
Many days were spent in that village where I met these wonderful people so welcoming, so warm and so caring. I miss them today when i see their pictures and me in it all of 19 with stupid notions about civility and life. I was given a parting gift a small I love you locket by this girl of the tudu family. We shared some really wonderful moments. From wearing her sari and dancing their traditional dance to eating with them on the same floor, to making them cups of coffee (they had never known the taste of).

I feel truly blessed to have experienced something like that. As for Mr Stephens, we dated for 3 and a half odd years till we parted with an invisible I love you locket. I don’t know if I have it still lying somewhere, surly do if I am talking about it in this blog!

spaceship

2007-05-07T02:45:00.000-07:00

Space. I can't imagine someone in my space 24*7 . Someone who has been artifically injected in my mind space, my physical space even my spiritual space. But when you sometimes let yourself loosen up and grant entry into that sacred space how much of it do you give? Do you suddenly stamp ENTRY sign on your forehead and tell the other person to literally mind **** you. NO! You dont. But your body lets out those signs often. Secretly without telling you its doing so. You just meet someone's eye harmlessly and the next thing you know the other is meeting your eye involuntarily... Scary!!! And the next thing you know perhaps even lingering on in your thoughts... scarier. And the last straw is when you know that person has without any notice slipped into your sacred space with a duplicate key!!!!! What do you do ? You remain locked outside your space for sometime, hang around till that person leaves, feel funny... all of that. But if god forbid you like that person rest assured you should get used to sharing! Just like a shared folder in your hard disk...
Your SPACE IS INVADED.... Period.

Behave yourself!

2007-05-07T00:24:00.000-07:00

twirl on my toes
drink till wee hours in the morning
and when the alarm goes off...
I behave!

Mind snap!

2007-05-06T09:09:00.000-07:00

Some say reality is filtered , memory is never the same and one can't exist at two places at the same time. While I figured the last part isn't really true because in the metaphysical sense I exist in a recorded programme, I exist as a signature on a paper, I exist in old dusty snaps. Whereas each time I tried to recall how i got there... the story always differed. My memory always gave me different versions of the past. Yet I clinged on to it... because it never faded into nothingness. Memory a pictographic record of what had happened, lying beneath sheaths of present experiences. The frail wrinkled hands of my grandmother and how it touched my skin. I forget whether the hand was cold or was it at normal body temperature but what I do remember that I loved that embrace. It still exists the act of embrace in my memory as vivid as it was in real. My mind clicked a picture when I was embraced by my grandmother. Whenever I needed that embrace it emerged in my mind like a photograph. And the fact that I can still have that embrace at any time makes me really wonder whether I exist harmoniously in two time zones. ..... And do we all float in time to be with people whom we really love.

jiving....

2007-05-05T07:07:00.000-07:00

I had some work here and there
but i thought of clearing the awkward air
you clearly guessed i had to leave
as i sat flushed looking at my feet
my painted toes played with each other
while you got up slowly to play the blues
I looked up, rather confused
perhaps I'd skip that urgent appointment
as you and me jive ............

marinated shames

2007-05-05T06:42:00.000-07:00

Shame. Something that can stem right from a silent fart in your work kiosk to a rude slap in your face that life serves you often. But mostly shame is a far more personal feeling, a feeling of being stripped and being gazed at all your flaws. If I could smell shame how would it smell?Perhaps a pungant stench of a dead fish, the first stale breath of your mouth when you wake up, or like peeled onions that have become a day old. I have imagined many a times how shame would smell like? How perhaps it would taste? If I added some freshly plucked mint and sautayed it in olive oil would shame taste and smell different? I could never trick myself into believing that I am not shamed I am just feeling vulnerable, a momentary helplesness. It always existed inharmoniously with my feeling of well being.
At times I would secretly wish (write with crayons in my insipid brain) that I could marinate my shame in a gorgeous dressing without having to deal with it. !! But hindsight my ego said DEAL WITH IT!!!

what you thinking little miss missy????

2007-05-05T04:38:00.000-07:00

Being perfect perhaps comes after you have swallowed insults, borne indiscriminate views on morality and gestures, strutted away in complete defiance and made it a point to not react to people who seek pleasure in a slow emotional mutilation. While belonging to a second sex quite literally has its own perils I chose to celebrate the fact I had ovaries, that I could twirl my lashes, pick lace lingerie and even wear high heels. But many a times "My missy" which is the good girl inside me adhered to the non-defined conventions of how to conduct myself. If an abuse crawled onto my lips I paid great attention in slipping it back to my gut where all the anger simmered... whew! But many a times I try to keep my missy tamed and hidden because it so spoils all the fun. It sucks the spirit out of my system like an expensive vacuum cleaner that can detect specks of dirt even on an earbud. Like for instance the other day I had some guests over for lunch well they were my relatives... the white vultures who pounce on fresh meat and relish every bit of succulent tender meat coming off your body. I had to put up with my missy that day as she would intrude every now and then. While I wanted to lounge in my room listening to some downloaded junk Missy kicked in to say how I need to sit and nod with my extended family. They would comment on everything from how I need to spruce up my life with "them" to my job which quite literally keeps me away from my family. Missy nodded while I had an invisible frown on my forehead and a mute abuse stuck in my vocal chords.
I thought my job made me happy well it does! But I lurk in shadows when I encounter those obnoxious vultures at work who love wearing the see all glasses. And then I dont let my missy do the talking, I hurl the four letter word with a smile... almost as an impunitive measure to stop the jerks!! But missy very frankly what were you thinking????