Musings

Singles in the City

2009-07-30T04:00:00.000-07:00

So here I find myself- on the brink of yet another move- back to Delhi this time, to live with the folks. While it's great to be home and not have to worry about incompetent maids, what to do about dinner, and stuff like that, there is a lot to be said for living alone. A lot of stuff that I'll really miss.

So, taking stock of the past year, I thought it would be apt to post this piece I wrote some time ago before I make the move.

Singles in the City
When I tell anyone who’s old enough to be my Uncle or Aunt I’m single and live alone in Mumbai, their brows furrow with worry and their first question is always, “What do you do about food?” And if I confirm their worst fear and say I don’t cook (yes, guys, it is possible to live on "outside food"), they immediately invite me for lunch/dinner/breakfast, pack some sandwiches and cold cuts in a plastic zip bag or wrap up some homemade cake for me, and send me trotting off, clutching my goodie bag.

While I am usually pleased as punch at being on the receiving end of homemade goodies, I do try to tell them that it’s not necessary- I really don’t mind depending on the neighbourhood Subway for late Sunday brunches and the local fast food joints around the corner for a late-night dosa.

Younger people, on the other hand, react in a completely different way. There have been envious sighs, glances of admiration, and yes, on more than one occasion, there has been a subtle, “Is your landlord cool?” which in party-speak means, “Can we have a party there sometime?”

And then there’s the third category- the kindred spirit. This is either a very good friend, or a fellow young single non-Mumbaikar who lives in a rented home like you do, and gets both the raw and sweet end of the deal, just as you do. This one usually reacts with a grin and a nod. The grin which says, “Good for you- you’re really doing it,” and the nod which says, “Been there, done that; I know how it is.”

So we hold hands, form a support group of these kindred spirits and wade through the trials of pest control, incompetent bais, unreasonable landlords, food crisis, broke days and homesickness together. These people exist on our speed dial lists, our weekend plans and forgotten hair clips or T-shirts in our houses.

We also happily make our way through the sweet end of the deal of no curfews or worried parents, having multiple houses to sleep at, depending on which part of town Saturday night saw you, and the freedom to host the sort of parties no parent would approve of, at a moment’s notice.

So while the incompetent bais, unreasonable landlords, food crisis, broke days and homesickness are very real and very daunting aspects of being Single in the City, the upsides more than make up for it.
Apart from the seemingly frivolous freedoms of partying, living alone gives you the very solid lesson of independence. It teaches you that shit happens, it’s not personal and at the end of the day, you gotta learn to let the troubles slide off you and move on.

It teaches you that vada pavs often make a great dinner when you’ve been too lazy too arrange for anything better, that rats climbing up the drainpipe and scampering around your bedroom are VERY scary when you’re alone, that cranky landlords can be Satan reincarnated and that to make it from one day to the next with your sanity intact, you need your kindred souls on your speed dial list and preferably in the neighbourhood.

So while I appreciate the packets of food and dinner invitations, my life-line would have to be the hands I hold in times of crisis and I-don’t-know-what-to-do! The family that Singles need to find away from home to keep their heads above the water.

Women in Bars: Is it worth it?

2009-04-20T05:55:00.000-07:00

Today, I was writing an article on date rape for rediff.com, which got me thinking about the subject. Scarily enough, we all seem to know someone who has gotten into some kind of trouble over drinks, with friends or acquaintances.

While I have to admit I’ve been hugely lucky, having side stepped any serious problems, there was one instance when a guy I’d met for the first time tried to drop a pill into my glass. Luckily, I saw him do it, and asked for a fresh drink.
I don’t like to imagine what might have happened if I hadn’t turned in time to see that!

Anyway, as I was writing the article, I was talking to various people to see what they felt about the issue. As people loosened up and started talking about the stories they have witnessed, each one of them mentioned the need for women to protect themselves. To make sure they didn’t go out with people they didn’t know, to stick to public places, watch their drinks at all times…

The more people I spoke to, the more it became evident that women didn’t feel completely safe anywhere. In any setting. With anyone. And in protecting themselves, there are so many restrictions that they place upon themselves, or their parents place upon them, that it almost doesn’t seem worth the trouble to go out!

We women watch what we wear even when we go to a nightclub. We make advance arrangements to get home after a party. And now, we watch our drinks like hawks. Instead of enjoying the party, maybe dancing and having a few drinks, we end up warily scanning the area around us and our drinks to make sure all’s well. We mentally analyse statements made by people we may not know too well. “Another drink?” could just as easily be interpreted as, “I’m trying to get you drunk.” If a woman is forced to continually watch her back even when supposedly having a good time, she is forced to ask herself, “What's even the point?”

Pramod Muthalik thinks we don’t belong in bars. We disagree. But if our men are going to prove him right, it doesn’t leave us with much of an argument.

Lakme Fashion Week: A glamourous circus

2009-04-06T03:54:00.000-07:00

So Lakme Fashion Week is finally over and I have heaved my sighs of relief, had my long-overdue weekend and returned to work, glad that it doesn’t involve another designer outfit or impossibly perfect model.

I can also now look back at the excesses that I was buried under during those five days and take stock of some of the ironies I’ve seen.

One of them is always the model-craze. People seem to think that models are drop-dead gorgeous, sexy, and often, snobs. What I saw, however, was a total contradiction to this theory. Most of them are downright ugly, having lost their youth to too many cigarettes and too much makeup, bony and skinny, and far too attention-seeking to be snobbish. There will always be the leaders of the pack, the ones who are so high up in the pecking order that they can afford to toss their pretty, empty heads at the world and take another dainty sip for their wine glasses (but just one, dah-link…and of course no beer!).
But these are few and far between. Far more common are the lesser known faces who make up for their anonymity with the tiniest of shorts and plunging necklines, making sure their tinkling laughter is heard by all those in the vicinity, and hovering around anyone who has a media card. While they are too proud to ask to be interviewed, their intentions are more than clear when suddenly develop an interest in you after seeing you interview another model.

Then there are the celebrities that never fail to make an appearance at the Fashion Week. Perfectly made up faces that reveal very real flaws when you see them up-close scream out their status of being a has-been. But the media, oblivious to the obvious, will scamper up to them, begging for a sound bite, falling over themselves and other media persons in the hope of that perfect smile, delivered charmingly with a one-liner. Of course, these celebs are at an advantage, having rehearsed most of their lines at home, right from the origins of their outfits, to the state of Indian politics.
On the fringes of this activity, side-lined by the commotion and chaos these stars of the yesteryears are creating, are who should have been the real stars of the day. The young models, many of whom are walking for Lakme Fashion Week for the first time. Fresh-faced young ‘uns who haven’t lost their looks yet, enthusiastic, eager to do their best, with heads that aren’t yet swollen with a misplaced sense of importance . But nobody pays them any attention- after all; they haven’t carved a name for themselves yet.
Fair enough- but need we fawn over those who should have retired ten years ago either? So while these young girls and boys watch from the periphery of the action, we choose to pay homage to Preity Zinta’s huge dark circles (that even a kilo of concealer fails to hide) and flabby arms, or Naomi Campbell’s most unremarkable looks, instead of the young lissome lady with never-ending legs standing right beside them.
Ah, it’s the tussle between fame and beauty again- and guess who wins every time!

And then there are the fashion shows themselves. A total flood of outfits, enough to clothe the average young women for a lifetime! Most of them ugly, nearly all unwearable. And the bigger the designer, the more flamboyant his designs, the less wearable his creations, and the more outrageously priced. That’s the privilege of an established designer. He can create a dress made entirely out of feathers, with a huge butterfly perched upon the model’s breast, finished with light bulbs twinkling all over her- and the audience will hoot and applaud loudly, though none of the women clapping would be caught dead in such a hideous number!

While we all enjoy the flamboyance, we are forced to ask, isn’t the point of fashion to create something people can actually wear, and be seen in? Isn’t the point of a fashion show to showcase creations that actually make you want to buy them? Isn’t the point of a model to be, first and foremost, pretty, before all other things? And isn’t the point of getting new talent on the ramp to discover them?

Ah, well, the Lakme Fashion Week has earned itself a reputation- who are we to question it?
Ours is simply to watch and take with a pinch of salt the circus we see.

Delhi cops stumble upon convenience

2009-03-25T02:26:00.001-07:00

So they say Soumya Vishwanathan’s killers have finally been caught – and a motive established. The killers in another case (Jigisha Ghosh’s murder) were caught, and the cops soon stumbled upon the fact that the same people were involved in Soumya Vishwanathan’s murder as well. (Am I the only one this sounds suspicious to?)

However, the police claim that the motive behind Soumya Vishwanathan’s bizarre murder on Delhi’s Nelson Mandela Road at 3.30 am one night, was simply road rage. It seems that because Soumya overtook the ruffians’ car, they put a bullet through her brain.
Now while this may not be the most bizarre thing you’ve heard happen in Delhi – the capital is, after all, the most violent city in India – this doesn’t sound right to me.

To refresh memories, let me recap the case quickly. Soumya Vishwanathan, a young journalist with Headlines Today was returning home one September night last year, when the incident occurred. The cops that reached the scene that night say it looked like an accident in the beginning; with the car rammed straight into the divider. Until, that is, they discovered the bullet lodged in Soumya’s head. Strangely, none of Soumya’s possessions were stolen, and the haunting image of one golden kolhapuri chappal by the pedals of the car became the image synonymous with the shocking murder.
Though the matter escalated, with hundreds of journalists protesting in different ways, the police was making no headway in finding the guilty party, or a motive for the killing. Until recently.

While investigating Jigisha Ghosh’s murder (the young Hewitt employee who was abducted and killed a week ago), the police “stumbled upon” evidence that linked the same killers to both the cases. While in Jigisha’s case, the motive was theft, Soumya seems to have paid the price of someone’s rage with her life.

However, this all sounds a bit shady to me. Isn’t it just too convenient that a pending case was neatly wrapped up with an ongoing one? That a bunch of boys are roaming the streets of Delhi, randomly killing young girls for different reasons each time? That having their car overtaken got them so mad that they speeded up till they were carefully alligned beside the moving car, aimed for her head, and shot the young woman driver? That they could even aim, while both cars were moving at such high speeds?

The loopholes in the facts of this case have me pointing a finger at the incompetent police force yet again. Are they hiding behind yet another smokescreen, covering up their inefficiency? Is this another Ansal Plaza/ Batla House? I wish I knew.

Does the fact that I knew Soumya when we were both little girls influence how strongly I feel about this case? Probably. And I don’t want the men who killed her to go scot-free just because the police found it easier to target someone whose neck was already in the noose. And I certainly don’t want another young woman to be found with a mysterious bullet in her skull before we realise that.

In my impotency of being a mere citizen, I can only hope the cops have got the right guys – that Soumya’s death will be avenged.

Stories and their memories

2009-03-02T05:09:00.000-08:00

Last week I was writing an article on Hemant Karkare and his family, which required multiple trips to his house in Dadar, where his wife still stays.
As important as the story are the pictures that you run with it, for which I found myself trekking to the house again, hoping to persuade Mrs. Karkare to lend me some photographs to use with the story.

I didn’t think it would be too hard- after all, most people want their pictures in the news, right? However, as we sat on her brown sofa, with old faded photographs littered on the coffee table in front of us, Mrs Karkare was terribly hesitant about letting the photographs out of her sight. While I tried to make her feel comfortable by letting her choose the pictures she wouldn’t mind us using on our website, she kept asking me, “When will you give them back?”

I told her I just needed to scan them, and would return them immediately, but she seemed reluctant to let them out of her sight. “All you press-waalas come and ask for photos, and then you don’t return them!” she said, throwing me an accusatory look. I was taken aback- at the caustic tone, as well as these journalists that the poor woman had encountered.

For what kind of person takes a widow’s only memories and then refuses to return them? What kind of journalism is that, where you forget that your stories are about real live people, and their tragedies? People who you might be hurting when you’re too lazy to return the one thing they have left - their memories?

May we never lose our dreams!

2009-01-21T21:57:00.000-08:00

Name: Kokila Vaghela
Age: 12 years
Address: The slums of Carter Road

Dragging along a toy car on a red ribbon, while the other hand tugged at the sleeve of her younger sister, twelve-year-old Kokila Vaghela was humming a tune and sauntering along when we found her around the slums of Khar Danda, Mumbai.

She looked at us enquiringly and spat out the piece of grass she was chewing on, so that she could talk to us. Dressed in a cobalt blue salwaar kameez, this pretty little thing took in all the sights around her with big, sparkling, curious eyes. Eyes that held dreams by the truckload. Eyes that looked at the squalor around her, but didn’t feel a part of it. Eyes that held hope, faith and belief in herself and the world.

This little girl was born on the pavement of Carter Road to a father who sells garlic for a living, and a mother who works at a municipality school nearby. Despite their almost inhuman living conditions, Kokila’s mother makes sure that all six of her children go to school and get an education, in the hope that their lives will someday be better than what they are now. This family of eight live on the pavement of Carter Road. While they have the most coveted of prime locations, and a panoramic sea view, they don’t have a roof…or walls for that matter.

When we asked Kokila what we wanted to be when she grew up, her gaze dropped to her feet shyly, and she mumbled, “Main Miss India banna chahti hoon. Miss India picture mein aati hai, na, isliye.” (I want to become Miss India. Miss India acts in movies, that is why.)
Of course, after she wins the crown, the next step would be acting in Bollywood- not with Shahrukh Khan though, since Kokila doesn’t like him, but with Hrithik Roshan, whom she is a big fan of.

And where one finds such ambitions, the dreams of riches and luxuries are never far behind. When she grows up and makes a lot of money, (which she has no doubt she will), Kokila wants to buy clothes and jewellery, but more importantly, she wants a building, some utensils and a car. She justifies these choices by saying, “Building, kyonki hum log ka ghar nahi hai, isliye. Aur bartan nahi hai zyaada, isiliye. Aur car chahiye, blue waali.” (I want a building because we don’t have a house. And we don’t have utensils. And I want a car, a blue one.)

Her little six-year-old sister and four-year-old brother cling to her legs and giggle when Kokila tells us how rich she will be someday. Older children mill around, and Kokila’s mother tells us how her daughter stays back after school hours to wash dishes, and earns Rs 300 every month. Though she is only twelve, Kokila is an earning member of this household. She doesn’t want to stop studying for a long time yet, saying, “Main bahut padna chahti hoon, achha lagta hai. Aage badhkar kuchh banna chahti hoon.” (I want to study a lot; I like it. I want to progress and become something in life.)

While this girl is still a child at heart and climbs hills and trees with her friends for now, her dreams are very different from theirs. She is not satisfied with the idea of good food and clean clothes, of a roof and a family.
This extraordinary child, hidden away behind the stench and squalor of desperate poverty, dreams of claiming her place in the world, of reaching for the stars, and of bringing them home for all to see!

Name: Kiran Birju Vaghela
Age: 17 years
Address: The slums of Carter Road

When we first spotted seventeen-year-old Kiran Birju Vaghela, he was squatting on the Carter Road promenade, watching the tide go out. He turned lazily to us and looked at us disinterestedly with his dark, passionless eyes. Kiran was born in Mumbai and lost his mother to an illness when he was seven years old. Since then, he and his elder brother have been working, doing odd jobs to support themselves and their father. They live on the pavement between Carter Road and Khar Danda in Mumbai.

“Humara baap kuchh nahi karta, daru peeke pada rehta hai. Aur khaata hai.” (Our father doesn’t do anything- he drinks alcohol and lies around, and eats.) says Kiran, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes. The two brothers had to give up their education when their mother died, and have been the family’s breadwinners since then. Kiran Vaghela works as a helper with a caterer who caters at weddings, a job that’s all right for now, but hardly enough to sustain his family. The fact that his brother also works with the same caterer makes things a bit easier for him. However, both boys don’t draw a fixed income- what they earn depends on how much work there is, and how much they are needed. Often, when business is slow, Kiran and his brother have to forego dinner in order to cater to their father’s demands for alcohol.

When asked what he wants to do in life, Kiran stared at us uncomprehendingly. “Kya kar sakte hai? Kuchh bhi. Ghar mein kaam mil jaaye to achha rahega. Ab padhe nahi hai, toh kya sapne dekenge?” (What can I do? Anything. If I find work in someone’s house, it will be nice. Since I haven’t studied, what dreams can I have?)
While he does feel that being uneducated has ruined his chances of making a better life for himself, Kiran realizes that it’s too late now, and doesn’t indulge in either self-pity or regret. His concentrations are all aimed at one thing only- to get from one day to the next. Between his job and his father’s alcoholism, there is no place left for dreams and hopes in this young heart.

Despite his hard life, Kiran makes time for his one passion- films. He just saw Chandni Chowk to China and his verdict was, “Achhi picture hai. Akshay Kumar achha lagta hai. Fighting accha kar leta hai.” (It’s a good film. I like Akshay Kumar. He fights well.) When asked if he also likes Deepika Padukone, Kiran shrugged off the question, losing interest again.

Kiran leans against a parked auto rickshaw and looks out towards the sea. We don’t know what he sees, but can’t help hoping there’s a dream locked away in those young eyes somewhere, and that the big bad world hasn’t killed his spirit completely.

Christmas in Calcutta

2008-12-30T00:35:00.001-08:00

….is something everybody must do once before they die! Park Street was so beautiful in the evenings; I just HAD to squeal in delight! The lights, the little cafes, including the famous Flury’s and the hipper Street Café were enchanting little dots on the landscape of unending culture and history that the city is. All you gotta do is take one look at the wonders of the Victoria Memorial to realize just how much history and culture the city has passed through its hands.

From its Princes to the British, the Babus to their literary achievements, the strong Marxist leanings to the delectable Bong food! Walking around the city is bumping into one cultural mini-explosion after another. The lack of moral policing (at least for outsiders) makes the place a seriously enjoyable one to kick up your heels and yell Woo-hoo in. The nightlife of the city makes me wonder why Calcutta didn’t earn the reputation of “The city that never sleeps” and what Bombay did to deserve it instead!

The people are really friendly, and if it wasn’t for the bloody language problem, I’m sure I’d have tons of stories for this space. Unfortunately, the best I could do was communicate in smiles and waves, which were almost as well received as actual words. The coffee houses with their embedded aroma of age old intellectualism were my personal favorite, followed closely by the deep sense that heritage seeps from every pore of this city.

So after having spent 4 whole days there, I am naturally an expert on the area, thus qualified to have a list of my own.

So here’s my list of must-do’s when in Cal:
Flury’s for brekker. Every single time. Multiple times even.
Tip: Book a table before landing up there.
Street Café. For their lovely desserts and Jenga!
The Park Hotel. Pick from the 4 nightclubs playing different music in the hotel.
A Bong home. For the food, of course!
Mocambo. Finger-licking, lip-smacking, semi-orgasmic fare. Must, must, must!
Victoria Memorial. If it doesn’t awe and spellbind you, there’s something wrong with you.
Just drive around. Keep the drive down Park Street for the evenings when its all lit up (during Christmas)

Sigh!

Shaken and Stirred

2008-12-11T00:58:00.000-08:00

I was at a friend’s house, reading my book and sipping on a glass of iced coke, when he got a phone call. I turned a page of the book, taking no notice of him, until he suddenly jumped up and jabbed at the power button on the TV.

Was that the Taj Mahal Hotel? And were those dead bodies being carried out? We looked at each other, bewildered. What the hell was going on? As bits of information started trickling in, and the picture started getting clearer, the horror in our hearts grew. Café Leopold had been attacked- a joint that we, from the ‘burbs make the trek to town for. And the Taj, where my grandfather stays every time he’s in Mumbai. The room that was burnt and reduced to flakes of ash was his favorite one- the one he always requested. And the Trident- how many times had I gone there to sample their delectable kakori kebabs?!?

I stayed up till 4 am that night, watching the horrific sights, watching helplessly as the terrorists made their way to my part of town- a taxi blows up in Ville Parle, unconfirmed reports about firing at the JW Marriott start to come in. I waited and watched, hoping they would bypass Bandra. By the time I finally fell asleep, I was nervous, but exhausted from the long day and the constant images flashing across the screen, and in my head.

I was woken up, bleary eyed and still exhausted by the phone ringing. It was the Boss. Today was going to be one of our busiest days ever, and the city had refused to shut down. For the next two days, it was madness. I and the rest of the team were constantly on our feet, running from hospitals to hotels to office. Watching, talking, writing, praying.
On the second day of the attack, I found myself at the Taj. Standing outside with the rest of the media, looking for side stories while the terrorists continued to kill innocents inside. It was one of the most eerie experiences of my life, watching the dozens of cameras pointed towards the hotel, ducking when we heard the blasts, and yet not moving from the site of the longest terror attack the country had ever seen.

I spot a gora. Turns out he’s a freed hostage. The media clamours over him, shoving their mikes in his face, shooting questions, while others scribble furiously in their notebooks. He tries his best to field them, shouts over the sounds of bullets being fired inside the Taj Mahal Hotel and reminds us all of how brave he is to come back here, to the site of the 30-hour long nightmare he had been put through.

Suddenly there’s a commotion about 100 feet from where I’m standing. There’s blood somewhere. I know I’ve seen blood and I push and shove to make my way to the site of the accident. A man stands, shaking with shock, drenched in blood. He holds up a handkerchief, and blood drips from it. I start to feel nauseous and try to distract myself by asking him questions. A stray piece of shrapnel has hit a journalist in the shoulder, causing the fellow to fall backwards onto a bystander behind him. The journalist is packed up and sent off in an ambulance to JJ Hospital before you can say “Jack Robinson.” But the bystander continues to stand and shiver.

I suddenly realize where I am and what I’m doing. As the intensity and seriousness of the situation sink in, I feel myself go numb. Physically and mentally. I try to take a step back, towards relative safety, but my legs wont move. My mind is shouting furious instructions to my body, telling it it’s in the direct line of fire, but it won’t move. A guard runs by me, shouting, “Madam, peechhe ho jaao, firing chaalu hai.” Thankfully my legs respond to his command. I run, squat behind a van and tremble for a few seconds.

I take a few deep breaths and run my hands over my face. Its time to come back out and face the devastation. My city is being attacked and if I can’t stop it, I have to document it.

But I can’t help myself from praying I won’t end up as yet another victim while I’m out here.

Cocktails and Tarot Cards at LFW

2008-10-27T04:09:00.000-07:00

Though you can find this piece on Rediff.com as well, it's a slightly censored version. Here's the original.

I sauntered into the media centre, in a great mood. The day had been long and hard, but the interview with one of the designers had gone brilliantly, and I had once again re-discovered how much I like gay people. Since I had time to relax and unwind for a bit before getting on the ball again, I decided to check out the Skoda Lounge. Pretty pretty models all around and the men all sporting six packs made me feel rather frumpy in my jeans and chappals. But then I'm the media- and the media is forgiven almost anything, right? So I walked in, got myself a nice cool drink and thankfully sank into one of the bean bags that had just been vacated by a model so tiny, she could have fit into my lovely long-stemmed glass!
Anyway, so I sit there and take a long cool sip while surveying the scene around me. I see the model Sahil Shroff, munching on finger food by the door, I see the M.D. of Skoda, Mr. Thomas Kuehl chatting with some young girls from the media, I see the bartender pouring a freshly made cocktail into a tall glass with a flourish and I see our photographer furiously clicking pictures, trying to capture the essence of what the Skoda Lounge stood for and offered.

Above the hubbub of "lounge-noise", I overhear a conversation.
"Ask a question."
He shakes his head. "I don't have any questions."
She looks at the cards and takes a long look at him. "You have been waiting a long time?"
"For what?" he asks.
"Your cards tell me a good time is coming up next year. It will be very beneficial for you. Hmm...ok, ask a question. These are question cards."
He concedes. "Okay...will I make lots of money?"

I turn around curiously and discover that it's exactly what it sounds like. I was watching the Tarot card reader at the Skoda Lounge at work. What's a tarot reader doing at the Lakme Fashion Week, you ask? Well, according to Mr. Thomas Kuehl, the Managing Director of Skoda, "Fashion is about future trends; you have to be ahead of the others, and it's about the feel-good factor. A fortune teller gives you a look into the future and also a good feeling, isn't it? Also, it's fun to have your cards read. And India is a spiritual country; a fortune teller fits right into the scheme of things." It's unique logic, but it works. The poor lady barely has time to catch her breath before the next person sits down in front of her, eagerly waiting to draw some cards. Young, upcoming designer Kunal Rawal has designed the Lounge, giving it an out-doorsy feel, while retaining the relaxed pub-like atmosphere of a lounge. The walls have photographs of women and the spare parts of a Skoda, as well as artworks from Kunal's own collection. Fauz green plastic leaves hanging from all nooks and crannies, green lights that cast a greenish glow on everything that enters the lounge and a DJ who obligingly plays the latest greatests makes this Lounge a happening place to put your feet up for a few minutes before the bell goes off and yet another fashion show starts.
Mr. Kuehl is very clear about the objective of the Lounge. He says, "The Lakme Fashion Week is a stressful event; there needs to be some place where people can relax and chill out after having run around all day. The Lounge serves to bring people from all spheres together and celebrate like a family. But after 5 pm, only people with passes are allowed." Though I can safely say that this rule is not strictly enforced. It pretty much depends on which hostess is at the door and how elitist she wants to be.

So if you're one of those who find yourself at the Lounge, grab a seat and look around. See that bunch of models by the DJ console? They're pissed because one of the biggest designers dropped them in favour of a bunch of nobodies. And see those slinkily dressed hostesses at the door? They decide whether you'll be let in tomorrow or not. And the bartender? He's just happy to make you a cocktail and watch you sip it appreciatively. Take my advice, and step in for a cranberry cocktail, make small talk with a model or designer, listen to the gossip that will invariably make its way to you, and watch the Pradas and Versaces sashay in and out, and savour the essence of the Lakme Fashion Week. As it is, and as it should be.

Maid Woes

2008-10-08T04:02:00.000-07:00

A good maid is worth her weight in gold. -Mojo
Mine certainly isn’t. She saunters in at noon and if she finds me at home, I get a pained look. Almost like I’ve somehow managed to wound her. A look that anticipates correctly all the dusty corners that will be pointed out to her, all the spots on the floor she will have to scrub and the tables that will have to be thoroughly wiped down.
The biggest bone of contention between the two of us is "dusting." She is convinced that it’s not part of her job, and I am convinced that it is. Then there are the clothes. If I don’t soak them beforehand, she will refuse to wash them. Or will do it while muttering all the things she would like to do to me under her breath. On my part, I make sure that when I’m home, I follow her around to make sure all the corners are cleaned, clothes washed, cabinet and tabletops wiped clean of the famous sticky Bombay grime.
Now don’t you go feeling sorry for her- she's quite capable of getting her own back. In the name of revenge, there are taps that are mysteriously left open (leading to me getting yelled at by the other building residents who share the water tank), lights that somehow turn themselves on after she's left and windows that wait for her to leave and then cleverly creak open on their own, letting in dust and sometimes creepy crawlies.

Ah, for a good maid! All my kingdom for a good maid!

Smoke-free country

2008-10-06T02:54:00.000-07:00

So what do you guys think about the new no-smoking ban? I’m a smoker, so I’m not too happy about it. But then again, I’m a 25 year old smoker, so I’m kinda getting to the I’ve-smoked-enough-in-my-life-and-I-really-should-quit-now stage.
In principle, though, I don’t agree with the concept of shrinking a group of people’s space so that they are forced to adopt a kind of behaviour that’s favourable to you.
Yes, I know smoking harms others too blah blah blah. But then go on and ban cigarettes altogether. Why wont you? ‘Cuz empty pockets are no fun now, are they?
The other day I went out clubbing. Hardcore Blue Frog till the wee hours of the morning kind of clubbing. It was 3rd October and the no smoking rule was being strictly followed. That huge expanse of space, alcohol flowing everywhere you looked, DJ spinning electronic and trance….and not one cigarette in the house. I kid you not. If you tried to light up, someone from the management would find before you reached the halfway mark, and make you put it out. Or leave. Yes, they would stand right there until you did either of the two.
Right at the entrance of the club were tables…and ashtrays. That’s where you went for your nicotine fix. The tables for your drinks and the ashtrays for your butts. I swear, if the weather was even a wee bit better, I would have spent the entire night there, going in only for the bar. So what ended up happening because of the ban was rather unexpected and pleasant. First, since we kept going out for smoke breaks, we could actually hold conversations with one another. As opposed to chugging our drinks, grinning idiotically at one other’s antics on the dance floor and screaming to be heard. The other good thing that happened was the next morning. After nights like these, I always wake up with a scratchy throat and a tongue that feels thick and furry. Not this time. The throat was A-okay and the tongue…well…but that was because of the booze, not cigarettes.
So I patted myself on the back and felt very proud. 4 cigarettes through a night that was 5 hours long. AND there were drinks. And dancing on tables. So to celebrate, I pulled out a well deserved cigarette and lit up. And another. And another.
Whoa! It was like binging after being on a diet. I tried to stop, but sooner or later a friend would light up, and the next thing I knew, I was puffing hard.

So I’m confused. I don’t know whether this ban is going to be good for me or not. After all, I can and do smoke at home. And having quite a few solitary pursuits, I end up spending quite a bit of time at home. With my laptop, books, coffee and smokes. Oh well. Time will tell. In the meanwhile, we protect the pipes when outdoors and burn them up at home.

Sucker!

2008-08-29T03:10:00.000-07:00

There’s no contesting the theory that the media affects the way minds (young and old) see and perceive things, the values they imbibe, and the thoughts they think. The power is so immense that it’s sometimes scary. Add to that the very real possibility….no, the probability that the message being sent out by the media is wrong, and we’re just sitting ducks, waiting for our houses of cards to fall down all around us.
We religiously watch Sex and the City, convinced that we’re watching a series about four independent successful women, who are secure in their singledom. I am a single woman, and rarely have I seen more desperate women. Women who try and distract themselves with all the toys they can lay their hands on, while all the time keeping one eye open for the One….or anyOne, desperately waiting for a sign that will tell them they won’t die alone with their cats. And the men, (often married, younger, fat, bald, ugly, unsuccessful notwithstanding) secure in their knowledge of womankind, saunter past, knowing that despite all their flaws, they definitely won’t be dying alone with or without the cats. The sad thing about these fictional women (and I hope they are fictional, or else this would all be just too depressing) is that they have deluded themselves into believing they’re taking the high road; and are now merrily prancing about on our television screens, convincing us of the same.
And they haven’t spared the kids either. Take, for instance the film, Chronicles of Narnia- Prince Caspian The heroic story of Narnia is in reality a story of an arrogant foolhardy young boy who is determined to save a kingdom that needs saving. He has the right intentions, but is immature, and saves face only because of Azlan, who comes roaring in and rescues all the good guys. So, in effect, badly laid plans and misplaced faith in one’s abilities come across as forgivable if the heart is in the right place. Now that’s a lesson we certainly don’t want our kids picking up. Because in the real world, Azlans are hard to come by.
I don’t know how we got here, but something needs to be done to untwist it all. I fully support complexity and freedom of expression as well as perception, but this is just twisted and dangerous in its impact. As is the frightening prospect of permanently changing mind sets through conditioning. After all, as a Narnian once said to a bunch of kids masquerading as adults, “Treat someone like a dumb animal long enough; that’s what he’ll turn into.”

PS: All opinions are based on cinematic versions, not literary ones.

Wanna party? You better not be North Eastern!

2008-07-19T01:28:00.000-07:00

We’ve seen the no-floaters rules, we’ve seen the strict entry-by-guest-list-only rules, we’ve seen the entry and cover charges and we’ve even seen the club rules that state we won’t be allowed in if we’re wearing our national dress (!!). We reluctantly complied with these rules because, lets face it, Delhi loves its nightlife. But what we see being enforced now is the no-chink rule. No-chink, a politically incorrect term meaning no Orientals and no North Eastern Indians.
Come again? Racial profiling, by a country that has seen and continues to see more than its fair share of racism? Being racist in our thoughts and perceptions is nothing new to Indians. But to openly propagate it, saying that you won’t be let into a nightclub for a few drinks if your eyes are the wrong shape or if your skin is the wrong colour is so offensive, that, frankly, I find it unbelievable. And when targeted towards North Easterns, it becomes even more inconceivable, given the fact that they are as Indian as any Delhi-ite is. To deny an Indian citizen entry to an Indian bar, in India, because their features are a giveaway to their race is the worst kind of racism ever- because it’s being done to them by their own people.
I have tons of North Eastern friends, and none of them are prostitutes. Why must they be punished for a few people of their race who choose to indulge in prostitution? That’s almost like saying that because some Muslims are terrorists, it justifies the fact that I could not find a house in Mumbai. It’s saying that our old friend, Narendra Modi is justified in economically crippling a whole community in his state. Or applauding Brahmins for their history of crushing Harijans and Raj Thakeray for his tirade against non-Maharashtrians.
While we will let a young nubile white woman on the arm of a portly “lala” draped in gold chains and rings into our poshest nightclubs, we will restrict entry to a group of three Singaporean women who want to catch a drink with their Indian buddies. Or we’ll allow the whole world to pass by a young Naga woman into a nightclub while we hold her outside, not letting her in. We won’t stop the white lady from entering, though we know fully well that women from certain countries are notorious for being involved in the flesh trade. But we wont blink an eyelid when we tell a group of North Eastern people that they cant get in because their “characters are questionable.”
And amazingly, we can tell that from the shape of their eyes!

Exotic Indochine

2008-04-26T06:01:00.000-07:00

The Land of Smiles
The Land of Smiles should have been called the Land of Sex. Thailand, more specifically, Bangkok is well-known for finding easy sex. One visit to Pat Pong should prove that beyond a doubt. A whole street of go-go bars, passing which, one glimpses unclad lissome ladies and occasionally, a not-so-lissome one is what Pat Pong is about. Men carrying leaflets and lurking around corners, pouncing at you as you saunter past, almost dragging you into the closest bar to watch young Thai girls twirl around a pole, bars at regular intervals to provide relief from the excess display of skin, and a drink to slake the thirsty.
Apart from the sex, there is more to Bangkok, of course. Namely shopping and food. Both of which can be found in great quantities as well as quality. Thai street food is rather interesting- pieces of meat, fish, and veggies skewered on a stick with condiments drizzled over it, sweet sticky rice with slivers of mango on it and barbequed squid was just some of the exotic fare we sampled.
Then there is Khowsan Road. That was a breath of fresh air after the rest of Bangkok. A touch of rustic charm found in the street full of stalls of food, beer and young musicians amidst bars for those who don’t enjoy street culture, Khowsan Road has something for everyone after the sun sets. Walk down the street, grab a beer and some skewered meat, watch young musicians making new tunes on the sidewalk as you munch your snack, then get up and head for a rooftop bar when you’ve had enough of the street.

I just got back from a 15 day long trip to three South East Asian countries- Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam, in that order. The route we followed was Bangkok-Siem Riep-Phnom Penh-Saigon-Nha Trang-Hoi An- Hanoi-Bangkok. Yes, it was an express tour, and rather hectic at times, but worth every bit of it. Each moment was an experience. Each day beheld new wonders and sources of amazement. And no place failed to surprise and delight in some way or another.
Thailand has lots of things to see for the sight-seer. There are temples, there’s the famous reclining Buddha and the Royal Palace. And of course, Thai food needs no introduction. After two days of orienting ourselves to Bangkok, it was time for the next destination- Cambodia.

The Land of Temples
The small town of Siem Riep was the first stop. We got in at night and were pleasantly surprised to find that our hotel was right across the street from all the bars and nightclubs. The Temple, not one bit as reverential as the name suggests, was a bar on the ground floor with live Apsara dancing on the first floor. And then there was “Happy Pizza”. Literally advertised as “Happy Pizza”, this pizza is guaranteed to do more for you than any other pizza you’ve eaten so far. The marijuana baked into its crust and offered as extra flavoring ensures your night isn’t going to be a quiet uneventful one. Siem Riep also has the most charming little night market where one can buy souvenirs, clothes and other delightful knick knacks. The next day, we went to see what we’d travelled all the way to Cambodia for. Angkor Wat. The city of temples. The sheer scale of the expanse of temples is, in a word, breathtaking. It took us the better part of the day to see just three of the many temples. We started with Ta Prom (translated as Grandfather Prom). This temple has trees growing over it, and roots have spread themselves all around it and penetrated into the temple as well. The irony is that the roots are, on one hand, holding the temple together, and on the other, breaking the temple bit by bit. Bayon was the next temple we

visited, which is famous for its giant faces on the temple’s minarets, gateways and walls. And then the famous Angkor Wat itself. Enormous and magnificent, Angkor Wat, like the other temples, displayed a lot of Indian culture and mythology. Cambodian culture and history, we learned, has a lot of Indian influence owing to Indian traders and Indian kings. Then there was the marvel of floating villages on the Tonle Sap lake. The lake housed numerous houseboats, where people were leading thier lives just as easily as we do on solid land. Pigs, chickens, dogs and crocodiles either in cages and tanks or flapping freely around, children playing fearlessly on the edges of thier boats, men lounging in hammocks, soaking in the evening sun, a vegetable market that goes door to door, selling fresh veggies and even a makeshift floating bar, wherein two little girls hopped into our boat trying to sell us beers.
Oh, and as for Cambodian food- where do I start? With hairy black tarantulas floating in greasy orange oil, or crispy fried grasshoppers? Or barbequed ostrich and snake? Maybe I should just stick to tales of the wonderfully fresh seafood and crisp green veggies. :)
From Siem Reap, we took the bus to the capital city of Cambodia- Phnom Penh. Phnom Penh gave us a glimpse into the country’s violent history. A memorial housing seven stories of skulls, Killing Fields where Pol Pot massacred countless men, women and children, fragments of bone on the paths we walked, stories of mass graves, children being thrashed against trees until they died, and axes and bamboo sticks being used to kill people in order to save bullets. Stories of how DDT was sprayed into the mass graves to hide the stench so nobody knew about the bodies lying six feet under. Stories of how the graves were only discovered in the 1980’s, when the DDT began to wear off, and sights of the victims’ bones, clothes and mug shots.
It was really sad to see these things, especially given the fact that Cambodians are such gentle folk, not given to violence at all. We didn’t see one angry or violent Cambodian during our visit, which made the irony of their past starker. And then it was time to move to the next country whose past was no rosier than the one we were leaving….

The Land of the Dragon People
Vietnam. Makes me think of war and death. Sad and depressing images tend to come to mind. The Vietnam I saw was, however starkly different. Happy, smiling, friendly people who’ll try and help you when they can. Ho Chi Minh City aka Saigon is a rather well-developed city with no trace of the jungles and rainforests one in their ignorance has come to expect. Wide roads panning across a bustling city, motorbikes crowding every inch of free road and cyclos looking around for customers. Of course, the very sobering war museum doesn’t allow you to forget the fact that the country wasn’t always so, but it also makes the Vietnamese spirit that much more admirable. The Cu Chi tunnels are indisputable evidence of their resourcefulness and determination. Having crawled through one of the tunnels, I find it unimaginable to believe that people actually lived this way during the American war. 30 meters of crawling, and I almost had a panic attack. The language problem here is no more than the other countries we’d visited; but there were enormous cultural differences. For example, the evening we reached Saigon, I was walking down the street, looking for a good hotel, when a man on a bicycle started following me around, ringing his bell and grinning. “Take me, take me”, the man kept repeating in his broken English. The more I nervously hurried along to escape him, the more he followed me. It was only much later that I was informed that these men were offering massages and no more. The only incident that blemished Saigon in my mind was the fact that my cellphone was stolen in the city; by a friendly, kind looking man, who was smiling at the world and selling them newspapers. Obviously, he wasn’t above flicking a cellphone if the opportunity arose. But for all the wonderful memories and experiences the city has given me, the unfortunate incident is forgiven. Vietnamese folk are, in general, a peaceful, happy people, who will try and help you in their own almost heartbreakingly innocent way, despite the differences. Like the young man who saw me sitting outside a bar, reading my Lonely Planet, and noticed that my slippers were tearing. He dove under the table to grab my footwear off my feet, leaving me barefoot and bewildered while he stuck the sole back on. Or the young prostitute who found me a cheap cellphone to replace the one I’d lost, and even offered to give me her sim card.
From Saigon, it was on to Nha Tran- the Goa of Vietnam. Long stretches of clean sand, sparkling blue water, perfect for snorkeling, and party boats. The boat we got on was called Mama Linh. We cruised around the bay, stopped to swim and snorkel, lounge on the beaches, and even sang a few songs and danced with complete strangers in the middle of the ocean. It is also a great destination for clubs- The Sailor’s Club we went to was right on the beach, and the “jam jars” they served ensured we were all flying after Round Two. There is certainly something to be said about dancing barefoot on the beach!
From Nha Tran, it was on to Hoi An- the city that is famous for its tailors. These miracle workers will tailor anything for you overnight. And I mean anything. From suits to dresses to pants to even shoes. We all got tailor made clothes and shoes back from Hoi An, and apart from one messed-up piece, overall, they did a damn fine job. Hoi An is also famous for its Old Town; one of the very few that escaped American bombing. It has been declared a Heritage Site, and some of the old yet perfectly preserved buildings now converted into restaurants and shops, do indeed cause your jaw to drop.
After Hoi An, we entered the rude shock that was Hanoi. Our very first experience in the capital of Vietnam was extortion. A hotel we went to held my luggage hostage and demanded money. After settling down at another one which was a safe distance from the first, we went out looking for a bar that would dull the shock….and found that the city shuts its lights by midnight. The next evening, things were somewhat better, though, given that we found a bunch of Dutch residents, who showed us that little holes-in-the-wall bars may pull their shutters down, but that doesn’t mean the party’s not swinging inside. The next day, we went to see the spectacular Halong Bay. This Bay is full of limestone formations, which your boat weaves around. One of the stops allowed us to view a cave which was full of stalactites and stalagmites- and truly, the sight is breathtaking. One has to be prepared to be able to take in the true extent of wonder these caves have hidden inside.

Halong Bay was a lovely way to end to the holiday. From there, it was a flight to Bangkok, and 24 hours later, one to New Delhi. Definitely one of the best trips ever and well worth all the inconveniences.

Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda.

2008-03-27T04:50:00.000-07:00

Three words that are of no use to anyone, least of all the person uttering them. A waste of time, energy and breath. The only purpose crying over spilt milk serves is to make us feel worse about something we’re already feeling pretty terrible about.
What I could, should or would have done would have probably altered the course of my life in some small or large way, which would mean I wouldn’t have the life I do today…and the details of my life are important. Life is in the details; they’re what make each day different from the last. They’re what make memories. Memories of springs and autumns. Of cold cold winters and the time you thought the snow would never thaw. My life wouldn’t be complete without all its freckles and pimples just so.
Pimples. Angry red blemishes that are universally considered ugly. Often thought to be brought upon by chocolate, fried food, hormones or just bad luck. Watch your diet and you can largely control them. Ummm….sure, but life without chocolate??
Freckles. Tiny brown spots that can be either endearing or unappealing, depending on the eyes of the beholder. Either way, they wouldn’t exist without prolonged exposure to the sun; and the quest for shade would render them moot. No freckles, no opportunity to find out whether you find them endearing or unappealing.
Take the leap.
And if you don’t land where you hoped to, here’s another word that should join the three big useless ones. Regret.

Tag!

2008-03-18T04:19:00.000-07:00

So the inevitable finally happened. In blogworld, apparantly you can play tag and get people to do various things on thier blogs. I 've just been tagged and asked to put up links to some of my posts. This is how it works:
Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 keywords given (family, friends, yourself, your love, and anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do the same. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better. Don't forget to read the linked posts and leave comments!

Never being one to break tradition, here goes!

Family: There isnt anything that fits the bill, but the closest would be
Personal Losses

Friends: Hmm....
Who we admire

Myself: Tracing the journey....
Postcards from the trip

Love: At Bhowali

I like: Travelling travelling and travelling. I couldn't pick one, so here's the shortlist.
At Rishikesh Again
Letters vs Rubber Stamps
Up in the Himalayas!
Two Down, Two More To Go...

And now its time to tag more people!
Karmic Twists and Turns
#$%@
Confessions of a woman lover
tinkertoon
No Hidden Depths

Bombay- Another Gujarat in the Making

2008-01-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

As is common knowledge, Bombay’s Shivaji Park was recently sullied by Narendra Modi’s presence. Unfortunately, Bombay didn’t think so. The turnout of people, hanging onto every word of his speech was phenomenal. The Park was packed, with people standing on tiptoe for a glimpse of the despotic mastermind behind the Gujarat genocide. As depressing as the outcome of the Gujarat elections was, the Shivaji park incident was worse in a way. It was an ugly reminder of how the cosmopolitan city of Bombay is no better than a village in the Panchmahals. A not-so-subtle hint to the Muslims of the city, state and country.
Cut to my ongoing house hunt. A couple of days ago, I had seen a rather nice place in the same building that I’m staying in right now, which I was interested in renting. I spoke to the landlady who was reasonably pleasant, showed me the apartment, offered me some furniture and even offered to have a carpenter come in and fix some stuff before I moved in. And then, today, when I was about to go and pay them a deposit, her son retracted the offer. My confusion was natural and I immediately asked my friend to get in touch with the broker to see what had suddenly gone wrong. No prizes for guessing the reason. It was the realization that I belong to the hated community, of course.And this from cultured, educated people who share their building with Muslims. From people who will put on their Versace and Jimmy Choos for parties, sip Dom Perignon delicately while discussing politics and the “Plight of a Minority Community in India.” A quick detour into the past followed, when I remembered my grandfather telling me how, many years ago, when he and my grandmother wanted to rent a house in Ahmedabad, they were subjected to exactly the same treatment, except then the discrimination was more blatant, and not as subtle.My brains were scrambled, and there were hundreds of thoughts and feelings darting about. One of them was particularly depressing, made more so by the truth of it. Whatever we, as individuals do, to uphold fairness and justice, we cannot enforce it. No matter how many rules we make, or how many provisions we provide, its not enough. And no matter what impact we try to create in our “own little ways,” the larger picture remains unchanged. We can straighten lines in the picture, perhaps add a drop of colour to a bleak portion, but when looked at in totality, the picture remains the same. No matter how many books are written, films made, constitutions changed….the ugliness is inherent and here to stay.

…….And Idealism gives way to Cynicism…..

I suppose the best we can do is to rescue ourselves; and not allow ourselves to sink into the mire- because God knows; this country is neck deep in it!

Homeless in the Hinterland

2008-01-16T23:30:00.000-08:00

So as a sequel to my post on Bandstand, here’s the unhappy piece of news- my landlady, in keeping with her unpredictable, cranky ways, has decided that I must leave her apartment and find a roof elsewhere.
Thus started the search. 100s of phone calls to friends, brokers, acquaintances and other people who fit into neither of these categories. All the brokers I was in touch with last year have been mobilized again, as well as a bunch of new ones.
Why is it so hard, you ask? Well, if there is one thing that is synonymous with Bombay, it is the lack of space. “Squeezed”, “cramped” and “pigeon-holed” are words that immediately spring to mind. Logically, the consequence of this is that Bombay doesn’t have as much housing as it needs. And if you are particular about location, well, quite simply put, You’ve Had It! Yesterday I saw three apartments after work. One was in a gully leading from a main road, in a building with an elevator so precarious, I was tempted to take the stairs to the 7th floor, and consider it my workout of the day. However, not wanting to hurt any feelings, I got into the lift and tried to think about the dream flat that undoubtedly awaited me after that ordeal. Hmm…well, I was assured that there would be a fresh coat of paint, a spring cleaning, and new furnishings. “What about the screaming children on either side of me?” I wanted to ask, but bit my tongue. And then the final touch was delivered. “No boys are allowed late at night, ma’am”, informed me the broker. Right. It was time to move to the next one.
The next apartment which had been advertised rather attractively; was in a village. I kid you not. Yes, it’s located in Bandra, but from what I understand, the area’s called Chuin village. Just getting there was quite an experience. The village lies off Ambedkar Road, one of the respectable localities in Bandra. We were happily cruising down the nice, wide road, when suddenly; the rickshaw-waala turned into an almost-invisible gully, and entered what can only be described as a labyrinth. Maze after maze, gully upon gully, until we reached the attractively advertised apartment. Apart from the fact that it had an Indian loo, ceilings so low that one of the brokers, who was all of 5’8 suffered a rather nasty knock on the head, mainly due to his excitement in trying to figure out what a particular appliance lying in the bedroom was, it was passable. At one point, all four of us were standing thoughtfully around the object, helpfully throwing up suggestions.
“A.C. hoga- dekhiye, madam, A.C. bhi hai.
“Arre, nahi yaar, yeh heater lag raha hai.”
“Arre, bhaiyya, yeh hai kya?” (my friend in a plaintive tone)
“COOLER! COOLER! Haan, madam, yeh cooler hi hai!” (barely able to contain his excitement at this point, at having cracked it!)
Giggle giggle giggle. (Me- blame it on a temporary bout of insanity caused by stress)
And the third apartment- again, in a shady gully, off a main road that’s being dug up (I wont even begin to try and imagine the chaos that would reign during peak hour here), the apartment was what in Bambai-lingo is called a “converted 1-bhk”, which means its basically one large room, where a makeshift enclosure has been made to accommodate a “standing kitchen” (again, a Bombay term which means the kitchen is too small to sit in). Louder than our voices in the apartment, was the sound of traffic below. But what REALLY sealed it was the fact that the place had been done up in tacky peach tiles (with brown tile flooring), with pictures of rivers flowing and standing trees painted onto the wall. Shudder!

Yep- I think I’m going to be homeless very soon. I need as many crossed fingers, prayers, horseshoes, lit candles, turkish eyes…whatever it takes…as I can have!

Happy New Year!

2008-01-12T08:05:00.000-08:00

This New Year was so wonderful; a fitting end to a marvelous year. 2007 had been exceptionally good to me…even the unpleasant moments coming together to yield some goodness in their wake. After a spell of a couple of mediocre years, 2007 made them all worth it.
And then there was Bhowali. I went to Bhowali with a bunch of friends and family to bring in the New Year away from the madness of the cities. And what a good decision it turned out to be. Bhowali, situated in Uttaranchal, about 11 kilometers south of Nanital, is the perfect location for a quiet, yet eventful holiday. Getting there took us longer than expected, because one of the cars in our convoy kept hiccupping, but in the spirit of the holiday, it was all taken calmly, with everyone munching on sandwiches, chocolate and steaming glasses of chai while waiting for the mechanics to do their job. And once we got there, it was well worth the trouble. Our evenings in Bhowali were my favorite part of the day, spent listening to music, playing board games, watching movies, or chatting while sipping on glasses of red red wine- all huddled in front of the fireplace. Or perhaps visiting friends who’d had the same brainwave as us, and escaped to Sattal to wrap up their year. Days were spent driving around to various places- Almora for the views of the magnificent snow-capped Himalayas, Nainital for shopping sprees, the forest area to supervise the mountain house my mother is in the process of building, and also some temple visiting at a heritage site.
Mornings were lazy, beginning with large hot mugs of chai in the backyard, with views of the mountains in the distance and feeding our Bhutia dog her morning quota of biscuits. Breakfasts were always enormous; we were ravenous enough to consume large proportions of eggs, bacon, baked beans, toast, and juice each morning. After which we’d skip down to the cars for the outing planned for the day. Afternoons were usually out- picnic lunches were a special favorite with all of us.
The thought of ending this perfect holiday and returning to Delhi/Bombay was such a depressing thought that in the end we all stayed two days more than planned. And then it was time to head back to Delhi. The couple of days I spent in Delhi were fantastic too, but when compared to the sheer beauty of the Bhowali trip, it paled substantially.
Hopefully the coming year will be as kind as the one past was…with many more such holidays peppered in between. Cheers to that!

Book Review

2007-12-17T08:24:00.000-08:00

The following is a book review I wrote for one of my favorite-est books. It has been published in an Art and Culture weekly; and has found its way into this blog because it's one of the best booksI've read in recent years (as is The Kite Runner). Get your hands on it if you can. If not, enjoy the post :)

A Thousand Splendid Suns

Imagine a country steeped in war, where curfews, bomb blasts, memories of friends now dead, and poverty are simply and matter-of-factly a way of life. Imagine within this setup, the plight of women. Women, as a rule, is the section of society that suffers the most during war, and in a burning Kabul, even more than other parts of the world. Imagine women having to bear and rear children of men they hate. Imagine the burquas that restrict sight and movement, the beatings that are part of the regular course of life, the TVs and books that are banned, the songs, which if sung, could result in lashings by the Mujahideen. Khaled Hosseini of “The Kite Runner” fame did not disappoint with this very similar yet very different book. In his previous book, the author had explored relationships between fathers, sons, and male friends. In this book, however, the relationships explored are between women and the different situations that lead them to react to one another in various ways. However, the setting is the same Afghanistan, burning first under the Soviet attack and then the Taliban rule.

The book also explores how men often act as a counter-foil to women, bringing into sharper focus their true natures. A woman’s courage, endurance, resilience and the strength to fight are often brought to the fore when a man forces these qualities to the surface, which is what Khalid Hosseini exhibits in his book. The main protagonists, Mariam and Laila, start their lives at two opposite ends of a spectrum, but due to a twist of fate, are thrown together with the same man binding them both. It’s not surprising that Mariam, Rasheed’s plain first wife, who has no joy in her life, reacts instinctively to Laila, the second, more attractive, much younger wife with distrust, dislike and perhaps even hate. However, the lack of options often leads to the strangest phenomena, and the two women learn to love, and more importantly, trust one another. The relationship morphs into one of a mother and daughter, with abusive Rasheed being the common enemy and binding factor.

Khalid’s story-telling style is simple and clean. There are no unnecessary frills; and every sequence is marked by raw starkness. What is commendable is for a male author to understand and express so beautifully even the slight nuances and gradation of the female mind. The book alternately enthuses in the reader feelings of fear, despair, hope, helplessness and yet an unbroken spirit. In other words, it makes you intimate with the characters and successfully takes you inside their heads. The only blemish is the end of the book, which is a bit typical, and not very imaginative. However, though, the rest of the book, with its sensitivity of style and slow emotional build-up more than makes up for the slightly predictable ending. All-in-all, the book is “Splendid” and a must-read.

Living on Bandstand

2007-11-08T23:02:00.000-08:00

I just realized that though I’ve written about Bombay as a whole, I haven’t really written about Bandra, where I stay- or Bandstand, the neighbourhood in Bandra where my building is located.

So here’s a more localized post; about the stretch of sea-face that I call my neighbourhood. Bandstand is one of the most posh areas in Bandra, the closest suburb to Bombay. One realizes that they have crossed Bombay and entered Bandra when the main roads become narrower, the gullies increase in number and taxis give way to auto rickshaws. A peculiarity of Bombay is that taxis ply in the main city (commonly referred to as “Town”) and rickshaws in the ‘burbs. Rickshaws aren’t allowed in Town, though taxis may cross into the suburbs.
Bandstand is a strip of land by the sea, thus a rather coveted piece of real estate. It has a lovely promenade, where rich housewives, portly Gujju men, and young couples find themselves enjoying the sea breeze every evening. It also boasts of Salman Khan, Rekha and Shahrukh Khan’s houses. The fact that Bandstand is 10 minutes away from the happening area of Pali doesn’t hurt either. The only time the place is anything but lovely is when one of these film stars leave their houses. Then chaos reigns. Shouting strapping men, squealing pretty young things, and gossipy aunties run, hop and jog along the promenade, or simply cluster around the actor’s house, hoping for a sighting.

Apart from this, the area is a delight, made more so by the fact that Bombay as a whole is a bit of a mess. The strip of promenade, where one can walk while enjoying a view of the sea is gorgeous. It is also kept incredibly clean by vigilant guards who take the rules of no eating or smoking there very seriously. The bhel puri stalls, nariyal-waalas, mobile cigarette shops, coffee-cum-cigarette-waalas, peanut vendors and bhutta-waalas complete the experience of an evening at Bandstand. The coffee bar stalwarts; Café Coffee Day and Barista have claimed their tiny but superb locations on the other side of the road; ironically so close together that they share a wall. I have become quite a regular at Barista here, realizing the advantage and pleasure of working on my laptop with the sea and a caramel latte for company.

I just got plain lucky when I found a house here. Yes, I’m paying through my nose, but when I wake up and look out of my window to see the fishing boats docked in their yard of calm blue waters early in the morning, it’s worth it. When I take a deep breath and smell the salt in the air, it’s worth it. When my AC conks off and I open my French windows to realize I don’t need an AC, it’s worth it. And when the winds are blowing the wrong way causing people to reel under the stench of fish- and I know nothing of the pungent smells because of my 9th floor apartment, it’s worth it.

I’m just going to cross my fingers and hope my cranky landlady renews my lease!

….Rings on her Fingers, Bells on her toes; She shall have music wherever she goes...

2007-11-04T07:52:00.000-08:00

A friend recently sang this to me, saying this was how he thought of me, what encapsulated my personality the way he knew it. I must admit, I was pretty flattered at the compliment. It’s good to know people feel you spread sunshine in your wake. It’s a great thing to do for someone, and have done for you. His opinion was also that I had wings on my feet, but he couldn’t find a way to fit that in what with the rings and bells and music claiming precedence.
I most strongly identify with the “wings on my feet” bit though. Every so often I feel an itch in my toes, which means its time to be off again. Time to leave the city I’m in and find a new one to explore. Time to find new experiences to soak in, new people to meet and new things to see and do. This is sometimes a great handicap, because, lets face it- travelling requires money and time. Which means it leaves less time and money for other things.
I’m in Bombay right now, beginning to feel that itch again. Where shall I head off to next? Maybe the mountains? The mountains always give me solace and peace; they help me figure my head out. And frankly, I feel like I’ve had the best of Bombay. I’ve taken in most of the good the city has to offer, had a taste of the bad as well; but from hereon, there will be few new experiences and earth-shattering revelations. I’ve explored the people my Bombay Friends (as I like to refer to them) are, scraped the surfaces, seen the real stuff, liked and hated it alternatively, but never tired of it. Because I knew there was more. Now, however, new tastes are few and far between.

Oh hell, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter where I go, or what I do, as long as I remember to keep the rings and bells on. As long as I have music wherever I go. As long as I know how to make my own music where there is none.

Oh what tangled webs we weave….

2007-10-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

….When we first practice to deceive. I wove a web of my own in the recent past. Unwittingly, while trying to do the honorable thing, while trying to, in my own (perhaps convoluted) way, to safeguard interests of other parties involved. Unfortunately, what ended up happening was that a web was woven, and a fairly intricate one at that. It consisted mainly of secrets, guilt, confusion, bad vibes, misplaced trust, suspicion, and finally, wariness. Yes, all-in-all, quite unpleasant.

And then someone snapped a cord. One of the arms of the web was brutally snapped, and everything came tumbling down. Like a house of cards. One card after another, till all that remained of the pretty little house was a stack of cards, lying haphazardly on the table. Then came the unpleasant job of picking up the pieces. One at a time, slowly, carefully, painstakingly. Till I forced myself to remember why the web had been woven in the first place. It was to cover up mistakes various people had made, to protect other people, to safeguard their interests. And at that moment I decided I didn’t need to do that anymore. I was so sick of trying to balance and juggle- trying to keep all the balls up in the air, and feeling miserable when I dropped a single ball…. Enough!

That’s the state of calm. The state in which you tell yourself to f*** it! It’s really not worth it in the end. Sometimes, it’s important to know when to let go, when to identify something as a lost cause. And when to start thinking of yourself as a separate identity and not a part of the whole mess. “I” is important. Not as important as “We” and “Us”, but when “We” and “Us” fall apart, all that remains is “I”. And it’s up to me to take care of it. At the end of the day everyone has to deal with their own shit, and these webs don’t do much, other than serve as convenient mirages we use as our smokescreens. And when the smoke is blown away, the nakedness is starker than before.

So I’ve decided that we can all stand naked and let the chips fall where they may….Cheers to that!

Being True to Myself....

2007-08-08T13:15:00.000-07:00

So, for all of you who have been wondering about my personal reality of what I was doing, this post will attempt to give you that.

My ex-boss- many of you would have heard his name, and some of you may have seen his films as well. They will tell you about his sensitivity as a filmmaker, his compassion towards other people, his courage in voicing the truth and his honesty. This is what his films will tell you about the Director. But did anyone tell you about his anger management problem, his insensitivity towards those who put in blood and sweat to make sure he can exhibit what he set out to, his lack of respect, class and grace, and the fact that he can be a total monster? This is what I will tell you about the Person. Because of his professional qualities, the workplace had become a zone wherein people walked in bright eyed and bushy tailed, and walked out with their tails between their legs. Hold on, I take the first bit of the last sentence back- nobody walks in there bright eyed and bushy tailed anymore. Because everyone who works there (save the director himself) is seriously sleep deprived. People are slowly realizing that in order to get their 4-6 hours of kip each night, they should abandon their comfy beds at home and make friends with the couches in office.
Hard work is something I have no problem with, the fact that my average workday was a 16-18 hour one is ample proof of that. What I have a problem with is when people start believing that they have a right to those 16 hours a day, and forget that it's a favour being extended to them. What I have serious issues with is when people think its all right to walk all over you; that you'll let them. When people reward your dedication with abusive behaviour, bordering on personal vendettas. That fact that it wouldn’t float with me had been made amply clear to him (unfortunately this workplace doesn't specialise in people with backbones, so I often found myself standing alone against the exploitation) but yet there was the pressure. Each day was a fight…for survival.
So what kept me from quitting? Well, the fact that I am passionate about the subject, the fact that I feel committed to making a difference, the fact that I'm alert as alert can be when in the edit room, despite 2 hours of rest the previous night, the fact that I'd already been there this long and come this far….to quit now would be a pity. But on the other hand…there's the advice I give my friends when they're in a spot- "Your first responsibility is to yourself". I truly believe that- nobody is going to look out for you and take care of you; its something you have to learn to do yourself. But to follow that advice would have meant not only leaving an assignment midway; it would have meant a lot more things. It would have meant not being able to finish what I started, letting someone else have what was rightfully mine, and it would have meant that the past 4 months were a waste.

So what made me quit? Well, I thought long and hard about what I was doing there- the battle I was fighting. I was helping fight an oppressive govt who treated its citizens unfairly, who withheld their rights from them. I had met oppressed people, I had met fighters, I had met fence sitters and I had met brave, principled people during the 4 months I worked on the film. And that’s when I realized……I could never fight for someone else’s rights if I didn’t have it in me to fight for mine first. I had to fight the oppression in my own world before I could claim to fight it in someone else’s. I couldn’t be a beaten wife, fighting domestic violence. I couldn’t be an oxymoron. And I certainly couldn’t compromise on dignity and principles. I wasn’t brought up to believe that was okay. So I took the call of standing by my principles and values, and fighting my own battle. And what a fight it was! It’s been almost a week since I resigned, and I’m still fighting it. It was no surprise to me that the Director played dirty with me when I resigned, tried to brow beat me into various things and turned the office into a venue for ugliness and unpleasant yelling matches. However, they were things that had to be done; it was a step I had to take, and take it I did. Yes, there is sadness, and there is the feeling of “what if”. But there is also satisfaction. Satisfaction that I had the courage, satisfaction that I stood up for myself and what I believed in, satisfaction that I didn’t cave in when it was the easier thing to do. And satisfaction that I did my best to make it work. It may seem like I don't have much to show for the 4 months I spent on this film, but the truth is, I do. I know that I am not superficial, that I practice what I preach, that I have clarity and conviction. And now everyone else knows it too. I know that what I stand for is something I’m willing to fight for, come what may- and that is non-negotiable.

I took my own advice when it was bloody hard to- I fulfilled my responsibility to myself.

Time Codes, Tapes, Excel Sheets, Strangers, Sniffles, Stress, Satisfaction!

2007-05-25T05:47:00.000-07:00

Whew! And it isn’t half over yet. Yes, I’m talking about the Gujarat shoot. I’m currently working with Rakesh Sharma on a set of 5 documentary films, and it’s pretty much taken over my life as of now. 15 hour workdays are normal, 8 hours of sleep a day is a dream, a social life is out of the question, and yet…yet there’s satisfaction. Satisfaction that comes from knowing what I’m doing, knowing why I’m doing it, and knowing that the cause is one I believe in.
The films are about the people of Gujarat and their lives 5 years after the riots. It’s not pretty and it’s certainly not “vibrant.” We shot in Gujarat for a couple of weeks and it was a gruelling schedule. A typical shoot day would begin with a crew call for 9 O’ Clock in the morning; pack up at sunset, discussions till late evening, and a meeting till midnight. Then, some work, many cigarettes and much conversation later, us 2 red-eyed A.D.s would hit the bed.
Then there’s the stress of knowing that this is the real stuff. There is no script and there are no retakes; so if you miss a moment, or a shot, or a question you should have asked when you should have asked it, well, that’s just too bad. It’s gone.
And then there is the emotional aspect. Shooting this film is an extremely overwhelming experience, because these are real people- their pain is real, and the things they’ve been through are too horrific to imagine. The sights the children have seen are sights than no human being deserves to ever see. And its not over yet. These people are now forced to live under sub-human conditions by the government. The government that promises to take care of its citizens. It makes me feel angry, sad, and utterly impotent.
Also, I’ve begun to realise that 2 A.D.s on a documentary film are too few. There’s more back-end work than I had thought, and more on-location work as well. The mind is so full of tapes, logging footage, noting time codes…Hell, I’ve even begun to dream about it!
And now, before we know it, it’s time to leave for the 2nd lap of the shoot. Back to Gujarat- more people, stories, tapes, time codes, maybe even a few sniffles in a private moment, and a lot of stress.
But there will be satisfaction. Satisfaction that my involvement in the subject is not restricted to drawing room conversations in an expensive dress with a glass of champagne in my hand.
Maybe I’m not so impotent after all….

Tulsi

2007-03-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

A walk along bandstand is always a peaceful experience with the sea breeze blowing through your hair, the salt air gently caressing your cheek, and the clean, clutter-free walkway, maintained that way by vigilant guards who won’t let you ignore the rules of no smoking and no eating there.
A few weeks ago, I was walking down bandstand with my cousin, taking advantage of my new flat, which is bang on the sea. We were walking along, deep in conversation, oblivious of the various other people walking alongside and past us, when I heard a little voice.

“Didi! Beautiful didi!”

We turned to see a small, pretty little girl, about 10 years old, carrying another child who was about 2 years old. She was obviously begging, and flattery, as we know, will get us everywhere. I looked down at her, and my heart warmed to see her full, open smile. As a rule, I generally don’t encourage beggars, so I ruffled her hair, recoiled at the dirty, oily texture, at once felt ashamed of my bourgeoisie reaction, and told her, “You are also very beautiful.” I tried to keep walking, but she persisted and after she called me beautiful a few more times and my cousin handsome, we laughed and decided to buy her something to eat. We took her to a sandwich stall and asked her what sort of sandwich she would like. She took an earnest look at what was on offer and said, “Saada.” While the sandwich maker was layering the bread with butter and chopping vegetables to put in it, I climbed up on the bandstand wall, and made conversation with the little girl. My cousin was curious about her, so I started by asking her her name.

Me: Tumhara naam kya hai?
Her: Tulsi.
Me: Aur uska? (pointing to the little child she was carrying.)
Her: Neha.
Me: Tumne English kahan seekha?
Her: Hum school jaate hai. Pehle English medium mein jaate the, ab Gujarati medium mein jaate hai.
Me: Idhar kya kar rahe ho?

She looked away shyly.

Me: Tumhare mummy-papa kahan hai?
Her: Papa nahin hai, mummy ghar pe hai.
Me: Woh kya karti hai?
Her: Khana banati hai…. (Then, as an afterthought) Humme sambhalti hai….
Me: Tum idhar kya karti ho? (Hoping for a response this time.)
Her: Paise kamati hoon.
Me: Achha? Paise kaise kamati ho?
Her: Hum didi ko bolte hai bahut beautiful ho. (with the shy, guilty smile of a child who’s been caught by an indulgent adult with her hand in the cookie jar.)

I laughed.

Her: Waise hum phool bhi bechte hai.

I stroked her head again, this time fully aware of what it was going to feel like.

By this time, her sandwich was ready and the cart owner handed it to her in a paper plate, asked her if she wanted ketchup, and in response to the small nodding head, poured ketchup liberally over the sandwich. As we paid the sandwich waala, the little girl saw that it had cost us 12 rupees. She shifted her focus from the food to us and said “Barah rupay. Mehenga hai.” I grinned at the cart owner and said “Dekho bhaiyya, mehenga hai.” He chuckled, and we started walking off. I couldn’t help noticing that the girl was feeding her little sister before herself, and making sure that the little one ate.
We walked off, but I couldn’t resist turning back for one last glance at the two girls perched on the wall, huddled over a little plate of bread, tomatoes, cucumbers and onions.

My cousin was quite affected by the little girl and her way of life. He spent the next hour thanking his stars for his good fortune, and realising how we, of affluent backgrounds have no right to ask for the many things we do. Gratitude for all he had was foremost in his mind.
I, on the other hand, being me, found myself besieged with questions. I couldn’t help wonder what it was about their lives that ensured they grew up before their time, yet maintained that childlike curiosity and innocence that it vital in every child. Why is it that these people, who have so little, don’t feel the need to protect themselves with shells and walls and barriers? They are open, straightforward and completely natural. The little girl made me happy- she was all grown up in a way, and heart-wrenchingly innocent in another.
She touched me- I have not forgotten her, and always look for her when I’m at bandstand.

Yeh hai Bambai, Meri Jaan

2007-03-16T02:22:00.000-07:00

The city of dreams, the city where straw can turn to gold, the city where real estate prices compare with those commanded in New York and Tokyo, the city that has no place for the slow and easy….the city you can either love or hate, but never be indifferent to.

I’m currently in that city, and have been here a little over a month. I was working in a film here, called “Migration”, directed by Mira Nair. The experience was a lot of good and a lot of bad; but the one word that encompasses it fully is “intense.” The film taught me about filmmaking, about the practical aspects of my theoretical knowledge, about what it takes to spin a thought into spools of fantasy…and it also taught me about the rat-race, about the dog-eat-dog world we live in, about politics that were beyond my conception, and about survival.

Darwin must have had Bombay in mind when he came up with his theory of “The Survival of the Fittest.” In Bombay, if you’re not enterprising and you don’t have your wits about you at all times, you can, and most certainly will, bite the dust. There is no room for mediocrity and for the laid-back. Sad in a way, but true.
Bombay is also an addiction. Once one settles into the Mumbai way of life, it’s almost impossible to pull oneself out. This city has a quicksand like quality, which sucks you in, and refuses to let you escape its hold over you. Start working in Bombay, get yourself a flat (no one calls them apartments here), figure out the local trains, get used to the terrible monsoons…and you are a Mumbaiker! Then, when your friends come to visit, take them to Café Mondegar, Leopold’s (of Shantaram fame), Marine Drive, Enigma, Poly-Esther, Toto’s Garage, Hawaiian Shack- and send them off beaming, singing praises of a Bombay that they think they have explored. Throw in a couple of film stars at Zenzi or the Marriott coffee shop, and you’re God. In reality of course, they ain’t seen nothin’ till they’ve battled it out on the local railway stations, suffered a monsoon here, caught a nap while stuck in the insane traffic jams, and spent at least a few hours in Asia’s biggest slum- Dharavi.
Ah yes, Dharavi….now that’s a sub-culture in itself. Though it is technically a slum, it’s the hub of a lot of mafia activity, and black money laundering. The residents are people you wouldn’t want to have much to do with, and you certainly don’t want them turning against you. In Bombay, a lot of the economy and power is controlled by the mafia, and Dharavi is a big part of all the activity that keeps the power and money concentrated in the hands it currently is. While shooting the film, we shot for a day at Dharavi, and realised how important it was to know the right people. Because we had the “dada” of Dharavi on our side, the rest of the goons kept their distance and allowed us to shoot; else we would have been lynched, and there’s no saying what the film stars and female members of the crew would have been subjected to. Considering there was a point when I had to be “rescued” by a security chap from the mob, I dare not consider the situation had there been no power play involved. Our tough security men, in their crisp grey uniforms, looking fierce and professional with walkie talkies strapped to them proved utterly ineffective when faced with the rough mob of the slum. Only one of their own can control the Dharavi residents.

All-in-all, Bombay is a city where the slums co-exist with the high-rises, and the destitute with the stinking rich. It can be no other way; one could not exist without the other. It’s one of the few cities where you can live in a flat that overlooks the sea from one window, and the slum from another. Where you pay 15G for a studio apartment that’s 200 sq feet in area, and actually feel pleased about it. Where you can have lunch at a fine dining restaurant with extremely polite company, and step out to be greeted with rickshaw drivers hurling abuses at one another. Where a complete stranger will take time out of his/her busy schedule to help you, an outsider. Where a woman can walk out on the street and hail a cab at 4am, and not have to worry about her safety. Where stepping into a local train is like entering a war-zone, and is still worth it, because it saves you so much time in a city where time is money- quite literally.

At the end of the day, it’s a city that teaches you everything you need to know….about survival.

Ex- Friend

2007-03-04T03:32:00.000-08:00

I have wanted to write about this person for a few months now, but kept putting it off. I now know why. Because this is the right time and place for it. Things are clearer to me now than ever before, and I can articulate them as well.

This person was a bosom buddy. Though she had her faults, I always turned a blind eye to them in favour of her loyalty and supportive nature. We shared our lives and were close as close can be. But she wasn’t sorted. She was a drama queen, and seeking advice from her was always a case of the blind leading the blind. Her strategy would always be a complicated, conniving one, leading more often than not to blow-outs. Nothing was straight, and nothing was simple with her. She was and still is a whack-job, whipping up dramas when they don't exist. She stirs things into messes when they are perfectly orderly.
She also had a vivid imagination, wherein she’d imagine complicated strategies being hatched, of which she was the centre. The truth of course, was that noone really cared enough for things like that. She invented a life for herself, in her head, of words, not actions, and eventually all that came out was talk. The sad part is that I think she honestly believed all her fabrication. And I, I’m not happy to say, humoured her, and let her get away with it. Her friends affectionately called her “Psycho.”
She’d been single for a long time, and spoke about it as if it were the high road. Bullshit. She hated it. She hated it so much that she’d make up stories about various men who were interested in her, but far too chicken to do anything about it. Or men who would have snapped her up in a heartbeat, if only some other woman hadn’t paraded her stuff before him. Or men who were just dying to be with her, but oh, if only someone hadn’t poisoned their ears against her.
What really turned me off about her was the moral high horse she always rode. She used big words like ethics and morality, but at the end of the day, she was allowed to do all the things that she condemned in other people….as long as she didn’t get caught. She gave the term “two-faced” a completely different meaning. She’s raised the bar for all her fellow hypocrites. If, God forbid, she did get caught, (which happened often, as she wasn’t really very smart about it) she would defend her actions till the bitter end, and then promptly cut off all relations with the people who confronted her. She is an escapist and it makes me sad to see someone who could be so much, be so little.

I should have wondered what was going on when I realised that she had almost no friends left, because almost everyone had done something to annoy her, betray her, upset her, or offend her delicate sensibilities. I should have wondered why all the people around her seemed to be such assholes. The fault, I know now, lies not with them, but with her.

I wanted to tell her to grow up, to open her eyes and see the world for what it really was, not what she wanted it to be. To stop trying to create a dramatic situation of which she was always the centre. To act her age, and to get over herself. To not make men the centre of her universe, and to get herself a life, which everyone, the men included, would respect her for. To stop licking people’s boots to get them to like her. Unfortunately, I didn’t say any of those things to her, and still haven’t.
But now that things have gone sour between us, I can take a step back, let go of the affection I still felt for her, and say "Wow…what a bloody head case," and be glad I’ll never be the one to set her off again.

Personal Losses

2007-01-10T07:53:00.000-08:00

What do you say to someone who has suffered a personal loss? “I’m sorry” doesn’t quite cut it, neither does “They’re in a better place now”, and nor does “Just hang in there”. These are the ones I’ve heard being uttered the most, and the ones that seem the most useless. For one can’t just hang in there, hoping that their loved one is happier now, or that they are in a better place. How does anyone know whether the place they are in now is any better than the one they left behind? Isn’t that better place supposed to be here, on earth, with those who love them, and those they love? How does one find comfort in that thought?

I think the hardest part about events like these is the fact that you know that the memories you have are IT. There will be no more, and if there were things you should have said and done when they were around, well, that’s now your albatross. You have to live with the knowledge that they will never know. Suddenly every little thing seems to turn on the tap- the smell of their clothes, the queer loops of their handwriting, their favourite jam, the chocolates you bought them that are still lying in their refrigerator, the pictures you discover in their cupboard…. Every little thing is brought into sharper focus, and the stab of pain fresh every time. It’s like zooming into a photograph, and registering fully for the first time the details, the colours and the textures. Sometimes there are too many to comprehend, and sometimes, too many to bear.

Some say that losses like these make the people left behind stronger, more mature, and accepting of the ways of nature. That it teaches one about unconditional love. But it can also work another way. It can make them distrusting and bitter individuals. It can make one wonder why we bother with personal relationships- after all, they all end someday, and in the most painful way. No relationship end is pretty; some are relatively better while some are worse. It can make one wonder about love, and whether the pain at the end is worth the beauty of the emotion. Whether the seemingly non-ending tears are worth all the smiles and laughter in the past. Would it have been better to have foregone the smiles in order to have escaped the pain?

However, like a lot of people say, they are never truly gone. These loved ones go on living, if we take them with us, in our hearts. Modern technology and the power of the human mind makes it possible for us to still see them in photographs, hear their voices in recordings, smell them in their clothes and sheets, even talk to them, and know what they are saying if we listen hard enough…..

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Sweet November

2006-12-06T06:57:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, November certainly has been sweet. There have been numerous reasons to rejoice; the primary ones being reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, and exploring new places. The month, for me, has consisted of a fair amount of travel, which, those who know me will testify, I thrive on.
In the beginning of the month I went to London and Switzerland. It was my first time in Switzerland, and it was love at first sight for me. Almost the same way I’d felt for Paris when I went there the first time. Zurich is an old town, and you can feel the history and age oozing from the old churches, the cobblestone paths, the undulating lanes and the famous “Williams” (a traditional schnapps).
In Switzerland, we also made a trip to Mount Rigi (i.e. the Swiss Alps), and that was an experience in itself. Just getting to Mount Rigi was half the fun. We took the train to a lake, followed by a boat ride to get to the other side of the lake, and then another train, though a much more rural looking one, to get to the top of the mountain. This second train was straight out of a picture book. It was red and chugged along slowly, stopping for school kids on the way. When we got to Mount Rigi, it was snowing. This was another first for me. I haven’t stood and had snowflakes settle on my eyebrows and lashes before. I noticed how each snowflake is six sided, and have different patterns. It was magical.
Soon after, it was time to go London. London is a city I have been to before and am not a great fan of, so I wasn’t expecting a great time. However, I happened to meet an old school acquaintance of mine there, and we got chatting. Unexpectedly, we realised how much we’d both grown, and how much we now had in common. It was wonderful, and as she described it “It was wonderful discovering one another.”
Soon after this trip, I went to Bombay to catch up with a dear friend. She flew in from another state, I did from Delhi, and we made Bombay our meeting point. This was another great trip. I spent a weekend there, and it was a two-day long party! She and her friends showed me parts of Bombay I probably wouldn’t have been exposed to, had it not been for them. I also got to meet a lot of my old friends I hadn’t seen in ages. It was a great experience and allowed for some snippets of great conversation and bonding.
Right after Bombay I went on to Gujarat to spend some time with my great grandmother. This trip was, contrary to all the others, a really quiet and easy one, and I came back feeling relaxed and rejuvenated. Now I’ve been back for a coupla weeks, and my little toes are itching to head off somewhere again…..and soon.

At Rishikesh Again

2006-10-20T08:07:00.000-07:00

The strange thing about a writer’s block is that while there are a hundred ideas floating in one’s mind, penning them down suddenly becomes a thorny process. Coming up with ideas and structuring them is the easy part- but it’s the expression that becomes a problem. So in trying to overcome that handicap, I’m now going to write about my recent trip to Rishikesh.

I went to Rishikesh about three weeks ago, with a bunch of friends; and all-in-all, the trip was a bittersweet one. In terms of fun, it was a complete blast, including river rafting, long walks, great food, hiking and mountain biking. We were in Rishikesh for four days, and it was an action-packed trip, which really got the adrenaline flowing. We managed to fit in a lot of activities in those four days, and were actually left with time for dips in the river, ambling walks, quiet conversations and the odd wee tot in the evenings. We also managed to find a little multi-cuisine restaurant that served Israeli food, which was a first for all of us.

The Ganges, of course, was as glorious as ever, and the time spent in and around it was quite spectacular. There is something to be said about large swirling bodies of water. They inspire awe as well as thrill, their sheer power reminding us of our helplessness and dependence on them. This time, I jumped into the river no less than four times, and emerged refreshed and thrilled. This was quite unlike last year, when the water was so cold that I was too paralysed to move. We also floated diyas in the river, and quietly made our wishes, and prayed for them to come true. The trip also allowed for time for quiet introspection, whether on the banks of the river, or in little chai-shops, which ensured I came back feeling purged and freed of my burdens as I perceived them.

What marred the trip a little was the fact that all of us, while we got along famously in Delhi, didn’t do so well when made to live together. There were things we discovered about one another that we didn’t appreciate, and things we did that rubbed the others the wrong way. So yes, we did have our share of tiffs, arguments and disagreements, which served to dull the sheen a bit. However, none of those tiffs were large enough to permanently sever relationships, and that’s what’s important at the end of the day. I think we all realised that though we didn’t like ALL of someone, we did like the package- and that is certainly saying something :)

Aussie Aussie Aussie- Oye Oye Oye!

2006-08-08T01:25:00.000-07:00

This is like a national war-cry used to express appreciation in anything Australian. As I am currently rather impressed with the country myself, I decided to use it here.
The past month and a half has been spent in Australia, of which the last 2 weeks were spent travelling. My mom, a friend of hers, and my brother had all come down to Australia for a little break, and we all went holidaying together. On the morning of the 20th of July, we left Maroochydore (where I had been working), and started our road trip- all the way up to Cairns. The entire drive was a three day long one, and though tiring, was probably the best way to do it, as we got to see parts of Australia that we wouldn’t have otherwise seen. We saw the endless sugarcane and barley fields, noticed how the countryside changed abruptly from forests to fields to mountains to even an interesting mix of all the above. We even caught a glimpse of a couple of little kangaroos.

On the Sunshine Coast, at a look-out, a day before we left Maroochydore. As is evident, the wind was blowing rather strongly :)

The endless sugarcane fields on the way

The lovely countryside- notice all the different colours!

The first night, we stopped at a place called Hervey Bay. This particular bay is famous for the humpback whales that pass through it during the migration season. As the season begins in late July, we decided to stop there for the night and try and spot some whales early the next morning. As planned, the next morning we got onto a boat and sailed off, hoping to see some of the magnificent marine mammals that most people only see pictures of. For about an hour there was nothing to be seen, and then suddenly, we saw two whales in quick succession. They were rather shy, so we had to be quick. Fortunately we managed to catch both major sightings, not to mention sightings of the little dolphins that came so close to the boat, it was almost like they were putting on a show for us. Dolphins are actually small whales themselves, and are known to escort the larger whales. We saw some marvellous antics in the water before heading back to the shore. Then it was time to hit the road again.

My mom and I, collecting shells and corals at the Hervey Bay beach

Dolphins at Hervey Bay

The Big Guy himself!

Our second halt was at a place called Yeppoon. This little village is on the sea-shore and is really picturesque and beautiful. Since we reached at night, there was not much to do, besides have dinner and crash. The next morning, we drove around Yeppon, and explored the place. We stopped to admire the beautiful beach, have a bite of breakfast, and drove through Emu Park, which is just off Yeppoon. Unfortunately, Emu Park has no Emus, it is only named after them. Then it was time to get on the highway again.

On our way to Yeppoon….

The Beach at Yeppoon

Our third and last night on the road was spent at a place called Airlie Beach. This was a slightly commercial place, not as remote as Yeppoon. There was some shopping to be done, and restaurants to choose from. Unfortunately, the restaurant we picked for dinner that night seemed to be having a bad day, and we were served burnt steak. But the place in itself was rather charming and had a lot of local flavour. There were lots of swimwear shops, surfing shops and digeridoo shops. The Digeridoo (popularly known as the Dig), is an old aboriginal musical instrument, now played by Europeans and Aboriginals alike. The instrument is a metre long hollow piece of wood , which produces a sound like a low drone. Most original digeridoos are hand painted by the aboriginals. It is almost a crime to go all the way to Australia and not pick up a digeridoo, so of course I got one, regardless of the fact that I am tone- deaf!
Anyway, returning to my travels, Airlie beach was the last stop, after which we drove on to Cairns.

At Airlie Beach

The drive hereon presented us with fewer undulations, less rocky surfaces and less mountains. We saw more open spaces and fields. If there is one thing Australia does not lack, it is land!
Finally, in the evening, we arrived at Cairns. After a most satisfying dinner and restful night, we got up the next morning to see the Great Barrier Reef. We got onto a boat that was to take us to the reef and give us snorkelling gear so that we may see all the reef has to offer. When we got to the reef, we all hastily put on our wetsuits, as the water was terribly cold. As it turned out, the wetsuits were no good, as the water was biting cold even through them. My brother was the only one who managed to snorkel that day. The rest of us, after a few pathetic attempts at swimming underwater, simply gave up. The reef was a disappointment to most of us, primarily because after hearing so much about a natural formation, one expects something rather spectacular.

Basking in the sun, as it was too cold to swim

At the Great Barrier Reef- notice the different colours of the water

The next day at Cairns, we took a gondola ride over the rainforests. It took us the whole morning to see all that the rainforests had to offer, and was spectacularly beautiful. My poor vertigo-stricken mother didn’t know whether to enjoy herself, or start freaking out. The cable cars, however, were pretty comfortable, and hardly shook at all. And the magnificent views more than made up for any discomfort.

A gorge with a waterfall in the middle of the rainforest, as seen from above

In the gondola

One of the many views from the gondola

That was all the time we spent at Cairns. The next morning we took the flight for Sydney. We were going to spend a day or two there, and then come back home. Sydney is a typical busy city. The people can be friendly and sweet when they let go, but usually they’re so busy that they don’t have the time for niceties. This is not the case in the towns of Queensland that I stayed in. The people are jolly and friendly, always ready to lend you a hand, have a little chat, or share a little joke.
Sydney has a lot of interesting things to see and do. The first day we were there, we went and saw the famous opera house, which is built on a piece of land that is jutting out into the sea. The structure is quite unusual and bears a resemblance to our very own Lotus Temple. The day after that, we took a city tour to see the sights. The tour was interesting, and some of the old English buildings were so cute, they made one exclaim in delight. We heard some rather romantic stories as well, including the story of Mrs. Macquarie, whose husband was Governor Macquarie. Apparently, Mrs. Macquarie was very lonely and homesick, and often used to make her way to a lookout point from which she could see the harbour, looking for ships from home, and hoping for that one letter which would tell them it was time to go home. She started spending so much time there, that her husband got a seat carved for her in stone, to make her long mornings and afternoons more comfortable. Needless to say, I sat in the chair and looked out to the harbour myself. We also learnt some interesting terminology, for instance, gay and lesbian areas are called “Pink Light Districts.”
The next day, my travel companions left for India, and I stayed on an extra day. I decided to use my day shopping and looking around as much as I could. I went to Chinatown, which can be a really strange experience if you’re not prepared for it. One enters Chinatown through Covent Garden, which is like a set of gates, and suddenly one finds oneself in a microcosm of China. It’s like a different world altogether past those gates. There are only Chinese and Japanese faces to be seen. For some reason, only Chinese and Japanese people seem to work there. The restaurants, shops and malls are all, of course, Chinese and Japanese. After seeing China town, and shopping there, I decided to go to the Opera House and see it from inside. I signed up for an organised tour and learned about why the building was built, the stories behind it, saw the various different theatres, and was quite in awe of the wonderful building with its view of the Harbour. Then it was time for me to catch my flight, so I made my way to the airport, thrilled and excited at the thought of finally going back home!!

Mrs Macquaries Point

Mrs Macquaries Chair

The famous Sydney Opera House

Two Down, Two More To Go...

2006-07-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

Two weeks in Australia, and I’m exhausted. Work this time is super-hectic and chaotic. What doesn’t help is that my client is so distracted by the soccer matches on right now, that he forgets to work sometimes. But, well, I guess we all have our eccentricities.

This time I’ve been working late almost everyday, and sometimes, weekends as well, which means no more walks by the river, and no sandy beaches to explore. But before you start feeling sorry for me, I should mention that it hasn’t been all bad. There has been a little time for play.

On Saturday last, I went to this place called Eumundi. It’s a small, sleepy little town, except on Wednesdays and Saturdays. That’s when they have a huge local market, with lots and lots of little stalls, selling things that have been made, grown, sewn or designed there. It was a lot of fun…esp. the food stalls. They had all sorts of crazy concoctions that were fun to try and buy. Breakfast at the market was so enormous, it lasted me till dinner-time. Farm people obviously have large appetites! They also had bands and solo musicians every few meters…so you could pass a couple of guys yodelling, turn a corner and see a band playing instrumental music, complete with a didgeridoo player! It was a fascinating experience.

Then on Sunday, I went to this place called Underwater World, which is what I like to call an “Oceanarium.” It was like a huge Aquarium, except that you were inside it, and the fish outside. What I mean is that it was a large tunnel with glass walls and roofs; and you could see fish (and sharks) swimming all around you. The sharks were real beauties. But that’s not all they had to offer. They have different shows, like Otter shows, and Seal shows, which are lots of fun, and informative too.

So that’s been my two weeks so far; more as it happens!

Touch and Go

2006-06-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

So I’m back now, and have been here since the past ten days. In all the hustle-bustle and hurry-scurry, there was hardly any time to do anything, and I’ve now finally been able to take some time out and write this.
Australia was a great experience, there’s no doubt about that. But like they say, there’s no place like home. It feels wonderful to be back, in familiar surroundings and in my comfort zone. Also, I’m beginning to see my domestic help with new eyes, and appreciate all they do…having done it all myself for the first time ever! Like my client says teasingly, my eyes assume a panicked look when I have to consider living without them waiting on me. Though that’s an exaggeration, I certainly like my creature comforts and appreciate having help.
I took a little time to get down to the business of living here again: in fact, for the first week, I roamed around without a single rupee on me. I was walking the streets with dollars in my bag and looking for restaurants and shops that would accept plastic money. And of course, in typical style, now that I have rupees on me, it’s almost time to return to Australia and the dollars.
Now it’s almost time to go back, and I’m thinking of it with mixed feelings. A part of me is excited while another part of me is dragging her feet. But I have to admit, there is more excitement than anything else, primarily because I plan to travel a little more this time; maybe stay back for a couple of weeks after the project is over and take a little holiday.
Lets hope this time will be a little less business and a little more pleasure :)

From Down Under

2006-05-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

Yep, that’s where this one’s coming from. I’m in a place called Maroochydore, on the Sunshine Coast. It’s about an hour’s drive from Brisbane. Sunshine Coast is one of the most popular tourist spots in Queensland, and is said to have some of the best beaches in the world. The brochures talk of wonderful things that one can indulge in, in this beautiful part of the world, from surfing, to scuba diving, to diving with sharks, to sky diving, to wine tasting, to shopping….you name it! And of course, there are so many things to see- from the beaches and mountains to the zoos and national parks.

I got here about a week ago, and soon settled into my apartment. It’s a very comfortable arrangement, with a little jetty in the back, and lots of sea breeze. Though work has been pretty hectic, I have managed to take some time out to walk by the river, scope out potential shopping spots, and yes, have a pint of the famous Australian beer. I haven’t, however, due to time restraints, been able to do all the other exciting things the place offers.

What is so great about Maroochydore is that it’s a large town. Which means it’s not big enough to be classified as a city, yet has all the conveniences of one. It means that there is no dearth of shopping malls and supermarkets, but it also means that the people will take time out to have a little chat with you as they go about their business. The little roadside cafes and local taverns are quaint and friendly. The small, yet terribly interesting bookstores and music shops are places that one can spend hours at. I discovered a small music shop called “Back Beat Records” that sells old and rare music, some in rare formats. You can get old CDs, audio tapes and even LPs, some with yellowed covers. There are very few tall buildings; most structures are limited to one or two floors. Some parts on the Sunshine Coast have laws prohibiting buildings to be higher than the trees. The sheer beauty of the place is striking; especially when one wanders towards the river. I would like to describe the beaches, but unfortunately I haven’t made my way to them yet. I’m still trying to get my bearings here. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so maybe I’ll head over to the ocean then. Given Maroochydore’s size, walking is definitely an option, though one should be prepared for the walks to be long ones.

What I didn’t realise was that while I thought I had a long time here, to explore and do things; I actually have only about 6 whole days- the weekends. The rest of the days are booked for work, and evenings aren’t really long enough to do very much. But 6 days are better than 0 days, and I will put them to good use. In the meantime, I shall continue to eat beef, more beef, and still more beef…..two meals a day! :)

Head Above the Water

2006-05-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

I just spent a very enjoyable 3 hours with an old friend I hadn’t met in more than a year. And as it often is with old friends, after the initial joy of being together wore off, it was like we’d never been apart all that while. We slipped into intensely personal conversations as easily as if we’d never spent a year in different continents, emailing each other once in a blue moon.
While in conversation, we discovered that we had both undergone similar experiences and similar trials and tribulations. The subjects we started discussing were unintentionally heavy and loaded. But having known each other the way we have, it all seemed to flow rather effortlessly.
We discussed the importance of not allowing life to get the better of us; of finding a way to defeat the demons we all face at some time or another. Some of us go through more than others; some of us create our own obstacles, while others have them strewn in their paths though no fault of their own. Of course, none are as hard to overcome as those we believe are of our own making, knowingly or unknowingly.

The hardest battles to fight are the ones we have to fight within ourselves
The harshest judgements to bear are the ones we pass on ourselves
The memories hardest to forget are the ones that condemn us
And suddenly, it is so hard to live with ourselves….

Just the Beginning...

2006-04-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

So the decision I took to quit my job was the right one; I always knew it deep inside, but unfortunately there had been no validation so far. Now, however, validation has come. It has come in the form of an assignment that is going to allow me to hold an entire course, and steer the path of its development almost single-handedly. It is also an assignment which is sending me abroad for two months (starting next month beginning), to work with an extremely difficult client first-hand. Now that’s opportunity to prove one’s mettle. It is also opportunity to fall flat on one’s face and prove one’s incompetence. It’s about how you choose to look at it, and I choose to look at the positive side of things.
It’s an opportunity, no doubt, but it comes with its own set of apprehensions….about going abroad and working in a different culture, about being all alone, about having to manage daily things that were never an issue at home, and about making sure that you perform adequately as well. Well, I guess I’ll never know unless I try, right? So I’m going to hop on to that plane, with all my fingers crossed, and faith in my heart.
Watch this space for the highs and lows….in short for updates :)

Wolves

2006-03-15T12:54:00.000-08:00

One of the most painful moments to bear is the precise one when you realize that someone you trust blindly is the one who will proverbially stab you in the back. These people, unfortunately come in all shapes and sizes and disguised in various ways. Sometimes, we find it in our hearts to forgive and move on. After all, to err is human and to forgive divine, right?
Uhhh...not always, no. Sometimes its just smart to move away before the “trusted” soul gets a chance at another swing at you. Because a wolf in sheep’s clothing is just that. A Wolf.
And hearts as well as trust are delicate things, famous for being easy to break and hard to mend.

In the true spirit of my blog, here’s a question to end this post: When one has encountered such a wolf, and decided to take the divine route, if they are then knifed in the back again, whose fault is it? Who’s the fool?

Postcards from the trip

2006-02-20T17:24:00.000-08:00

Today, as I was looking through some of my old things, I came across a dairy. As I pulled it out, almost on a whim, my eye caught the name in block letters on the cover. My name. This diary was what I’d used as a notebook in college. As I ran my hand across the cover to wipe the dust off, I felt the familiar ribbed texture that I’d hardly notice while handling it three years ago. All at once I felt a plethora of memories envelop me. Some pleasant, others mediocre, yet others downright unpleasant – all poignant. As I gingerly opened the diary, I could almost smell the smells that were once me. Vivacity, idealism, a sense of immortality, tremendous belief, confidence and a devil-may-care attitude.
The diary automatically opened to a page in which I had scribbled some random words and sentences. They were lines from my then favorite songs. Songs that I still cannot listen to without being reminded of some incident, event or occurrence of those days. I couldn’t help smiling as I read the words of the songs “Gin Soaked Boy”, “Arms Wide Open” and “I Believe I can Fly”. I actually did- believe, that is. I believed that I could do anything I wanted, irrespective of whatever obstacles the big bad world might throw my way. Its been only three years since I passed out of college, but that belief has waned so much that this reminder of my youthful idealism was almost over-whelming. I found myself wondering at what point we lose the fiery enthusiasm of our college existence. Is it sometime during post graduation, when you realize that politics is not just a dirty word, but a stinking piece of reality; or does it take place during your first job, when you realize that your position in the rat-race is all that counts, as it is the one and only thing you are judged by, and that survival amongst constantly circling, ever-watchful vultures takes up almost all the reserves of energy one might have stowed away for bigger, better things?
I tilted the diary a little, and as if the memories were particularly strong there, the pages flipped over till they stopped at a photograph tucked away between them. It was a black and white photograph of my class in college. I turned the snapshot over, and saw, in my handwriting, the names of all the people in the photograph. I couldn’t help but smile indulgently at myself- as if I would ever forget those people. They, every single one of them played an important role in making me the person I am today- by broadening my thought process just a little, by sensitizing me just a bit more, by touching me in ways that are too trivial, yet too momentous to mention. From hard-core philosophical discussions to arbid abstract ones, from endless glasses of nimbu paani to conversations about first loves and first heartbreaks, from wild, aimless excursions into unknown parts of town to focused, deliberate and purposeful trips to the favorite watering hole.
As I was recounting these memories, a couple of pieces of paper slipped from the notebook to the ground, by my feet. Upon inspection, they turned out to be a letter I’d once written in a fit of temper to someone I was extremely peeved with, at the time. Of course, the discovery of the letter in my notebook suggests that it was never sent. It was just my way of blowing off steam. The letter brought to my notice yet another change in my personality. It is the fact that I hardly seem to get quite as upset over unpleasant conversations as the letter suggests I did then. The difference is one of outlook. I suppose, today I would consciously try to remain unaffected as much as was possible in an unpleasant situation and am able to do it better now than I was then. Some would say time has made me less sensitive, while others might feel I’ve gained more control over my emotions. I expect, as we grow older and experience first-hand the muck we knew of only through hearsay, we each develop our individual defense mechanisms.
I flipped the diary over to its last page, and was confronted with timetables I had tried desperately, but in vain, to adhere to. Also phone numbers of friends and quotes I’d particularly liked at the time. And oh- I also found, amongst the vast ocean of memories, a smattering of college notes, taken sporadically and hurriedly during the few classes I attended. Also, the doodles framing each such page provide an accurate assessment of my time spent in classes. Having said that, I will also say that I learnt more in those three years of college than many years before it, and certainly more than in the three years after.
My time in college seems like it was eons ago, yet in another way it seems like the memories are fresh from just yesterday. Nostalgia.

Rang de Basanti

2006-02-19T13:13:00.000-08:00

Yes, the film. I saw it a few days ago and it left a definitive and sharp impression on my mind. The movie (for those who haven’t yet watched it) is about a bunch of young college boys who are roped into acting in a documentary film being made by a foreigner on one of the numerous episodes of the national freedom struggle. The film is not the typical kind, with over-patriotic, zealous kids as the main protagonists, who are determined to change the system with honour and integrity. Instead, it is about a bunch of extremely ordinary college students, who go through a personal experience that changes them forever, and spurs them onto an extreme form of action in order to make their voices heard.
What is great about the film is the fact that it brings across the message that it intends to convey without any apologies, without trying to soften the blow, yet without sensationalizing or dramatizing it. The way the film switches from clips of the documentary being made in the film, to the real film is spot on. Also, worth mentioning is the fact that it’s been shot very well, and edited carefully.
The film makes certain very strong statements, which one needs to actively think about before agreeing or disagreeing. Of course, as with every film, it has its lows, one of which is Cyrus Sahukar. He’s quite crap anyway, and his acting in the movie just serves as a not-so-subtle reminder of the fact. Also, contrary to public opinion, I believe that Soha Khan is only applauded for her performance because the public at large had such a low opinion of her, that it was only possible for her to go up from there.Nevertheless, it must be mentioned that the movie is one of the best Bollywood attempts in the past few years. It’s definitely worth a watch, if not two. It’s hard-hitting, yet not sensational, it screams of reality, not exaggeration, and is, apart from everything else, a piece of good Indian cinema.

Beyond Ourselves

2006-01-31T11:50:00.000-08:00

Everyday, when I look at the sights around me, I am amazed at how many different facets to humanity there are. The good, bad and ugly befuddle me sometimes.
I have worked with an NGO in the past and I know that the ugliness we see is just scratching the surface. There are unimaginable horrors that lurk beneath the seemingly unrippled surfaces. Horrors that you and me, having led the lives we have, cannot even begin to contemplate. Yet, knowing these things and knowing the importance of what called “social work” (for want of a better word), I have allowed myself to slip into a manner of existence that revolves around me. Me, Myself and I. Its not as if I’ve forgotten the things that I have seen, I’ve just pushed them to the back of my mind, thinking that there’s always time to reach out to the less fortunate; I need to get my affairs into place first. What I didn’t allow myself to realize was that NOW’s the time. Waiting for the “right time” is futile, as it will probably never come. There will always be another goal to achieve, after which there will be time and resources to help out.
It’s time for all of us to think beyond ourselves and realize that we are all but insignificant to mankind at large. And unless we do something to make our lives truly meaningful, that’s what we’ll still be when its time for us to move on to the next plane. I don’t mean that we are all meant to be Mother Teresas, but I do think that we can find it in our hearts to extend a little gesture, a little effort, a little money to make someone else’s life that much better. There’s no “right” way to do these things; one doesn’t have to do them the conventional way…as long as one does. Even an hour a week devoted to helping improve someone else’s life makes a difference. Every drop in the ocean does count.
And it makes us better human beings for being able to extend ourselves beyond just ourselves!

Trust

2006-01-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

This seems to be break-up season. Three couples I know have broken up in the past month or so, and news of more hopping onto the same bandwagon continues to pour in. A seemingly obvious issue that seems to have become rather large and important is the issue of trust. Not trust in the sense of fidelity, but trust in each other. Trust that both parties will be honest with one another and will not hurt each other. More and more couples seem to be sabotaging their relationships by withholding honesty; the foundation of any relationship.
A friend once said to me, “If two people are in a relationship, the least they can do is keep each other happy.” While I agreed wholeheartedly with the comment, it didn’t touch upon the question of trust. If two people make each other happy, but are constantly on edge because they don’t know how much to trust their significant others, what then?
Can love exist without trust? And if it does, then does the relationship stand a fighting chance? Another important question is whether trust once betrayed can be rebuilt. And how long should one wait for it to happen, within the boundaries of reasonable faith? Love, the most ambiguous of feelings, yet debatably the most powerful is complex and often hard to understand. The heart often defies the better judgment of the head, and then of course pays for it. But cynicism aside, it has to be admitted that following instinct is sometimes more beneficial.
Returning to the topic, the question of trust is not as subjective as it is claimed to be. More often than not, the lines that are crossed are lines that are universally accepted as just that…lines that mustn’t be crossed. Can it then be true that the “crosser” of these lines was indeed unaware that (s)he was crossing them?
I guess discussions like these will remain the domain of the couples that face this problem. For speculation is of no use besides that of clarity of one’s own thought. Which is what this post attempts to do.

Unemployed

2006-01-12T00:58:00.000-08:00

….and loving every moment of it. Being unemployed is like being able to get out of one’s own city and going to another one. Nothing seems quite the same. Though you know that there will be similarities between your old city and the new one, there is still that excitement of figuring out which particular things will be the same, and which ones will be starkly different.
In my context, being unemployed does not mean sitting on my ass, doing nothing. On the Contrary. It means doing different kinds of work, with different people. It means not confining myself to one workplace, with one boss. It means working in my own time, on my own terms. In other words, it’s called freelancing.
Free lancing allows me to do impromptu lunches with friends, allows me to work from home or my client’s office, as I see fit, allows me to start work at 9 am or 9 pm, whichever I like, as long as I deliver what I’ve been hired to deliver. It gives me the freedom to live the way I choose to live. The freedom to be.
Yes, there is the occasional feeling that I’m balancing on quicksand, and could be down in a snap…..but hey, what’s life without a little risk? What’s life without the adrenaline rush that comes from doing work that excites me rather than working to justify my paycheck? Not very much, I say.
The work is better, the money is better, the satisfaction is better…I’m beginning to wonder why I was doing a job to begin with!
Freelancing…….. Sounds to me like Free Falling!

Moving On

2005-12-14T04:31:00.000-08:00

Handing in a resignation has to figure somewhere in the top 10 scariest things one has to do. Especially when one’s current job is a corporate one, which is paying you well enough to live comfortably. And what makes it even scarier is when you don’t have another job lined up, which you can neatly step into, and only the place of work changes.
However, it is one of the most exhilarating experiences one can go through. The world suddenly becomes your playground, and the possibilities are endless. You are on a high which is not substance-induced, but life-induced.
Arriving at the decision to take this rather large step can, however, be a harrowing experience. There are numerous things to contemplate and losses to cut. For me, I arrived at this point when I realized that a stalemate was not an option for me. When I realized that the group of bored faces I used to look around at, now constituted of another one: Mine. When I realized that being young is no excuse for wasting my time and life. Because, at the end of the day, everything runs out….even Life. There is only so much time we have been allotted, and not making full use of that time is unacceptable. It is not enough to not be unhappy in one’s job; it is imperative to be happy.
The next step is not going to be much easier- it will be made of a lot of unhappy, anxiety-ridden, stressful days. But there will be freedom. And there will be hope of a better future. Mediocrity is not an option, and stagnancy even less so. Faith and confidence, I am sure, will help me sail through these days, till I find what I’m looking for. I’ve taken the plunge and time will tell whether I am to sink or swim.
Till then, Riding the Wave!

Up in the Himalayas!

2005-11-15T23:17:00.000-08:00

A house on the banks of the River Ganga, above Rishikesh and Haridwar, sparkling ice cold water and lovely white sand. Add to that the best food I have had in the longest time, limited communication with those back home, as cell phones don’t work there, some good wine, a bonfire every night, and of course, not to forget the famous white water rafting. Put these together, and it adds up to my trip to the mountains (again!) a few days ago.
I went off to the mountains last week for 2-3 days, and had a great time. The “Jungli Murghas” and the Great Himalayan Hornbills were regular visitors to the house. Of course, the leopard that has been sighted numerous times around the house did not deign to allow us a peek at him, though we considered actively going to look for him. The bonfire each night went on for hours as did the conversations around it. And the food!! The cook employed by the owners of the house is, I am convinced, a magician. Everything he touched just turned to gold! And the local pandit who insisted upon coming to the temple in the house and waking us all up to the sound of his conch shell and incessant bell ringing was a great favorite, as everyone suddenly wanted tikas on their foreheads to start their day!
The trip was, however, not uneventful. On the 2nd day that I was there, we decided to go rafting. The boat arrived on time right outside the house. There were two Nepalese boys who were going to take us down the rapids. Everything was going just fine; rafting really is a ball….untill we reached a fairly gentle rapid, into which one of the Nepalese boys decided to jump. He swam through the rapid while I watched on enviously. I wanted to do that too! So after a quick conversation with the other Nepalese chap, I swung my legs over the side of the boat and let go. Impulse.
Cold.
I froze. Literally. For the first time I knew what being paralysed was all about. I couldn’t move a muscle; not even a finger. And the worst part was that my lungs seemed to be paralysed as well. At least that’s how it seemed to me, considering that I couldn’t breathe. Definitely unpleasant. In the end I was pulled into the boat, where I resumed watching the Nepalese boy in the water, swimming with the utmost ease. I guess I forgot to take into consideration the fact that he was much fitter than me, and probably used to the water temperature as well. I didn’t look before I leapt. Well, if nothing else, I’ll know better the next time…and will only jump into the Ganges in the summer months.
And like the grinning Nepalese chap said to me “Aap ke saare paap dhul gaye.”
My response? “Haan…Dhulai ho gayi!”

Diwali

2005-11-08T23:20:00.000-08:00

Diyas, Candles, Crackers, Sweets. That’s more or less what Diwali is about. The diyas and candles are gorgeous and shouldn’t be given a miss no matter what. So are the little twinkle lights that a lot of people adorn their houses with. The twinkle lights, though pretty, are not musts, as the candles and diyas are.
On the other hand, crackers are just a mess. They have a merit to every 10 demerits. Frankly, I don’t know why we bother with them at all.
And the sweets; well, they’re all right, I guess, but I’m not much of a mithai person and so that aspect of Diwali doesn’t hold much appeal for me. Also, the sickening feeling you get after having gorged on them all night is one that I would readily forego.
So, all in all, apart from the lights, there is nothing about Diwali that is worth mentioning. Hold on….wasn’t that the original concept of Diwali to begin with?
I am so glad I spent Diwali the way I did this year. I went up to the hills, and stayed at a friend’s farm. In the evening we went for a drive and stopped at a chai waala on the top of a hill. We sat there and munched on chicken salami sandwiches. We were there long enough to catch the sunset, as well as the first of the Diwali crackers from the valley. Since we were on top of the hill, the crackers were actually bursting below us! On Diwali night, we lit tons of candles and diyas, and stared at how beautiful the house looked when decorated with them. There were no mithais, and no crackers, except for the ones that were being let off in the town. So while we did see some of the crackers, it was minus the mess and noise. The little bonfire we lit and the dinner we cooked ourselves completed the evening.
This Diwali was truly a festival of lights…..no more, no less.

Change

2005-10-26T04:49:00.000-07:00

Seems like any other day
But you know it’s different
The silence is deafening
The noise inside your head unbearable
Escape seems almost impossible
A rat in a cage
Hurrying, Scurrying, Sniffing, Pawing
Sigh
You’re feeling woozy
You blank out what you don’t want to see
You see the world outside, not the bars of the cage
It’s a pretty world
You can almost smell the flowers and touch the grass
But not quite
You pretend you don’t know it’s not for you
But it could be
Open your eyes wider
Focus on the bars
There is a way to escape
There always is
There always is
The hard part is figuring it out
Finding a direction
A plan of action
Choosing not to accept what is
And then there’s always a way
There always is

What if....?

2005-10-25T01:37:00.000-07:00

What would life be like if we could all always speak our minds? Never mind the consequences, or about being polite; assume we could always say what we were thinking. How long do you think a blind date would last? 15 seconds? 20? What about job interviews?
Imagine being able to tell your boss exactly what you think of him at the exact moment you feel it. Imagine being with your better half and being able to tell them their breath stinks. Or being able to tell someone on the 3rd date that you might be falling in love with them!
Imagine issues of national importance. If India and Pakistan could tell each other what they really thought of one another during one of those “peace talks.” What a world that would be.
And since the things we most often don’t tell people are the unpleasant ones, think about the number of unpleasant conversations that would take place. But also think about the transparency and honesty. Think about the acrimony and bitterness.
What would a world like that be? Would we want to live in it if there were no layers, no hypocrisy? Some might argue that it would take the fun and challenge out of human relationships, while others might feel that it would be a more pleasant, more open and honest place to be in. It might eat away at our confidence levels, or it might make us stronger. It might make us simpler or it might make us more complex.
I guess we’ll never know…..all we can do is ponder upon the what ifs.

Letters vs Rubber Stamps

2005-10-17T03:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to view something called a photo-journal. An acquaintance from college, who is now a friend, invited us to view photographs he had taken on his trip to Ladakh. I went, not quite knowing what to expect, yet curious. It turned out to be one of the better decisions I have made. The photo-journal consisted of a slide show of some of the most amazing landscape pictures, accompanied by a narrative of the whole experience. It brought Ladakh that much closer to Delhi, and to people like me, who have never been to that side of the country. What made the trip more amazing to me was the fact that it was done on a Royal Enfield bike.
The narrative talked about varied things, like the presence of God that he felt up there, the discomfort he suffered as a result of leaving his anti-altitude sickness pills behind, the frustration when it rained, and the joy when he finally made it. It must truly have been an experience….of which I experienced only a shadow. He talked about not compromising his life anymore, and “never trading the letter for the rubber stamp.” That struck a chord somewhere, and I realized how many letters I and most people I know trade everyday for the rubber stamps. How many things we know of through hearsay without ever bothering to explore them for ourselves. Doing these things means that we are compromising on the quality of our lives; it means we will someday know of a lot of things, yet really know none.
Just taking the step of saying that we will no longer compromise and will always make the time to do things that are important to us, is taking the first and rather large step. But this, like every other first step, is the hardest. The fact that this person has had the courage to take that step doesn’t mean that he will always succeed in living life to the fullest. He may not, but even if he makes it to 50% of that, he will have lived a more enriched life than most other people.
My friend, who was sitting next to me during the presentation, said that he could hear soft whispers amongst the other bikers saying “Next year.”
I wish I could say that too!!

Cinderella Man

2005-10-07T02:38:00.000-07:00

I watched this movie yesterday. It’s definitely one of the better films this year. The casting is perfect, the performances are great and the sets are mind blowingly detailed. It is set in the 1930s in New York City, right after the Great Depression. The film exposes the dire poverty that prevailed at the time, and the various turns that different people’s lives took due to the extreme poverty.
The film is the story of a boxer who is past his prime, and now destitute. However, pride and ethics are important to him, and more than that is his family. The story follows his struggle as he embarks on the increasingly uphill task of making both ends meet and providing for his family. Grit, determination and sheer necessity are the factors that make him bounce back and become a force to reckon with in the ring. What is touching is the fact that through his steady rise to the top, he never once loses his focus. Nor does he allow the success to go to his head. Essentially, the person he was never changed.
It is interesting to note how much a human being can achieve if he really pushes himself. Also interesting is how necessity pushes one to reach heights they had never dreamed possible. I find it hard to believe that the same man would have achieved the same things, had poverty and desperation not driven him to. Maybe we shouldn’t wait for circumstances to push us and strain our boundaries. Maybe we shouldn’t wait for circumstances to lead us to success. Can you imagine the things we could be and the things we could do if we went about our tasks like our lives depended on them? The possibilities are dizzyingly endless!

Count your Change!

2005-10-03T02:34:00.000-07:00

There’s this cigarette waala who’s rigged up his little mobile cigarette and cold drink shop near my house. Consequently, I end up going to him pretty often for my cigarettes, and have been doing so since the past year or so. The man seems quite sweet and so does his wife. They have a couple of children who now recognize me and come running to say hello when they see my car.
Needless to say, when such a relationship is established between the vendor and consumer, a little thing like money does not seem of great importance. However, mistakes have been made, wherein I’ve ended up giving the chap more than I owed him, but then I figure, hey, he gives me credit…and what’s a few rupees here and there?
Yesterday, however, my illusion of this relationship was shattered, as when I went to buy my cigarettes, he charged me more than the retail price. I argued, he buckled, and tried to charge me a little less than his last quote, but still more than the retail price. Finally, I drove off in exasperation, with a bitter taste in my mouth. Obviously, he was a lot more pragmatic than me, and had been taking advantage of the fact that I seldom bother to count my change when I buy from him.
I don’t think I’ll be going back to him for my cigarettes anymore.

Little things

2005-09-20T02:21:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been having this particular experience repeatedly over the span of the past 2-3 days. I’ve been doing nothing different from what I usually do but there was a difference in the way I saw things and felt about them. I now realize that I was acutely aware of all the little things. I wasn’t concentrating on the larger picture as much as the details. And hey…here’s the thing…I liked it!
On Friday I went for a party. Since it was raining, I got a little wet in the rain. And I didn’t feel irritated as I usually do if it rains on me before a party. On the contrary, I enjoyed the feel of the raindrops on my face and hair. On the same day I was taken to eat some chaat. Chaat…I’ve been so caught up with the kebabs and biryanis that I’d actually forgotten how good it feels to stand by a chaat thela in wet weather and munch on some super-spicy aaloo tikki.
On Saturday I went back to the same place I go every Saturday- Turquoise Cottage. And here’s the thing: I didn’t have a blast as I expected to. It felt very run of the mill, and didn’t excite me like it used to. I left pretty soon and called it a night. The next day I went out to lunch with a friend, and we went to a sandwich joint, where I saw a rack full of postcards. And that just made me so happy. I went and stood there, browsing through them, picking out the ones I wanted and scattering the rest on the table. After having picked up the ones I wanted and returning the ones I didn’t back to their rack, I went and sat with my friend, feeling extremely pleased with myself. Some of those postcards now adorn my workstation; and serve to make me happy when I look at them.
I believe I’ve been living the details since the past few days, and it feels pretty good. Does that explain my recent craving for a glass of chai from a dhaba?

Choices

2005-09-14T03:35:00.000-07:00

Everyone tells you what you’re doing is wrong. You reflect upon their opinions, because you trust them. And they have been right in the past. You think things over, incidents, thoughts, future goals et al. And you realize that they might be right. Maybe what you’re doing is indeed wrong. But you enjoy it, so you continue doing it. You think, what the hell, just this once. Then I’ll stop. Of course you don’t stop there; you keep doing it, and then justify it to yourself by saying that you are the master of your own wishes and free to do what you like. And after all, what’s to say that your trusted well-wishers will always be right?
Then there is also the concept of individuality. What is right for one person may not be right for another. It is indeed possible that what you are doing right now, which is met with disapproval by others, will at the end of the day turn out to be the right thing for you. But you are not sure of that. The reason you are doing what you are is temporary enjoyment. And you know that as well as anyone else. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to seek short-term enjoyment, knowing that one day it will have to end and you will have to buckle down to serious business? Does everything one does in life have to pan out to a larger, more substantial goal?

Instinct?

2005-09-07T01:50:00.000-07:00

Madagascar. That’s the name of the movie I watched yesterday. It’s an animated film, about 4 animals raised in captivity, which are then left in the wild. The story is about how they cope with their new lives, and the discoveries some of them make. It brought home to me the fact that most behavior is taught, not instinctive. How creatures react to situations is also largely learnt behavior. This is especially true for species like human beings, who rely so much more on learnt skills than on instinct. Take for example how we react when we are hungry. Instinct urges us to grab the food we see and eat it. But we will still reach for the knife and fork.
What the movie made me think about was how instinct can be suppressed when the outside conditions are not purely natural. Our lion (Alex) in the movie didn’t even know he was a predatory animal while he was in captivity. He was as shocked as anyone else when the realization dawned upon him. It made me wonder: Are there things about us that are instinctive, yet suppressed to a point where we are oblivious of their existence? Could it really be possible that we might be unaware of our very natures? The question definitely calls for a thought, if not an answer!

Experiences

2005-08-29T00:06:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I have an experience which puts me under intense pressure. When I am forced to react to the situation, I realize that my reactions have surprised me more than anyone else. I leave the situation, feeling totally exhausted and stunned at the way I acted. More often than not, I see that I surpassed my expectations, and dealt with the situation better than I thought I could. Maybe I had underestimated myself, or maybe being in that situation equipped me to deal with it.
Another observation I have recently made was in connection with my very strong belief in the importance of having varied experiences, pleasant as well as unpleasant in order to grow and evolve. I feel that in avoiding unpleasant situations, we miss out on a chance to learn. This doesn’t go to say that I am not sometimes an escapist, trying to dodge an uncomfortable situation, but it does go to say that sometimes I find myself deliberately putting myself in a place from where I am not confident of emerging unscathed. I don’t quite know why I do that to myself; am I challenging myself and pushing against my boundaries, or am I just self- destructive?

Permanence

2005-08-25T01:30:00.000-07:00

Marriage- the one relationship that is supposed to be the most permanent of them all. United for life; a sacred union; till death do us part, etc etc. None of the other relationships a person has in life are meant to be as permanent (though they might be far more important to the person in question, I might add).
The irony of the situation is that these days hardly anyone gets into a relationship with the idea of getting married and making it last forever. The common thought process seems to be one of trying things out, seeing if they work, and then taking it from there. And even then there are no guarantees. Divorce is a very real, very often considered option. A far cry from what things used to be like just a generation ago.
And then comes the concept of moral degeneration. A divorced person is “damaged goods.” A society which has a high rate of divorce is considered morally corrupt, and one which holds nothing sacred. Well, how about looking at marriages around us...even the so-called happy ones, where the couples insist that they are happy together. Every so often, you will realize that they may be together, but only because they choose not to consider another option that might make them happier. Is that morally commendable? I’m not sure it is.
Now let’s consider the couple who has spent some extremely happy years together, but with time, have realized that they have grown apart and have nothing in common anymore. If they choose to let go of their comfort zone and venture out in search of something that makes them truly happy again, they would definitely be doing something that requires a lot of courage. Though the ride wouldn’t be smooth, at least they would have tried.
How do we define a “successful marriage?” One that has lasted as long as one of the partners is no longer alive. What is not taken into consideration is the question of happiness, fulfillment, love and respect. A successful marriage, to my mind, is one where both partners gain these things in the relationship, irrespective of how long it lasted.
I cannot deny that a fulfilling lifelong relationship is preferable to shorter, more exciting ones, but at the same time, is this change in mindset a bad thing? Who told us that marriage must be for life and why do we believe them? Why is it that we are so slow to question the things that are going to impact our lives the most?

"Me"

2005-08-12T05:09:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, and we started talking about how different people think and talk; and also about how different we ourselves were a few years ago.
That got me thinking about myself. Of course I’ve changed over the years. Who hasn’t? We all have experiences that make us grow in different directions. Some people may have the same experiences and yet grow in different ways, and change in different ways. That’s when you can see their essential natures. Strong, weak, optimistic, pessimistic, etc are all manifested through the way they deal with the experiences nature has chosen for them to go through. Learning is another thing that allows us a glimpse into people’s cores. What they decide to take away from a particular incident is an indication of what they really are…..
But I digress. I guess what I’m trying to get at, in a rather roundabout way, is that I have changed due to the experiences I have had in the past as well. For better or worse, but changed, nevertheless. What is worth noticing is that when I refer to myself 5 years ago, I still use the word “me.” That’s the same word I use when I refer to myself 10, 15, 20 years ago. Obviously, I am talking about different people, almost unrecognizable as the “me” of today. Isn’t there something fundamentally wrong with that? And who am “I”? Is “me” the person I am today? Is it the person I was born as before I had any experiences that changed me? Or is it the person I will be at the end of my life, complete with all the experiences I was meant to go through and the changes in my personality resulting from those experiences?
Is this a philosophical question, or am I complicating a simple linguistic issue? :)

Remind me again, please!

2005-08-11T00:52:00.000-07:00

I keep telling myself everyday, that I’ll start exercising from tomorrow onwards. Of course, as we all know, tomorrow never comes. But that doesn’t stop me from promising myself again the next day to start “tomorrow.”
A couple of days ago, one of my friends’ nicknames on MSN messenger was “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”
I hardly paid any attention to it then; after all, it was like one of those many lines we hear, which are very true, yet at the same time extremely obvious. Why should we need to talk about things like these? Don’t we all know them anyway?
But then I saw it again today, and thought to myself: Why is there a market for these lines if they are so redundant? Well, I guess the answer to that is because they AREN’T redundant. Knowing something is no guarantee for remembering and applying it. And we, as human beings have a great tendency for “out of sight, out of mind.” We need to be constantly reminded.
Also, application of these things is anything but easy. How many times have we told ourselves that we will start looking for a new, more fulfilling job….soon? Or that we will go for that haircut we desperately need….next week? Or that we will quit drinking for 3 months…..next month? If you pay close attention to your life, chances are that you’ll be shocked at the amount you procrastinate. On the other hand, when we look at the sentence again, it seems like such a small, yet obvious part of the big picture. This reminds me of a line I read in a dear friend’s blog: The most basic skills are the hardest to master!

The high point of this week

2005-08-02T03:35:00.000-07:00

Hallelujah! I’m finally back! I’ve been down with the viral, therefore home since the last week, doing absolutely nothing with myself. Watching TV and re-reading my books, that’s what I’ve been doing.
Now I’ve hit a stage where I’m not well enough to resume normal life, yet well enough to desperately want to!
So what do I do? I sit back and twiddle my thumbs some more. Some more TV, some more books. Till, a blessed friend decides to come over and see me. It’s a great thought; we both sit together and reminiscence about college days. Of course, the only purpose we serve is one of making ourselves feel extremely old, but we do it nevertheless. One nimbu paani and a cigarette later, I decide I CANNOT sit at home anymore, and will have to venture out. So the poor fella is dragged out and coerced into taking me for a bike ride. Nothing less will do. I insist I want to go to Badhkal Lake, where I haven’t been in over a year. So that’s where we go. After seeing the pitiful excuse for a lake (that’s what Badhkal Lake is now, though it wasn’t up to a year ago), we turned around and promptly came back.
I was tired but mostly felt great. I mean, how many days can one possible sit at home for? And when I say “sit at home”, I mean literally that. It’s a sad day when a girl looks upon a bike ride, which at another time would have been all but forgotten by now, as the high point of her week. Sniff sniff!

Thrills

2005-07-19T23:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went shopping. (Yes, I know…I shop a lot!) And as usual, picked up a whole bunch of things I had no intention of buying before I saw them; and then ran around trying to find the things that I HAD gone to buy. Finally, after 2 hours, I found them and thankfully headed back home.
On the way back, for some reason, I was feeling on top of the world, (I guess its true; shopping does give you a high!) and I pressed down on the accelerator a little more than necessary. I was racing. The windows were rolled down and the wind was hitting my face. I felt great! Great, that is, until sanity made its presence felt, and asked me what exactly I thought I was up to. Slowly the foot eased off the accelerator and I was driving at a decent speed again.
When I got home, I received a call from a friend of mine, who is a rally driver. We decided to go for a drive in his rally car. Now I could sit back and enjoy the speed without the responsibility of control. That is bliss! So we drove around on the outskirts of the city, creating a racket and going at an insane speed that I would never have attempted if I were in the driver’s seat! After the drive, I got out of the car; my legs shaky, strands of hair blown loose from my hairclip, and adrenaline pumping through my veins. And a huge grin on my face!
Maybe next time I’ll drive that car!!

Blast from the past!

2005-07-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to this adorable little place for dinner. It’s called “Not Just Paranthas” and is in GK II M-Block Market. Its décor talks of times I have never seen and places I have never seen. It’s set in the past (with a few modern variations, of course), with the old doors and windows, a rendering of the famous “Paranthe waali gali” covering a whole wall, bolsters for those who want them, the old red and black streetlights set in the corners of the room, and old film posters on the walls! Their waiters are dressed like postmen, complete with jholas. The music they play is from the yesteryears. Not even remixes of old numbers are entertained.
One of the modern variations includes a chuski bar. And the chuskis aren’t the usual blobs of ice that you dip into your glass; they’re more like slushes. But pretty good stuff. And the food…! Oh, it was to die for! There’s a catch, however; No alcohol and no smoking. I thought that this might take the edge off the place, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s definitely worth the abstinence for a few hours.
While sitting there, I found myself floating back into the past and wondering what life used to be like then…did people really fly kites all evening for entertainment? Did they wander around paranthe waali gali and make an outing of it? The old streetlights are my personal favorite. Imagine a road lit only by these little dim black and red lights. It’s straight out of Fairyland! These are things that I have never seen, but would have loved to. Hell, I don’t even remember the old televisions that came in wooden cabinets! Am I missing out because I don’t know about these things? Or am I privileged because I know about other things? Is emailing an adequate substitute for evenings of socializing on people’s terraces?
I guess I’ll never know; but yes, I do wish I could go back in time and take a look at what life used to be like for people then. And yes, I am a romantic!

Statutory Warning: Cigarette Smoking is Injurious to Health

2005-07-07T03:32:00.000-07:00

Sure it is; we all know that. Just as the generation before us did, and the generation after us does. Yet many of us continue to smoke, well knowing that by doing so we are putting our lives at risk. Who is to blame for this? The smokers for not caring about their lives? Their parents for not bringing them up properly? Well, the government seems to think the Media is (like it is for every conceivable and inconceivable ill in society). So it undertakes a preventive measure; it decides to ban all smoking scenes on the silver screen.
What a great idea! Now, supposedly, the youth will magically wisen up and kick the habit. After all, the premise is that if you don’t expose someone to something, they won’t take to it. Of course, what was conveniently missed was the fact that the public is not stupid! It is automatically assumed that the public is at large, an unthinking group of people who aren’t intelligent enough to make their own decisions, and have to be continually “steered in the right direction”.
And of course, the body to do it must be the government; which consists primarily of thieves, murderers, former convicts, and other such select individuals. They are the ones who decide for the rest of us what we may or may not do, what we may or may not watch, and in some countries, what they may or may not wear. Not only is this a violation of the freedom of choice, but is also an insult to the average man’s intelligence.
And this in the world’s largest democracy!

Its Disney Day!

2005-06-29T02:40:00.000-07:00

Here, at NIIT, today is what they call Disney Day. That means everyone has something to do with Disney decorating their workstations, as well as themselves. There are balloons all over, not to mention the streamers. Reds, blues, yellows, oranges….you name it! People everywhere are wearing Disney character masks. Some might call it juvenile, and I might be tempted to agree with them as well, but I cannot deny the effect it has had on lifting my mood.
And the weather! The weather has been pretty damn kind; it’s been raining all day. I came in to office about an hour ago, and have barely spent 10 minutes at my workstation. How could I? Everything looks so exciting. If I’m not in the balcony watching the rains, or having a chat with someone, I’m wandering about by myself, loving the splash of colours.
There is laughter in the air and everyone is having a great time decorating the office and themselves. There is what I can only describe as a zing in the air. Is it my imagination? Possibly; but in that case I wish it were a permanent feature.
It’s impossible to be in a bad mood on a day like this. After all, life is beautiful, and its days like these that remind me of the fact!

Nature's Law

2005-06-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

The other day i went shopping. I knew exactly what i wanted to buy, and went with the intention of picking up those things only. Now, as is nature's law, i couldn't find a single one of the items on my list. And if i did find them, they were extremely poor specimens. It was a very frustrated Insi who returned home that evening.
The next day, i went out to have lunch with a friend, and while in GK 1 M-Block market, i suddenly saw in shop windows all the things i couldn't find the previous day!
Ever wondered how, when you misplace your car keys, you can just never find them....untill you give up and flop into a chair, only to find that you're sitting on them?
I have a friend. The poor girl has been single for the longest time, and is now desperate to hook a guy. She's sweet, funny, attractive but no guy wants to go on a second date with her. On the other hand, her best friend is just too busy enjoying single life, and couldn't be bothered with a man right now. It's amazing how many men flock around her!
Isn't that just nature's law? You never find a thing when you're looking for it, and the moment you stop looking...BAM! In Your Face!

Who we admire

2005-06-15T03:41:00.000-07:00

About 3 months ago, one of my mother’s friends discovered a lump in her breast. She has been a heavy smoker all her life, and there is a history of cancer in her family. So when she discovered this lump, she totally freaked out. I remember taking her for her biopsy, during which she couldn’t stop shaking, and refused to let go of my hand. Imagine her plight when she was diagnosed with cancer, and was told that it had spread too much for them to be able to save her breast! After the tests, we went out for lunch, and then she asked me to get her a cigarette. That was the last one i saw her smoke. She has never smoked after that. It has been 3 months and she hasn’t touched another cigarette.
After the surgery, began the traumatic procedure of chemotherapy. She travels to Bombay every month for her therapy. Not only has she lost all her hair and her breast, but her immunity has decreased to an astonishing level. She cannot eat non vegetarian food (which was her staple diet before the cancer), she cannot drink more than a glass of wine a week, and she has to take immense care of herself. None of which is a big deal normally; but when I see a 55 year old woman, having lived her life a certain way, now having to live in a completely different way, I can’t help but admire her for it. I can’t help admiring her when she walks proudly in a crowded street, amidst gawking strangers without bothering to cover her bald head….or when she wakes up at the crack of dawn to do her yoga, or when she reacts to uncalled-for remarks from strangers by not reacting.
When we think about people we admire, we rarely refer to these real life examples each of us have seen or heard about. I wonder why. I also wonder why when we think about the people we admire, we automatically think of Mahatma Gandhi, or Nelson Mandela, or our parents, even though they might have done nothing more remarkable than bringing us up. Why don’t we think about these people who have fought battles far more terrifying than most of us can begin to imagine?
Have we been conditioned to answer these questions in a particular way? If that is true, then it scares me. I dislike the idea of being conditioned to answer questions in a way that curbs my own thinking process. Or is it that we only give these people a fleeting thought, and don’t give them their due, because their battles don’t affect us in any way? If that is true, then it disturbs me, because I don’t like the idea of being insensitive and blind to the courage of others.

At Bhowali

2005-06-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

This weekend was amazingly wonderful. I had gone to Bhowali (which is about 15 minutes off Nainital) and I cannot begin to explain the relief I experienced at being away from the heat of Delhi as well as the daily issues of my life. It was almost like having an alter identity; one that is not plagued with any of the nagging doubts or problems that my other existence is. I remember sitting in the porch with a cup of hot coffee, wondering whether I should go back at all or not. After all, why couldn’t I live in the hills for a while, earning my livelihood there? Then, if I felt the need to earn more, meet the people I had left behind or for any other reason, return, I easily could. Why is it so difficult for any of us to leave the known, which is essentially our comfort zone and put out roots elsewhere? We all admire the people who can just pack up and take off, yet we hesitate to be those people.

I am sitting on that same porch, this time with a glass of litchi squash. I can hear music from the house. “Oh my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch….” Unchained Melody. I enjoy the song; it holds many special memories for me. Some beautiful, some painful. The song ends, and I prepare to think. But that is not to be. “Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me, I’ve come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee.” Though that is another song I quite like, I’m unable to concentrate on it. A fleeting thought comes and goes: Why are most of the songs/poems ever composed on the subject of love? What is so great about love? Why don’t we write more about happiness, spirituality, survival of the great and spirited? And if we do have to pay so much importance to love, then why it does it have to be the love between a man and woman? Why don’t we write and sing more about the love between friends, between siblings, between children and their parents? What is it about non-platonic love that has been and will be fascinating generation upon generation? My litchi squash is almost over, and I prepare to go back inside the house, when suddenly the answer strikes me. The reason for this seemingly strange fascination is the fact that non-platonic love, the way we see it and want it, is the most coveted yet most rare form of love. And the reason for this is that we don’t recognize true love when we have it, and are always hankering after the kind of love that we perceive to be true. None of the famous love songs or poems are, in fact a correct depiction of true love, and a desire for just that kind of love is our downfall. Another reason for this fascination is the unfathomable fact that something which brings us so much joy at one time can bring us a sorrow that is tenfold at another time. Which brings me to the question I’ve been trying to but haven’t been able to answer since the past year and a half: Is it worth it??