The Miscellany Manifesto

coming up for air

2008-09-25T21:05:00.002+05:30

I've always believed in signs, read into the little and big patterns in the threadwork of everyday life like they were metaphors to help me decipher the larger meaning of things. I used to do it constantly; play it like it were a game.

-x-

A few months ago, it felt like everything around me, in me, came unraveled. What happened was large in my scheme of things, and I felt winded, like the spaces in my chest had just become hollow. That's what it felt like. Perhaps it sounds melodramatic, that's ok too. It wouldn't have been a big blow for other people, but ever since I'd left home, I'd anchored my life onto the people around me who showed me care and affection. Without even realizing it, I'd tried to build something of a family beyond the one back home, create a safety net. I suppose we all do it. I'd woven relationships with my friends into this fabric with more care and love than I have ever acknowledged or given myself credit for. I guess I've just never pictured myself that way. Sometimes, strangely, it's hard to see the best in oneself. But then, a few months ago, this little safety net unraveled and I felt suspended.

While the why and how of it were all important until a few weeks ago because the blame and wound were both fresh, it hardly matters now. I went from feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, to feeling absolutely lost and wretched. I was lost about myself, my life, the course it was suddenly taking. I haven't been that low in a long while and it bought back some horrible ghosts from the past. I realized what someone had told me once was so true, I felt my joys and sorrows, my peaks and troughs fully. When I was happy, I was truly happy and when I was sad, well, God help me.

This time around, when things went pear shaped, I couldn't even hold myself from tripping over. I just plain fell flat. I cannot, do not, want to put into words the strange thoughts that traipsed through my mind the last few months, because that would just be too ugly. One thing after another kept pulling me down, lower lower lower. I really haven't been myself these last few months. Haven't felt one bit like me. Infact, I realized at some point when I was thinking half-sanely, without heaping blame, anger, dirt on myself, that I'd forgotten what made me me. This realization only pulled me deeper down. I can't believe the things I was thinking, all the complaining I did, all the shoulders I sought. I couldn't even console myself. At one point, I wasn't able to recognize who I was anymore. I just couldn't figure out why it hurt so badly, what were these aches about, why did this stuff matter so much? Couldn't I just dust myself off and walk along once again, the way I knew I had done so many times before?

I tried things to make me feel better, but this load, it was just too heavy. I felt despicable because I could feel the people around me sour on my bitterness, tell me, "Pull yourself together woman, there's more to life than this." I just kept drowning in it all though. To each his own. Well, almost.

But it's true. There is a time for everything. And now, as the seasons slowly turn in the air and in the earth, I'm coming around. Finally. Nothing "happened". Time is just taking its course and bringing me to a point where I can safely look behind me and say, "Well, that's that." I'm not quite there yet, but I'm out of the dark. I'm not drowning anymore. It's been overwhelming me for so long now, this terribly ugly feeling I've had sitting like a rock inside of me, and now, it isn't there any more. To me, the feeling inside me today, it feels a little like magic, wisdom and simplicity braided together.

I know what I need now. And I know I'll find it, I know I'm on my way already. Just to realize that for all this time I've sought my worth in my relationships with people and not inside myself, that I've been looking to the people I love to make sense of my troubles and confusions for me, to support me in my small and large crises because I didn't trust myself to do it alone, that I built that safety net so carefully from the relationships I built with people, but I paid no attention to first building a relationship with me- do you know how sweet these understandings are?

I am figuring things out. Piecing things together, my own knowledge of me.

I can't tell you how good it feels suddenly to have that rock of feeling lift away, to not feel like I'm drowning any more and waiting, in need of rescue. Because rescue and consolation came, and it came from just the right place- from me.

I re-started this blog in an attempt to make myself do one of the things I like doing best, that keep me centred, writing. And I just haven't been able to put my thoughts out of myself, mould them into words and sentences. They've sputtered and coughed and made little half sentences on the screen. It felt like there was a plug jammed somewhere that wouldn't let the words out of me. But I knew the moment I felt myself again, the words would flow.

I'm writing this on the blog tonight and the words are swimming out of me. Smooth and unhindered like before. I don't care if this makes no sense to people, I don't care if it sounds like melodrama, I don't care because it was all real to me and I felt every inch of it. And now I'm done feeling that darkly, feeling like I were drowning under the weight of my own murky thoughts and unsaid words because it finally, thankfully, amazingly, feels like I'm coming up for air.

...and just like that, its all good!

2008-09-08T21:06:00.004+05:30

(Thankyou Mr. Storyteller!)

warm fizz

2008-09-08T19:54:00.004+05:30

Confetti coloured homes whiz by the windows on the east and a sun warmed breeze blows in from the west. Cruising on a zipper thin road cleaving the everyday careworn civilian lives from the frolicking, vacationing gentry on the endless sand, the little bus beetles down towards the golden south, where living is forever good. Atleast in my head. The hair on brown sugar arms turning golden under a beating sun, salt water sizzling off a bare back, toes catching a fleeting grip on watery sand, torsos bobbing with the waves, and everything blending together as if there were never any seams between skin, surf and sand.

I shuffle off the bus and then straight onto the sand. Four o'clock remains my favourite time of day. Grains of sand spraying on the backs of my legs, salt on my tongue. The sun is still high. I tease my backpack off, and stare at ocean. Here, finally. Then one warm palm closes around my waist, the other pushes itself just right into my own hand, I lean my back on a warm chest. This is a homecoming. And all of a sudden, there is nothing between me and a long bout of contentment but city life melting like fizz and one long sigh.

Rip. Tide.

2008-08-31T12:43:00.006+05:30

Just like that, the hand of something large, something momentous and unfathomable, not seen but merely felt, like time or fate, comes over and picks you up from wherever you might be to deposit you to where it deems it is suddenly, unfairly, fair for you to be next. Like the needle abruptly shifting from one record to another, or a drop of ink sucked up and dropped into a clear bowl of water, the newness is sudden and whole. Everything just changes without the need for explanations, dues and pretenses of fair and unfair.

The poetry of past patterns jerked into new designs, cars swerving into each other's lanes, trains jumping tracks. Before you've blinked and your senses have come to their senses, the warp and weft of the net that holds you everyday has ripped and you've fallen through. The edges of everything blur, so new, unrecognizable. And before you know it, the edges of You blur too and you can recognize neither yourself nor where it was you fell from.

Bored Chocolate-y and Waxy

2008-08-22T20:49:00.004+05:30

So grand plans for Kasauli fell through the roof before you could say weekend. And now the next two days are yawning before me with the prospect of too much free time and little activity. Still, it's ironic that it should be worrying me considering how the weekdays pretty much yawn at me in the same fashion. Anyway, there now exists a plan B, which I'm a wee bit alarmed by, but the depths of boredom and self-loathing have been plumbed to such an extent now that I'm honestly willing to do anything just to do something. So a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

And apparently this girl's gotta do a facial. And then some.

About a month ago when I was quite literally sky-high on my first salary (which has now gone "poof") I decided I'd buy myself anything and everything I wanted just to know what it felt like. Gone are the days of saying "It can wait another day", I thought to myself and commenced on what can only be described as the grandmother of all sprees which eventually led to that hollow, painful "poof" in the bank account. But not before much, much retail therapy was had. Frankly, I have no regrets about that part. But an embarrassingly large portion of that therapy included beauty products and treatments and other beauty what-nots, most of which are lying shamefully unused in my little wardrobe in the PG. (Yes, I've actually thought about returning them. No, Body Shop is only sympathetic towards exploited farmers in poor nations, not greedy, hasty yuppy women with a debit card that has come to life.) Also note, you are not allowed to say mean things about how none of this expensive shit has helped, in case you have seen me lately. (Yes, SM that's meant for you.) God only knows why I waste money on make-up and related crap because that goo rarely touches my face! That might have something to do with aspiration, self-esteem and childhood issues, but it probably has more to do with the fact that it always looks so pretty...

Anyway, so one part of that beauty related retail therapy was a small bomb that I spent at a place alluringly called 'The Beauty Workshop' close to my PG. I don't know what that woman at this salon had put in my 'Welcome Drink' because it sure as hell was responsible for me signing myself up and PAYING IN ADVANCE for some sort of Beauty Bonanza that included things like a Chocolate Facial and a Pedicure with some scary hot wax. No really, I don't know what I was thinking! Considering the fact that my last and only facial bequeathed me a pimple the size of a small country and that I sweat profusely (like, ugly profusely) during pedicures from concentrating REALLY hard on not giggling when women are kneading the soles of my very ticklish feet, it is inexplicable that I would choose to put myself through this- especially when the words chocolate and hot wax are also associated! I insist, it was the welcome drink that made me do it.

Anyway, the deed is done. I've quite literally been avoiding the very thought of these looming 'procedures' for the last month. But I can't avoid it any longer- tomorrow is the day. Nothing special, apparently 'Beauty Bonanza Treatments Must Be Availed Within 45 Days of Payment Being Made'. Who knew these things have expiry dates! So I must now choose between the risk of losing a large chunk of my money or the risk of having another small country bequeathed to me, plus having my feet cook slowly in hot wax. Hmm...

Chasing Creases over Edges

2008-08-22T18:25:00.001+05:30

[You know when the bedsheet has a hundred creases running criss-cross over its skin, and you sit down and smooth a hand over them, chase them over the edges with your palm and the surface is placid once again? Well that is what this is about.]

I have an urge to begin with, "I havn't been writing lately..." But I won't even bother. As it is, those words have made an appearance on this blog one too many distressing times. If you could see me now, you'd see shrugged shoulders and both arms raised, hooking the air like question marks, because it just defies me! Like physics or people letting numerology decapitate their names, why I let writing slip is beyond me, especially when I love it so much. It's beyond me. Be-yond.

All those little epiphanies it bought everyday, the bit-by-bit catharsis, that magic feeling of words coming together in my head at the merest hint of something to share on the blog. That feeling one gets when a complete stranger writes in to say a post made their day, or simply "Bless your heart". Or how the awkward patterns of everyday fit together to make a more beautiful picture. Just the simple joy that creating something everyday gave....I don't get why I stopped. So, like I said, beyond me. Which is a far far away place.

So I'm starting again. Because I need to. Like, really.

---

I was contemplating "junking" (bad karma, bad karma) this blog altogether and beginning another. Total abandonment. But then some more thought about that and I realized that it wouldn't be any good at all. I'd just be running away from my poor neglected blog, unsung stories and a heap of heaving guilt. (Yes, I know, I have a complex relationship with The Miscellany Manifesto. Told you, really not funny how long I've been meaning to begin being the regular, average blogger again.)

I began writing for me. But soon enough, there were enough eyeballs on this blog to really encourage me to keep going. Now, greedy me, I want that again. Which is what that e-mail/ping was about. It was also about me needing a sharp elbow nudge between my ribs if I fall off the wagon again and stop writing. So help me out, ok? Also, comments solicited on new outrageous template. (Green much?)

adrift

2008-07-25T01:13:00.000+05:30

Sleep floats towards me on a little barge of words. I read them as I watch it drift closer. Soon I shall put away these pages and embark upon my barge, waiting. Travel to a dreamland upon the riverways of my mind-

sometimes a broad gush with land on neither side
sometimes
a
mere
trickle
tickling
the
pebbles
beneath

But always, always traveling steadily into the depths of my mind. Sometimes,

I emerge through the nets of light to bank onto a lush meadow;
sometimes caught by those very nets, hauled
into the recesses of some cavern.

But always, always steadily towards the depths of my mind, upon my barge of words.

Ignite?

2008-06-28T17:46:00.001+05:30

Sitting in my old bedroom in the 'ancestral' home; windows thrown wide open, a fine drizzle outside and a wet breeze carrying upon it the beautiful smell of wet earth and warm, freshly baked biscuits. Feeling the gentle satisfaction of having finished a well-written, if somewhat long book- 'Any Human Heart' by William Boyd. But given my shameless infidelity to so much reading material in the recent past, I think I've done well enough. I feel like I've skated across the surface of Logan Gonzago Mountstuart's life...

As always, my lament, I've been meaning to write. Clogged with words, but somehow, still unwilling. Amongst other things, the book definitely has motioned me forward towards my untended Miscellany Manifesto. Perhaps, I need this self-indulgence once more. Is it time to jot down the random musings of this transient soul once again?

Manana

2007-08-07T03:15:00.000+05:30

Another year of longing begins. A new year and new faces abound. The sky is still the same brilliant blue, the canal steps just as eager to receive our musings, the pathways as keen to nurture new love, the little hushed spaces between the talk as quiet with new secrets as with the old. They discover our private corners- bustle in wanting to make them their own. They discover the familiar joys of grass between the toes, a cold bench at 3am and the warmth of a good conversation that can linger for a good few days.
For us, old pleasures are rediscovered. We savour things with added keenness as the piquancy of loss becomes sharper on our tongues. We will abandon this home soon, and this home will abandon us quite readily. Our memories will fade as newer faces rise and set. Soon, we will leave. After all, eight months are nothing at all.
Still. There is much to be done. This is our little harbour for the coming months and we anchor ourselves here for now. The wide open sea and the big beyond of all the tomorrows, the manana, awaits us. But for now, our anchors have fallen deep and steady.

Swing- for Us.

2007-05-18T19:51:00.000+05:30

[Look mommy, two posts in one day!]

We began walking the day we met each other. People who know us would think this is a lie, a blatant lie. I know they'd accuse us of being indoor-sy people, but only we know. We began walking the day we began with each other. The words flowed back and forth between us, like a pendulum. A stroke for every moment. We talked and walked, walked and talked. We lost track of where we were headed before we began walking together. Old tracks were long lost.

And it was on one of these walks that we encountered an empty swing. Children that we really are, we couldn't help but sit ourselves down on the plank. We reached down with our feet and pushed, off the swing lifted. We flew through the air, back and forth, like a pendulum. A stroke for every moment. It gathered momentum, we were scared. Suddenly all we wanted to do was stop. It was a bit much for both of us. And just like that in that cold month of November the swing stopped swinging altogether.

Suddenly, the rhythm was lost. There was neither the motion of the swing, nor the bridge of the talk. We tried to stop walking together, but our paths had already grown a little too intertwined for us to really walk apart. Soon enough, the words too began to sputter between us. Not the casual swing of sentences they used to be, but mere shoots of things we wanted we could say.

For two months we tried to walk apart. We almost succeeded, but never quite. And then before we knew, the paths twined together and led us back to our swing. And can children ever resist a good swing? We clambered on, and gingerly, swung ourselves off the ground. Before we knew it, we were swinging back and forth as before, a pendulum.

Winter turned to spring and spring to summer and we swung high in the air. And though we may stall now and then, sometimes like the hour hand of a watch, like a pendulum or a swing going back and forth, you can't help but end up where you began.

City Life

2007-05-18T14:57:00.001+05:30

Waiting in the big city for some love and salvation. Everything tastes of the bittersweetness of the blues and struggle. We ride towards the horizon of beautiful people smiling down at us beatifically from their giant hoardings. The night sky has no stars, no hope of the cosmos and none of the sweet romance of counting bright things in the sky. We only lie beneath the upturned bowl of ink watching the pigment slowly flow away towards the edges as morning approaches. The night colour passes and slowly the glare of day fills the glass of the bowl. We bake quietly beneath, all the while scenting our lives with our hopes for love and salvation and staining it with the blues and the struggle.

All Fool's Day

2007-04-08T21:57:00.000+05:30

I've always bemoaned my painfully slow realization of the events of my own life. Their size and capacity to twist the contours of my life into new shapes never ceases to amaze me, but I do wish I were a little quicker at understanding the magnitude of the change when it comes upon me. Size up its capacity for havoc in advance, so to speak. It's not for nothing that I'm called The Tubelight. Bright, but a little slow with the light. However, I am happy to report that there seems to be some real development in my general incapacity in this area. Some shedding of light, if one may call it that.

About a week or so ago, the first year at MICA truly came to an end. It had ended in several ways before that day- in terms of classes, hard work, exams and other similar trivialities. But on the 1st of April, All Fool's Day, it truly came to a close. I worked my room, my beloved Kachnaar 21 into boxes capable of holding material belongings, but pathetically incapable of enclosing any of the memories that wonderful home has brought me. For a whole year it has held me and my moods, kept safe my belongings as well as my unbelongings, harboured my joys and sorrows, welcomed new friendships and most of all, moored love between all its four walls and kept it always, despite everything, in place. With it's little space, it was generous not only for and to me, but also for and to my A. It wasn't just mine, a new possessive pronoun needed to be used- it was ours.

As I watched my home dissolve and disappear into those boxes something began welling up inside me. By the time I was done, it was like a massive knot within, somewhere between heart and gut. I realized I wanted to cry, but no tears came- Tubelight as always, I thought. Finally, after hours of labour our home was empty of everything but me. Kachnaar itself was deserted and I know that on any other day, it would have unsettled me deeply enough to make me run for company. But I stayed, I didn't run; I suppose I am thankful for those final quiet moments in that beautiful hostel with its lonesome courtyard. All around me rooms gaped with their doors wide open, ravaged of familiar faces and familiar voices. If ever I've seen something hollowed out, it was that day.

I prepared for the departure- shower, some last minute packing- and then the last of us gathered on the steps outside. It was almost as if we were drawn there. Not quite inside the hostel and not quite out. It was almost time to leave but we still wished we could stay back. Inevitably, memories were recounted- some were laughed at, some made us silent. It was an odd time. Finally, the time for departure arrived and I went up to our room one last time. I sat on our bed, looked at the view beyond our window, our door which barred so much and allowed so much more, and the knot finally dissolved. It really was time to go. But thank God, there was some joy in this goodbye too- the tubelight had finally switched on at the right time. On time to realize just how large this change would be, just how it would change the contours of my life. Ironically, just then, there was light. [and thank God for friends, if not for them, I doubt I'd have dragged my luggage to the parking lot in time at all.]

I touched everything one last time, kissed our door goodbye and AJ turned the lights out as we walked away. I cried all the way to the parking lot, then some more as I hugged our Seniors goodbye. But I cried the hardest when PS halted us all on the path out of Palaash-Kachnaar and said, "One last look." I kid you not, never had our hostels looked so achingly beautiful. The sky was a dark ink blue, the first stars were out and a near full moon shone right upon our patch of sky, right behind the hostels. I think we all cried a little.

All Fool's Day, so far, had been the day when we made a fool of someone else. Where we played the prank. This time around, we played the fools. Us Juniors left our beloved twin hostels, and the Seniors MICA itself. And somehow, although the joke is lost upon me, I feel sure that we are the fools.

Still, we have another year to go, new rooms to grow into, bigger shoes to fill. I look back upon the past year and if I could wish for something this coming year, it would be to be a little more aware of the hours as they pass us by. The days of the last year seem so tightly woven together that I fail to truly find a significant beginning and end to each of them. It's like a singular beginning and end separated only by the commas of significant events in our collective and our personal lives. Next year, I hope, shall bring days and nights that are separated each from the other; if nothing else, it might just slow the year down and give us a little more to savour. God knows this year has given me enough memories to treasure, it's only made this fool hungrier for more in the next.

Arriving- Work in Progress...

2007-04-05T01:47:00.000+05:30

The conductor delivered the luggage on the street with a sudden menace that seemed entirely out of place in the soft lilac mellow of early dawn. Everything was subdued: the colours, the sounds of the street, the birds, even the raggedy paraiah dogs observed the goings on impassively, acknowledging the sudden screech of the bus and appearance of strangers with no more than the twitch of an ear. It was as if the peace of the fields the bus had passed on its way had extended its green tendril fingertip over the lips of the little town and hushed all of its sounds in that early morning. Not a sound, even the bus engine was quiet. The conductor clambered off the roof and joined the driver, they spoke a while and walked away. Suddenly Moshumi was alone, without even the disquieting presence of those foul mouthed men to keep her company in that dawn peace.

This silence was idyll for some, especially those who sought the tranquil lull of rural India as some sort of salve for their urban sores. They were the ones who'd had enough of the cities, who'd given up on the rush of every small battle fought in the city landscapes. Moshumi hadn't had enough. Infact, she had just about begun and had much to win. The steel hard taste of city success was still sharp and recent on her tongue and it had made her eager for more. This strange quiet was eerie to Moshumi's ears. She did not seek it. It signified retirement and pensions, inactivity and boredom. Strange. Until three years ago this place had been her home. Now, the absence of din immediately made her weary of Koshy.

Moshumi dragged the load of their luggage from its resting spot on the street onto the pavement and waited for her mother to return with transport. Her family lived on the other edge of town and since her father wasn't aware of Moshumi and her mother's arrival- it was meant to be a surprise- he hadn't come to pick them up. With no autos or mother in sight Moshumi began to get a little edgy. She knew the street well, she knew where her mother had gone scouting autos and still, the quiet set her nerves on end. It was the practiced yet sudden nervousness of a city dweller transposed onto the limited boundaries of a town. There was no sprawl, no activity, no desperate change for distraction, for cover. Here in Koshy Moshumi knew well how apparent things were, how earnest and truthful the people were. It wasn't as if Koshy didn't harbour its secrets or hide behind crafted pretences, it is the nature of people to do so. But the scale, the purpose, the noise and crowd of the city compared to this small town made its simplicity shine almost demurely in contrast. She knew it well and yet now, she didn't.

A silhouette appeared a couple of hundred paces away, someone walking towards her rapidly. In the city she would have been defensive being a lone woman on a quiet road with a stranger pounding the street towards her. And though she was unnerved by the Koshy quiet, there was no menace there. She wasn't defensive; keen on avoiding an early morning, pre-coffee and brush meeting with an old neighbour-yes, but not defensive. The silence was pervasive but never dangerous. The silhouette soon turned into a discernible shape, a face, arms swinging energetically, canvas shoes and cream coloured hair- Paiappa.

Moshumi watched as he walked vigorously; he hadn't noticed her presence. Seconds later when he did, his creased face unfurled in warm greeting, "Moshi! Ammu, when did you arrive?" His gruff voice had that tobacco softened edge, that strangely pleasant wheeze which old smokers often have. Paiappa owned the jewellery businesses of Koshy- a grand total of two shops- and considering the impotrance gold held in deciding the weight of one's carriage on Koshy's social ladder, Paiappa also held a position of high esteem in the town's scheme of things. He carried himself with a certain jauntiness despite his 70-odd years, derived perhaps from the casual and easy friendships he had forged with the women of Koshy on account of the gold business, or perhaps from the good fortune which his widowhood accorded him to make those very friendships. Because one could rest assured that if Paiamma had still been around, Paiappa would be as henpecked as they came.

"I just arrived Appa. How are you? How are the knees?" Moshumi asked. "Ha! They're alright Ammu. Past their expiry date but they're still holding me up!" Standing next to her on the pavement, Paiappa peered at the mass of Moshumi's luggage and asked, "Don't tell me you've come back for good! All these bags! Has your mother finally convinced you to come back to Koshy for good?" There was genuine alarm in Paiappa's voice. Although there were many, her mother included, who had reservations about Moshumi moving to the city for her post graduate education and then work, there were many more who were as thrilled as she was. Paiappa was one of them. "No, no. No such plans yet Appa, though Aai would much rather I quit and come back here. How is everything?" Moshumi asked, peering at Paiappa's face. He seemed older somehow.

Defining The Elbowroom

2007-02-18T22:24:00.000+05:30

I spent most of the day wondering what I could blog about. Still surprising how this seems to have become harder work than it used to be.

Surely, there's as much to share now as there was earlier, if not more. The dimensions of my life in Bangalore bordered on claustrophobic, but there were still moments of modest consequence that quickly and surprisingly turned into posts on the Manifesto. Why is it harder coming by words now?

My scene has changed now. The scope of my everyday interactions has broadened to include people of alarming variety and temprament, situations that never quite manage to attain a balance between placid and violently hurried and far too many powerpoint presentations. Ofcourse, I am more involved here than I was in Bangalore- so my view too has changed. I don't feel like the cynical outsider looking in any more. Infact, I don't much feel cynical anymore.

In a way, although my view has broadened, the dimensions are more compact than they were. The campus is a welcome home. I've grown surprisingly attached to it over the past eight months. And it is a generous environment, responsive almost. I've seen it offer in abundance to whoever seeks it: refuge, company, enclosure, exposure, friendship, courtship, laboratory, family. It is what one will make of it. I'm still figuring out what it is that I seek from it.

But though the campus is generous in offering what we demand of it, it can be equally and very frustratingly enclosed at times. We're so far from everything, it wouldn't be much of an exaggeration to call us some sort of voluntary pariah camp. No TV, some news, little non-electronic contact with people from the city and back home, limited mobility beyond. Perhaps I make it sound pathetically secluded- it isn't. But when you go 'home' and feel odd when you pick up the remote, trust me, something has most definitely changed.

It's like everything is more intense, a little more dense than it was before. Like although my immediate world includes a veritable mob of people, the world itself seems to have condensed. Emotions and opinions are more intense, friendships more accelerated, conversations more random, frustrations more pronounced and addictions more vivid. We bounce and feed off each other, our little community. Come to think of it, my view hasn't really broadened all that much, has it?

Anyway, this is the new elbowroom; minimal in size, scanty with privacy, but generous in tolerance. I'm still struggling with exactly what emotions, frustrations, loves, addictions, conversations the Manifesto can provide a safe outlet to without violating the elbowroom of others. It will be seen. For now I suppose I have enough cause to be happy. It would seem that the words are making a comeback and the writing may begin.

Untended Garden of My Thoughts

2007-02-17T14:21:00.000+05:30

Dear Manifesto,

Of all the relationships that have come, gone, stayed, grown or shrivelled and turned into prunes, my relationship with you remains the most conflicted. Your untended, comatose state has troubled me for long and despite filing a few apologies, the odd excuse and the random flash of verbosity herein, the guilt lingers. I remember how lovingly I began writing, the hours spent moulding your contours, drafting posts, finding photographs, the frequent visits to steal a greedy look at the visits meter, the curious friendships that you brought me...and then the sudden hush. It is like winter suddenly descended upon you.

It wasn't fair. It still isn't. The flow of words is still curiously hesitant, they won't come to me as readily as they used to. I can't weave those stories as easily as I used to. I miss the joy of spending a good hour turning sentences around in my mind to see if they fit the shape of the thought in my head. I miss the slow, lasting satisfaction of a well written post.

Its time for a change. I'd hate for you to go quiet, dim your lights and fall silent. I'd hate for the words to shrivel like prunes, pucker and rot. I need to write and I will- feed you with words once again, sow more seeds and tend to you, as lovingly as I used to. I promise I will.

It's time for winter to yield to spring. There are so many thoughts, so much to write about, share, so many curious new bypassers to talk with. What better season than now? What better time to share the first sprigs of the new spring?

Me.

Going home...

2006-12-11T23:26:00.000+05:30

Its almost the end of term and it's two weeks until I leave the campus for a week's break in Mumbai. This has been a strange term- too full is some ways and simply empty in others. I wonder over and over what I'm taking back home with me this time around. And although it sounds a little like The Pessimistic Trip of The Disappointed Soul, I am taking home a heavy heart, weakened resolve, tired body and empty mind.
Yes, I know, quite the list.

Its also that strange and inconvenient time of year when it is tradition to regurgitate the past twelve months so that one can chew the happy times over like cud, spit out the disappointments and digest everything in between. I've always thought it a slightly unnecessary process, though I have to admit, almost inevitable as well. Its almost as if nostalgia and December end were intrinsically linked. Or maybe its just all the celebrations and alcohol.
I begin to think of the happenings from January upwards and stop almost as soon as I've begun. I realize that this entire recall process has certain prerequisites- a little bit of happy, good friends, the proper holiday mood (shorts and vacation reading included), a total break from the campus and fat textbooks looming on the desk (poor things, unwanted and unread), and finally, and most importantly, I need home.

Like I said, this term's been a little rough. The simple thought of venturing to an unknown place nearly scares me right now. All I want is comfort- the comforts of home, of familiar things, the little certainties of friends and loved ones. I guess I just want to go home. Strange, isn't it? I stepped out welcoming the chance of an independent life away from the very same certainties I yearn for today. Teaches me much- one just wants to be taken care of when tired and lost. I'll save the independence for another day.

Waiting Rooms

2006-12-08T04:07:00.000+05:30

Now is the space between a little too late and a little too early. The silence of the red campus is punctuated by the occassional happy drunkard. I sit in my room, intimidated by the space between all that I want to say and the wordlessness of a blank screen. Still, some consolation now that slow words are single filing in, filling the space in.

The early morning headache plagues me, I still feel the alcohol from three nights ago lining the sides of my stomach. I recall that drunk night- blurred, sad/happy, the cold 5am chill on my bare arms, the escape and the chase, giving in. I remember sitting with my near empty glass on the balcony, feet swinging over the parapet. I remember peering at the final dregs in my glass- I could almost see the knots from the past month in my drink, polluting it.

They aren't just polluting my drink though; the knots are all around me now. The debris of a worn out love. The remnant questions that linger after an abrupt end. They are in my room, they are strewn across the campus, they hang on to the lyrics of our songs, they even pollute my dreams now. And that final breach, the final decaying crusts of old feelings littering my dreams, I will not stand.

My dreams are my own creations- incomprehensible and unbound. The bridges between the end of the day and the beginning of another, the consolations for the absence of colour and fantasy, the answers to the pointlessness of everyday reason and rule. And for such wasted feelings to invade that space, the insult of it is both sharp and unexpected. My dreams are my own creations- I apparently don't take to their being abused at the hands of junked emotions very well. And its a good feeling, this sharp insult, I was beginning to wonder if I'd stopped standing up for me.

My dreams are my waiting room before the next day: the same way that the campus is the waiting room before I am admitted to the real world. My dreams are the fancy, the flirting with reality before reality itself: just like this campus- a strange version of reality before reality. My dreams are like rejuvination, a clinical break from almost all things certain and plausible: this campus is similar- it too is almost antiseptic at times, free from all the hurt beyond.

And now both- dreams and campus- are littered with wasted emotions. It is a sharp and unexpected insult. My waiting rooms polluted by the debris of a worn out love.

But then again, they are waiting rooms. I need only wait. Wait before the debris are cleared, the junk removed, the crusts swept away. And of that I am more than certain- I need only wait a short while before all things return to their rightful nature. All things; me included.

Of Dams and Learning to Ride Again

2006-09-05T00:18:00.000+05:30

What got in the way of words? Where was the dam that preserved them from the Manifesto? Was the dam so large that the words simply found no way to push through onto paper or screen, one alphabet at a time? It would seem so. For days now words in jagged ended sentences have welled up within me, pooled in ever growing puddles whose depth only increases and whose surface only grows more stagnant.

For days I anguished. What had halted the course of my words? Why had they pooled and why wouldn't they flow? I found no solace in answers, only excuses. There's no time, there's too much to do, there's nothing to write about, (and the lousiest of the lot) there's no time to think. There's been enough to write about, much to think about, time to write as well- though none of it has been written about, not much has been thought about and time has most definitely been wasted.

I must confess, there has been much to get used to over the last couple of months and I've taken my time with it. The Manifesto was pushed to the corners of my memory. And I feel like a bad mother for it...

I've been crazy restless for the last couple of days and I had no clue why. I took long walks, listened to music, worked hard at ungodly hours, spoke to old friends, wrote on my walls, discovered the terrace- all to calm the restlessness. Nothing worked. Tonight, all efforts having failed miserably, I paced the terrace looking for something, someone to blame. What was it? Why was I so restless? Was it stress? Was it a project? Was it a person? Was it homesickness?

Then finally singular words peeped through chinks in the dam. Soon, sentences. Nothing coherent still.

I feel like I'm wobbling on an the old worn seat of my rickety bicycle. I'll fall off a few times before I ride like I used to. It is comforting to give the restlessness a cause though. And to feel the words trickle again.

Tubelight-ing

2006-07-14T19:07:00.000+05:30

Comprehension is a weird bugger. You think you could cope with the things going on around you on a daily basis, like every other normally functioning human; but sometimes so many things happen all at once, comprehension abandons ship. Precisely what has happened to me right now.

I should stop being so cryptic, comprehension is at such a premium right now. I still find pinching myself on a fairly regular basis a good way to realize that I'm actually at MICA now. Finally. I should ideally have been done with the pinching bit about two weeks ago, but then again, the Tubelight is the Tubelight because she takes her time. For example, after a late night session at the Library that lasted until 3 30am last night I walked out into the cold, quiet campus and thought- now this is it. After two plus weeks here, I finally get it.

Everything seems to have gone into super fast forward since I got here. Friendships, working relationships, intuitive gems and intuitive glitches seem to be coming at me at a never before speed. To say that the people here are nice would be the nice thing to say- except that most are nice and all that. However, intuition is currently doing overtime and I'm figuring things out far quicker than earlier. A refreshing change for the Tubelight. Should this be taken as a symptom of "The Growing Up"?

I finally have a place that is all mine now. Well, sort of. That, apart from the classes, is the best bit for me. I love the fact that it's all mine. It's home. And it's so good to come back to it at night. Just last night I walked in after a 4am snack to a warm room and my bed- and I was home. My happiest moment here.

Classes are amazing. I can quite honestly say that, so far, I've found each one interesting. I cannot begin expressing how thankful I am to be studying here. I hate feeling drowsy in class- there couldn't possibly be something more disrespectful in a classroom. I've been trying hard to avoid the sleeps in class- success for most part. But Accounts? Pass me the Stimulant.

I think about it and I realize I'm happy. This is where I wanted to be. I'm lucky. Because this is exactly where I am. And damn me if I don't make the most of it. The Tubelight switches on.

Gmale Comes To Town

2006-06-16T21:00:00.000+05:30

Remember watching Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak? Remember the hero and heroine's friends, those disposable cupids who helped them elope and be naughty? Yeah, I almost turned into one this weekend and I didn't even know it. Here's the sordid tale of the Gmale, the to-be Gfemale and their untrustworthy sidekick.

Sparse readers, you might have encountered a certain creature called Aunty G in my previous posts. I shudder already. Yes, its the same Aunty G of the "Ladki balik hai, shaadi kab karegi" and "Upar bhoot hain? Accha? Main jaaon?" fame. G force is back with a bang; and if you look past her big bang you will notice her son, the Gmale, running behind her tied duly to her apron strings.

Gmale and I have had a lukewarm Hello-Kaise Ho-Goodbye friendship over the last 2 years. Mighty clever fellow and one of those Yes Mummy types. Not that it's a bad thing, but I feel like shaking his 6'4 frame silly, squeezing all the Navratna Tel out of his hair and telling him "Get a life boy, you're 23 for God's sake!" However, since we are only lukewarm with each other and he's almost always away at his hostel, I can't.

Gmale is doing some sort of engineering course on the other side of town and rather than commute for 4 hours everyday, he lives on campus. Now we all have Gmale figured as the posterboy of the SeedhaSadha variety. But ha! Things are never the way they seem, right? Right! Twist in the tale, sting in the tail- by Curious George, I love it!

See, Gmale went out and got himself a life- along with a girlfriend (Gfemale), a bike his parents don't know about and a warning for expulsion from his college. Oooh, sordid sordid. I only found out when he called me, of all people, and told me about it. Since he calls me didi (because he's 2 years older and calling me didi makes a lot of sense that way) I listened him out patiently and made all the appropriate um-hum, yes yes, ofcourse and no absolutely not sounds when required. All the while wondering alternately, are you serious? and, so why do I need to know this? Things became terribly clear very soon.

Gmale and the Gfemale want to get married. They're sure the parents won't have any of it, lingual barriers and all. I feel really bad for them, as bad as I could feel when I'm jumped with someone's dirty laundry and asked to become a last minute dhobi. You see, Gmale wants me to be a witness at the Registrar's.

Now this isn't me washing their dirty laundry at the wrong ghat, I shouldn't be talking about his personal stuff here, but what to do? This is as crazy as things have gotten in Bangalore over the last 2 years. Imagine, 2 years and no madness and now, 2 days before I go, huge dose of madness. Such is life. And I am clueless.

I'd love to say I consented to becoming their witness and I'd love to say that I approve and it's soooo cuuutteee or something equally airy. I refused. I couldn't do it. Chicken. Quite apart from the fact that Aunty G will hunt me down and strangle me with her loose apron strings, I cannot become a co-conspirator in this escapade. This sidekick abandonned the sidecar even before the motorbike kickstarted.

Gmale was audibly upset but gracious. Thank the Lord. I don't have a clue what they'll do next. Hope it's nothing as stupid as asking me to become their witness. I wish them all the best, whatever they do decide to do.

Beginning the Goodbyes

2006-06-16T08:42:00.000+05:30

So the goodbyes began today. First of the lot and I was a tubelight as usual. Saw the Dhond Platoon for the last time before the next time. I know we'll meet soon, maybe that's why it didn't feel so painful. But then again thats what I convince myself of everytime I say goodbye to anyone. It was painful saying goodbye to everyone, Aaji in particular. The two of us even went for a little girl's evening out yesterday- lots of fun apart from the hunting down the rickshaws bit.

SJB and PS are scouting for eligible porgis, and I'm sure our hunks will find them soon. Infact, PK and SJ (are you reading this?) are also on the lookout. I really hope they do some sort of a wholesale marriage bonanza thing. It's going to be a lot of fun- the preps are always tons of fun. Last night was good, we all sat down after dinner to do some major leg-pulling. SJB was interrogated endlessly about TiMu Patel, to little avail. We only got her real first name out of him after much prodding, still, it's some progress!

As me and mum waved them goodbye from the balcony, tubelight as ever, it hit me then that the next time I see them it might be at their weddings! Imagine all the leg-pulling I'm going to miss over the coming months. The boys are all grown up.

One Day Poems

2006-06-14T12:55:00.000+05:30

Just smooched a brilliant idea from the NYT. Read about an anthology called 'The One Day'. I tried Googling for it, in vain. It's by a brilliant poet called Donald Hall who has just been named the 14th Poet Laureate of America.

It gave me a great idea that I'm very keen to work on. I was keen on understanding the source but since I can't really find it, I'm just going to smooch the idea of The One Day poems. I haven't been writing since the demise of Dioscouri, my other blog. [There's still some stuff there that needs to be sorted- note to self.]

I'll be in Mumbai in less than a week's time. For now, I have a schedule cluttered with talk, shopping, eating chaat and other roadside goodstuff, sleeping over, going out with ReenuBaby, going to Vaslai to Bappa and Pacchi's house and attempting a 6mile cycle trip through village fields to the beach. Don't know which day I'll pick out of these, or perhaps set a day aside. But I plan to go out, be quiet, walk a lot (maybe South-side) and write about it. Who knows how it'll turn out. I can't wait though. Imagine, a whole day dedicated to walking, Mumbai and writing- 3 favourites!

Pattern of writing: undecided. Will probably keep it free verse, maybe para-prose. Let's see. If its any good and I end up not tearing any of it, I'll put it up.

I'm excited! :)

Fanaa: Destroyed in Lameness

2006-06-12T18:01:00.000+05:30

Things have gone slightly upside down of late- practically everyone we know in Bangalore seems to be moving houses. So we went to SD's house yesterday to lend a hand. But everyone turned out to be so pooped and well in need of a break, that we decided to go watch Fanaa instead. Surround sound at unhealthy decibels is never the best idea for relaxation, but atleast everyone sat in comfortable seats for three hours and had no boxes to think of.

So off went the platoon. After reading reviews that ranged from bad to ugly, I wasn't particularly looking forward to it. But hey, a critic who has seen the movie and is critical is better than a cynic who hasn't seen it and is cynical nevertheless.

Right off- the movie is so chock full of 'What the fuck?' moments, I think I uttered the phrase with alarmingly increasing frequency and disbelief as three hours of lameness passed me by. How could it break weekend Box-office records when it's so weak? It makes no sense for God sake! Parents who send their daughter off to a new city with bimbo friends and teacher to find a shehzada, supposedly intelligent girl lets a weirdo guide cop numerous feels without any sense of shock/anger/burning fury, bimbo friends and teacher allow weirdo guide to carry on shenanigans and actually stop train by pulling chain so that they can facilitate a little walking into the sunset moment- wtf? wtf? wtf?

Then if the first half wasn't senseless enough, they tacked on another hour and a half on mindless storyline in the name of entertainment. Army admitting senior officer without suspicion or so much of a background check, parachuting->snowboarding->chase on snowbikes (Voices in my head screamed: Are you serious?), Rishi Kapoor floating beneath the ice (Hahaha), Tabu in the worst role of her lifetime (I hope), helicopters crashing mid-air. The list of celluloid woes is long but I can't even remember half of the self-righteous, ridiculous crap!

Oh, and what about all the great actors wasted in the name of Lame and Lamer guest appearances? So much fan-bloody-tastic talent totally wasted on a weak story and barely there scenes. What a real shame. Here's my list:

1. Satish Shah

2. Lillette Dubey

3. Shiney Ahuja

4. Kirron Kher

5. Tabu

6. Lara Dutta

Can't really recall any more names. What a waste though. Some of these characters could well have been omitted: all in the name of star power. Still, who can debate the filmmaker's good sense if it did so well at the BO? In fact, most of our donkey tired platoon also loved it- what to do?

All in all, a 16 day love story full of ridiculous moments and unintentional hilarity. I thought it was a waste and not only was I destroyed by Fanaa's lameness at the end of 3 hours, I got a lovely migraine as a return gift too. Nice.

Limbo Bimbo

2006-06-06T21:43:00.000+05:30

NB feels like she's between decisions, I feel like I'm between chunks of life. I've arrived safely in Limbo and that'll be my postal address for the coming weeks. I'd like to introduce you to Limbo. Its a dodgy place, at best; but it deserves an introduction and it deserves an introduction from someone who knows their way around the place. No, you're wrong. That someone isn't me. I only stumble, fall, scrape and bruise when passing through Limbo. But I'm beginning to find my way around it- or so I'd like to think. Humour me. Here's a brief guide to Surviving the Space Between the Parts of Your Whole, ie: Limbo.

First of all, what is Limbo? Limbo is that place that comes bang before a big change. You're neither ringing out the old nor quite ringing in the new, you're just beginning to get used to all the ringing you're going to have to do. It's disorientating, and that's the understatement of the day. It's that time, that place, where you know change is about to happen, but your brain is still in that relatively happy place where comprehending the change completely is slightly beyond the capacity of its imagination. So it's a slightly blurry place, things seem to 'just' happen without their being affected by the illusion of your control. Know the feeling yet?

Limbo is an odd place to be in. How it treats you depends upon how you treat being there. It's a little nasty in the beginning. I mean, imagine it if you will, you know life is about to turn itself at slightly awry angles and things are about to be different- but the degrees of the awry angles and difference are still lost to you. How different will things be? How upside down can life get? That's the tricky bit. It is terribly difficult to predict. You could rely on your imagination (for the likes of me, even slim wisdom gained from past experience) but its a difficult deal- not because the breadth of one's imagination doesn't suffice, it's simpler than that- the imagination, my imagination, just doesn't think of all the unplesant things that could come with change. So limbo often ends up being a ridiculously content time where one imagines the coming of Utopia with change. That, 9 times out of 9.1, doesn't happen.

Limbo is a place populated by decisions. Well, there's a lot of indecision hiding in the shadows of Limbo as well, but in the light of things, Limbo is full of decisions and choices that must be made. From the sorting of things, of the debris of life that we collect as we go along to the wasted emotional baggage that we could do without, choices must be made about keeping and discarding. Choices are to be made about the worth of things and their value in our lives. So I suppose change is good in that way, it helps you get rid of the stuff you don't need any more.

Limbo is bittersweet too. Not only things, people are also left behind through change. Somewhere through Limbo it becomes painfully apparent that the comfort of old friendships and old loves must be lost. A new set of people must be understood, efforts made again, ties tied again. Limbo is that place where the loss of the old and the uneasy excitement of the new mingle with each other.

Perhaps the greatest element of Limbo is its instability. The solid predictability of things is suddenly gone- and for me this is perhaps the most unpleasant part. It is perhaps why its so hard to imagine the quantum of change that will hit us. Neither are we in the new yet, nor have we left the old. It's just a strange, uncomfortable place in the crevice between the two. The newness of change is wonderful for some, horrid for others. I suppose its just the way we choose to deal with it.

It is full of fear and joy, decision and indecision, the light of excitement and the shadows of anxiety. It's just a giant periodic oxymoron. And I suppose we all go through it. Everyone faces change once in a while, right? I'm hardly alone. I guess we all just deal with it differently. Some choose to block it, others embrace it, some fear it and others revel in its choices, some are silent about it and others philosophize cryptically on their blog.

Ten Days In This Life

2006-06-05T16:23:00.000+05:30

Celebrated birthday...bought The Argumentative Indian off the streets...fell in love with Amartya Sen...gave some silly exams...played Monopoly and got very angry at SJB for trying to eat a fake Rs50 note...resolved to drink more water...got a wonderful album from parents...cried a little...laughed a lot...missed friends...got soaked...danced after last exam...was shooed out by college watchman...ate sinful amounts of cake...felt thankful...went to Mid-Year Strand Sale & picked up fantastic books...developed mini crush on guy at Sale (no picking up going on there)...missed Miscellany Manifesto...was constantly online despite best intentions...ate with mouth open and felt embarassed...got brilliant birthday CD from Mumbai friends...resolved to get my hair cut by Brilliant Vishal...taught little Rohan to roll his tongue...cleaned my room...got very mad at Journalism professor...watched trashy Marathi soaps with Mum and supplied background scores and extra dialogues and commentary...took sidey pictures with camera phone...dreamed about failing exams...was woken up by Cookie licking my face...wrote my name in Elvish...hugged college friends goodbye...ate Biriyani and Gulab Jamoons...made fun of Mossy's post honeymoon-ness...had sudden bouts of wisdom...argued with SD for the heck of it...read poetry...was blissfully happy...and still enjoying it's after-effects...

Done. Nearly. But Done.

2006-06-03T12:21:00.000+05:30

I'm done with my exams today. And I couldn't be happier. My last paper starts in one hour and 39 minutes and three hours after that- Freedom.

Blog Sabbatical

2006-05-26T11:00:00.000+05:30

It's like a tiresome, long, silly race
But I still try hard to work and think.
Exams just waste paper and ink
and a lot of precious brain space.

The Miscellany Manifesto and Seeking Clarity will return with a vengance after being slaughtered by exams. Until then, as AV would say, maintain decency guys.
Much love xx

HD hearts Black

2006-05-21T15:40:00.000+05:30

An unexpected meeting with an old friend resulted in an unexpected discussion over the merits and otherwise of Sanjay Leela Bhansali's 'Black'. While my friend, HD, is gushingly pro-Black, I fiddled somewhere between a mild dislike and a brief appreciation for the movie. Still, it was enough to propel an hour long discussion.

HD has watched Black in the multiplex some three times, owns the special DVD edition and has notched a further 10 viewings at home. He now professes that Black is his ATF- short for All Time Favourite, with a mild tinge of pride. I was curious to find out what transformed this otherwise serial Rambo, Rocky and Die Hard loving, formulaic plot and gore-maniac into a "sensitive" movie buff. Did Black touch some inner recess of sensitivity I didn't know he possessed? Was Black so beautiful and well crafted a movie that it surpassed even the toilet scene in Die Hard? Or had he just grown up?

Seriously though, HD is hardly the kind of man to like a movie such as Black, leave alone profess his unending admiration for it. I was terribly curious to find out what made him love it so much. When I asked him, HD wasn't too sure about his reply. He seemed a little confused as well- had he converted? Had he abandonned his all-powerful triumvirate of John McClane, John J Rambo and Rocky Balboa? Couldn't be!

Aha, but little boys do grow up. Yes, little boys grow up, discard their dreams of earning a PhD in History, decide to give the CAT, join MDI, learn Salsa, enter a committed relationship, throw out all their baggy jeans and radically change their movie preferences. HD now loved Black. HD loved the direction, he thought the screenplay and art direction were immaculate, and the acting! "Jesus, the acting!" he said, "Rani Mukherjee was too good ya. And Big-B! Crap ya, what work!"

I don't quite share HD's enthusiasm for Black. I didn't hate the movie, but I certainly didn't love it. I think Black tried too hard- to straddle the whole "art" mentality with commercial success. Indeed, before the movie released several headlines harped about it heralding the age of "different cinema".

The movie is based upon a true story, yes, but there is no doubt that the director and writers have taken many creative liberties with its construction. Its neither complete fiction, nor is it true to Helen Keller's life. Helen Keller's teacher was Anne Sullivan, a woman committed to making Helen an individual. Helen Keller graduated cum laude from Radcliff College at age 24- as a scholar. She was never at the back of class. The addition of a male Debraj Sahai and the over-hyped, ill-required kiss between teacher and pupil was masala as well.

HD argues that the kiss is infact the turning point in their relationship. No doubt. But it wasn't a part of Keller's life- my point is, stay true to the story or call it fictional. Bhansali did neither. It was never openly called a work of fiction, and Helen Keller's story was never cited as "inspiration" either. No doubt, Mr Bachchan gave a stunning performace- far far outshining Rani Mukherjee, but I wonder if the role wasn't infact written specifically for him. Why wasn't Michelle McNally's teacher a woman? Couldn't an equally strong female bond have worked?

Frankly, no. This is where I think Black tries a little to hard to straddle art with commercial success. Mukerjee and Bachchan are huge Box Office draws, besides ofcourse, India's most famous and recognized actors. We, as an audience, are far too used to seeing a male-female pairing on-screen to suddenly digest a couple of strong women protagonists. Without Mr Bachchan, Black is an all-woman movie anyway, with barely a few male characters thrown in. The Big-B balances it out.

The cinematography and art direction were huge disappointments for me. At first view, the colour schemes are stunning, but I strongly believe that Black over-does the whole, well, blackness. Sure, we're drawn into Michelle's dark world, but the colours are beyond oppressive. That compared with the stark white of Debraj Sahai's hospital room- the contrast is just so obvious, too obvious. The atmosphere too is almost constantly foggy, wintry- once again, overbearingly dreary. That is why I think at several points, Black tries too hard. The symbolism isn't subtle, as it should be, but in-your-face.

Black is a "different" movie- a mould breaker of sorts. It should be applauded for that. But Sanjay Leela Bhansali is a very intelligent film-maker, not a daring one. A movie such as this, with actors of that calibre was a sure shot hit. He just picked a subject in chiaroscuro contrast to his earlier Devdas- impact guaranteed!

Anyway, these arguments were reserved for the Miscellany Manifesto, HD and I didn't discuss any further than his apparent transformation. We discussed how his life was now so different and how mine was about to change. How he missed his time researching History and how he still hopes to get his PhD via correspondence. I ribbed him about his girlfriend (Hi DP!) and his Mr Exec status. It was a wonderful afternoon. Sometimes you just wish little boys and girls didn't grow up- and start donating so much time to understanding and analyzing movies!

Fighting for Dead Causes

2006-05-20T11:26:00.000+05:30

Estranged BFF is back with a bang. After a conversation that felt as excruciating and pointless as a triathlon, old wounds were reluctantly stitched over with terrible skill and a lot of guilt. This feels as sticky as a burr, I can't get rid of it. I could use my usual route and just ignore the issue until it dies a neglected death, which I'm sure will eventually bite me in the ass- I didn't try hard enough. I could try something new- argue for myself, not take the BFF's load of shit, convince BFF that it's his fault- he didn't try hard enough. I could just run away from it, because that's all I want to do right now. It's honestly beyond a question of trying hard- I'm just different now, I think BFF is immature, deluded, needy and someone I can't see myself liking a lot right now.

This really does feel as sticky as a burr. That is exactly what it is. Something I can't rid myself of.

Exams, AI and Ghosts

2006-05-18T22:51:00.000+05:30

My exams tomorrow, and I'm not freezing in my pants yet. Which is an odd thing, because usually by this time before an exam, any exam, I mean even an eye test qualifies, I'm thinking up worst case scenarios. Instead what's this fly doing tonight? She's listening to music and updating her blog. I swear I've mutated.

Watched American Idol too, so that's another hour of possible study time wasted on pop culture. Possible, being the key word there. Was sad about Elliot Yamin leaving, he was really nice. When I realized I liked AI far more than the Indian version, I felt a little disturbed- unpatriotic even. Yeah, sad, I know. But I did. Then I realized, I needn't, Indian Idol is crap. I mean can you really compare Anu Malik to Randy Jackson...think not. And even though Farha-ha Khan tries to do that whole funny-hand-clap-thing, she hasn't got a patch on that current queen of over the top, Paula Abdul. Oh yeah, and the singers are better too.

Also, with all that wasted time on my hands, I discovered that the floor above us is haunted. No, really, it is. The couple who lived there moved out about two weeks ago but we still hear noises, shuffling and running and stuff like that. Sometimes there's this weird grinding, like chakki-pissing. It's freaking me out just a little... I think we should send Aunty G up, she can exorcise pretty much every thing- living and dead- for good.

Connectivity Isn't Bad When It Looks So Darn Good...

2006-05-15T12:02:00.000+05:30

The thing I hate most about mobile phones is when people call you up specifically to ask you where you are. Grrrr. And contrary to popular belief, mobile phones don't really facilitate a secret life- the parents almost always find out about the boyfriend who lives under feminine names in the phone book. And how can I forget my ever gnawing fear of brain tumours caused by all the waves? That's just freaky- I've given up standing near the microwave as well. And then ofcourse, there is the issue of overconnectivity.

That one really gets me. There have been instances where I was talking on the phone, chatting on the PC even as I tried to get some research done. Let me tell you, even Kali with her ten-fifteen hands would find that quite a job. It's just one of those times when you wish you had more fingers and a few more heads- mythology style.

Although the above might convince you into believing I hate mobile technology, materialism can be a real bugger sometimes. So even though I managed to remain the girl-who-is-silly-enough-not-to-own-a-mobile-and-is-quite-happy-about-it while I was at college in Mumbai, things changed immediately when I was in Bangalore. Upon arrival here, I was handed a dabba mobile phone, a Symat (haven't heard of it have you? Yes, it was that old) by my Uncle Sam because apparently we hadn't received the memo- Bangalore is the Big Bad City, not Mumbai.

Months passed and I began to get quite used to the big chunk of techno bulging in my pocket. (Does that sound weird?) My Symat and I had our days, days when he was pissed with me and days when I was pissed with him; days when he was adamant about not working and days when I banged him on the furniture to make him be less adamant. It was a rocky relationship. We managed for about 9 months when both of us decided we'd had enough of each other and parted ways.

I was scarred from that relationship, missing my Symat but willing to move on. That's when I chanced upon my T230, shiny, gleaming and practically beckoning me from a shop window. I still remember when I first laid eyes on him- a rainy June afternoon on Brigade Road. I knew we were made for each other. A few days later, after some pleading with the parents, they decided he was good enough for me and I brought him home.

In the first couple of months, it was pure bliss. It seemed like we could do anything- and hey, we almost could! Friends admired us, people paid compliments- we were quite a match. But then something awful happened, T230 fell ill due to mysterious circumstances. I took him to so many people, he was examined and rechecked. People even opened him up in vain attempts to make him better again- and although he recovered a little, he was never the same again. I knew he had only a few more months in him... It was a sad time for us both.

Then two weeks ago, his vital stats truly began to drop. It was difficult for him to do almost anything. I could see my beloved T230 was nearing his end. Then a few days ago, with a final blip for a goodbye, he was no more. Gone, just like that. I was in mourning. I couldn't believe how disconnected I felt, how utterly removed from the world. It was a terrible couple if days.

That was when it happened. People say there is no love at first sight, but then again, they must not have seen the Motorola Razr V3. It's got all the right bits for this season- lean, dark and sophisticated. How can a girl not fall headlong into love with a something so gorgeous? Materialism struck again, and waving all thoughts of "Isn't it a bit much for you?" and "But it's a corporate phone" aside, Razr, my new love, came home last night. Pure bliss, all over again.

Sure, some might say I'm just on the rebound from my T230. But when connectivity looks so darn good, how can it be a bad thing?

Waves of Colour

2006-05-14T13:33:00.000+05:30

The white wave sweeping the East...
The White Wave
And the bronze wave sweeping the West...
The Bronze Wave

Hung Up

2006-05-11T10:59:00.000+05:30

There are bad days and then there are bad days. Today is the latter. If there was ever a day where you wondered whether having alcohol and an alcohol tolerance ever came in handy, today is it. I don't know what has bought this on- I don't feel capable of asking questions as mighty as those today, let alone finding answers for them. Exams are coming at me like a freight train and I've practically lain myself on the tracks. Something of an "Aa bail, mujhe maar" as my mum says.

Other crimes for today, and it isn't even 4- I cut out an old BFF from my life. We hadn't been inhabiting the same plane for a very long time now and although he refuses to see it- what with numerous attempts to resuscitate this dead donkey of a friendship- I had to let it go. I hate baggage and I'd been coolie-ing this one around for so long, I've practically got lumbar fusion going on. I know I must sound heartless, I feel heartless. But I can't be the friend he can forget when his girlfriend is around and his bloody Big Sis when she isn't. My shoulder hurts and it just isn't available on demand anymore. I can't care that much anymore. Dead donkey shot in the head.

I've named my laptop Warhol. After the artist. But after conversing with Hammy, Warhol was inadverdently turned into a woman. I believe the poor thing might have identity crisis. Still, she's one kickass laptop. And I'm glad Hammy unwittingly turned her into a lady.

I listened to Nick Lachey and Sean Paul today. In succession. Oh Lord.

The weather is both compounding and dissipating the funkiness of today. The sky is a perfect shade of grey- exactly the colour that reminds you of the first day at school and the attached nervousness, the big ball of excitement and apprehension rolling in the pit of your stomach. I've got goosebumps. Bangalore's fantastic this time of year. Thunderstorms galore. This place pretends to be so high tech, but this time of year it's practically primitive. And perfect.

One long marathon session of revision coming right up. Along with my 5th cup of tea for the day. I think my grey cells need a mini dance session behind my locked bedroom door- and on comes Madonna with Hung Up. God Bless Disco.

Mossy chali Sasural

2006-05-10T09:46:00.000+05:30

After months of diehard preparations, Mossy is finally all ready for the big day. Her stuff has been shifted to the new home she will share with my new Mossa. The relatives from either side have begun to congregate. GrandMossy, Mossy's mum, is showing signs of hypertension and GrandMossa, her father, of depression. The third emotional phase of the wedding preparation has dawned upon us- first comes the teasing, then comes the excitement and finally, the sadness.

Mossa arrived from Pune yesterday. I might as well tell you his name- Anand. We invited him to dinner with the family last night- just to give him a real taste of what he was about to get himself into. Something of an initiation ceremony. The women cooed over the new addition to our brood, amazed at how people-friendly and camera-friendly Anand is. There were minor cheek-pinching and hair-ruffling incidents. Anand survived with minor injuries to body and, what I think were, major injuries to the ego. He should get used to it.

My older cousins were busy hatching some rather vile wedding night pranks, and the younger, more impatient bunch were busy hatching some rather vile pranks for right now. "Lets see how far we can stretch his patience" had become our mantra. Some of Mossy's friends joined us after dinner to examine this new specimen and were mighty pleased. How did I know this? I heard one call him a hunk and another used the words "big hunk of meat". Yes, very disturbing for me but I'm sure Mossy will approve.

The men of our clan? Now thats a different issue all together. After dinner was done and Anand had been scarred and scared for life by the ladies, the men called him over to their corner of the living room. Manly chat and that sort of thing. They asked Anand about his job, his stock market preferences, his views on the latest news headlines and all that. We love our family men, we really really do. What big piles of mush they really are. Each one of them is having the toughest time dealing with Mossy's marriage, far more than the rest of us. They try to mask it with some sort of diluted bravado, but we know they're melting.

Still, overall the Interrogation of Anand went quite well and the man passed with flying colours. He's a good guy, genuine, with his feet on the ground and head on his shoulders. And sure, when him and Mossy stand next to each other, Mossy has to wear 5 inch heels so that they don't look like Bigs and Smalls, but you can tell they make each other very happy. I saw them sitting and talking to each other last night after the whole shebang and I don't think I've ever seen two people look more radiant in each other's company.

Confessions and Celebrations

2006-05-07T10:20:00.000+05:30

Papa's birthday today. Another year. When I was younger, my father and my grandfather were my giants. There could be none taller or greater than them. I idolised them both. My two favourite people in the world.

I lost my grandfather, Ajja, a few years ago. His name was the first word I spoke. He was such a good man. Generous and caring. Funny. On countless afternoons I'd run away to my grandparents' home rather than go to my own. He called me Ammu. He'd shave at 4pm every evening. He'd never drink his tea until it was piping, no, boiling hot. He'd fall asleep watching afternoon TV and my grandmother and I would giggle. I'd sneak him sweets. He always smelt of Bryllcream. I'd help him tune his tabla and he'd teach me in return. A wonderful man. And one part of me will always be with him in that dark but breezy house, skipping through rooms to find my Ajja.

I look at my father now. As I grew up, papa changed from a giant to papa. Perhaps it was because I grew taller, perhaps it was because I just grew up. But I looked at him the other day, really looked. And I realized, he's still very much my giant. I didn't grow, I just forgot. But thank God, I won't ever grow up for him.

I look again and I see something else. My Papa is growing into my Ajja. The same face, the same habits. The same irritants and the same things that make him laugh. The same loving, generous man. And I am still Ammu.

Utopia

2006-05-04T20:38:00.000+05:30

I use the name Seeking Clarity because it is a very honest name. It feels like I am always seeking some clarity. I first read Wislawa Szymborska a few months ago and feel in love with the beauty of her poetry. If writing is about showing readers a new reality, a look through another curtain, then Szymbokska is just perfect. I chanced upon this poem, 'Utopia', a while ago. And I wanted to share it with you because of its perfect juxtaposition. Szymborska provides me with the clarity I seek by telling me it is absolutely unattainable. I hope you like it as much as I do.

UTOPIA

Island where all becomes clear.

Solid ground beneath your feet.

The only roads are those that offer access.

Bushes bend beneath the weight of proofs.

The Tree of Valid Supposition grows here

with branches disentangled since time immemorial.

The Tree of Understanding, dazzlingly straight and simple,

sprouts by the spring called Now I Get It.

The thicker the woods, the vaster the vista:

the Valley of Obviously.

If any doubts arise, the wind dispels them instantly.

Echoes stir unsummoned

and eagerly explain all the secrets of the worlds.

On the right a cave where Meaning lies.

On the left the Lake of Deep Conviction.

Truth breaks from the bottom and bobs to the surface.

Unshakable Confidence towers over the valley.

Its peak offers an excellent view of the Essence of Things.

For all its charms, the island is uninhabited,

and the faint footprints scattered on its beaches

turn without exception to the sea.

As if all you can do here is leave

and plunge, never to return, into the depths.

Into unfathomable life.

Rest In Peace

2006-05-03T22:06:00.000+05:30

Pramod Mahajan
30.10.49- 03.05.06

Democracy=Mobocracy

2006-05-02T18:07:00.000+05:30

I'm studying the Greek philosophers for Politics this year. Its bloody interesting. Just reaffirms my faith in the cycle of things. It's one big chakra, and we're too stupid to take lessons from the past. So we commit the same mistakes again and again, with some new exciting features added every time.

It was really interesting to read that Socrates, Plato and Aristotle were all staunchly anti-democratic. There were several reasons why they hated by, for and of the people so much. Socrates feared that it would turn the administration into a 'Mobocracy'. Infact he was known to have hated the essential democractic principle of 'any man, any job'. Socrates was all for an 'Aristocracy of the Intellect'.

Plato was, if possible, more anti-democracy than this teacher Socrates. He blamed democracy for the death of Socrates and infact, was quite the first communist. Ofcourse, not communist in the sense that we know it today. Plato was all for the communism of property and family. He was of the view that the administrator should not hold binding ties to either as they produce a concept of 'Mine and Thine' and give rise to greed. Plato's philosopher king was always selfless and infact, Leviathan- nothing less than a Mortal God. Big demands.

But its Aristotle whose brusque treatment of democracy I find most interesting. He classifies this states quantitatively and qualitatively. Quantitatively- states are ruled by one, few or many. Qualitatively each of the above quantitative categories can have either a good manifestation, which he calls 'The Normal' and it can have a bad manifestation, 'The Perverted'. So the state ruled by one in the normal form is Monarchy and in the perverted is Tyranny. The state ruled by the few is Aristocracy in the normal and Oligarchy in the perverted. And the state ruled by the many is Polity in the normal and (wait for it) Democracy in the perverted.

So there you go. Aristotle thought democracy was a perverted form of governance. The Holy Trinity of ancient political philosophy dismissed democracy. Oh, but then again- these men also spoke about the sharing of wives, geometry being the essence of life and a monarch who was above many, if not all, laws. What does this lesson teach you?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democracy- for more gyaan. Oh and P.s: I'm all for democracy, responsible democracy rocks. Just so you don't confuse me with either Socrates, Plato or Aristotle. I'm not Greek, I hate togas and I can't grow a beard.

Oh and P.p.s: Take a look at this while you're at it. Hilarious. http://www.sjgames.com/illuminati/politics.html

2006-04-30T22:41:00.000+05:30

Everyday I am amazed at how easy it is to stop thinking. Really thinking. To truly become numb. I started this blog for the very purpose of countering that for myself. I'm scared when I realize how simple it can be to just drift through things without thinking about them, about the causes and repurcussions of those things. Every single day.

I wonder often if I am becoming desensitized, or if I'm there already. And I think that I might be. It stops being about not thinking then. It is inevitable then that I don't feel things either. It would be easy to comparmentalise thinking with the brain and feeling with the heart, but what I mean is the act of really just experiencing things completely. Living them.

I just deleted the last post I wrote. It gnawed at me as soon as it was up on the blog. I wasn't sure why that was, I wasn't sure why I had an urge to remove it and bin it. I thought about it and realized- it was because that last post was empty. It had nothing inside it. It was just a bunch of words strung together about something of little consequence. Did it matter? No. The vacant expression of that post reminds me of a line in 'Homecoming' by R Parthasarathy

"One can be eloquent about nothing."

Writing really matters to me. And it's pretty nasty for me to realize I'm writing things that I don't always care about. It doesn't mean that writing always has to be heavy or philosophical or something, but it does mean that I hope my writing atleast remains true to what I know I want to be writing about. And that isn't trash. It's just another ping in the head to 'Stay Conscious' I think.

I wonder though, am I alone in thinking that its easy to stop actively thinking and adopt a chalta hai attitude in how we think, speak, write, behave?

Just one Bentley?

2006-04-27T22:30:00.000+05:30

Quote of the week. Found today in the NYTimes, 'MTV's Super Sweet 16 Gives a Sour Pleasure':

Her sister's graduation gift package included a Bentley, diamonds and two homes in India. "I was really surprised," Divya said, "because I was only expecting a Bentley and one house."

How Opal Mehta REALLY got a life...

2006-04-26T23:21:00.000+05:30

I read about Kaavya Vishwanathan a couple of weeks ago in the Sunday Times. The journo raved about her as the newest and fairest torchbearer of the chic-lit-chick-lit sorority. Actually even raving seems inadequate- the article fawned over her. You can't really blame them, Ms Vishwanathan has something that would make every parent proud- the girl got into Harvard. I'm sure this is but one of her many lovely attributes, but hey, Harvard trumps nice glossy hair and good manners any day.

I must clarify, I have nothing against the girl. I honestly don't like passing judgements. But here's someone who has truly messed with the art of writing. Regardless of the quality of the prose in 'How Opal Mehta...', I actually thought "You go, girl!" when I read she'd gotten a $500,000 advance for writing the book. In comparison, it is common for established authors to be given a $2-3 million advance. I thought, "Hey, maybe she's an amazing writer!"

But as it turns out, Opal Mehta really got a life not from Ms. V's pen, but from that of another author- Megan McCafferty. I read the reports in TOI and the NYTimes, and felt bad for Ms Vishwanathan. I genuinely sympathised. It is easy to love a piece of writing so much that one internalises it and finds oneself applying it to the situations in one's own life. But could it be that one also cut-pastes them in one's writing? I thought maybe the similarities between Ms McCafferty's and Ms Vishwanathan's work couldn't be that great. But unfortunately, I'm wrong. Website boston.com highlights a few of the purported 40 similarities with great clarity.

Its a good lesson for all aspiring writers- it's one thing idolising someone, but plagirism is another thing altogether.

Wiping it clean!

2006-04-25T18:10:00.000+05:30

I'm almost back to normalcy after two days of good, clean, non-alcoholic partying with the family. I still haven't quite digested the news though. That isn't too much of a surprise considering what an emotional-tubelight-with-faulty-wiring I have always been. I think it'll start feeling a lot more real as the days pass, as my University exams are flung out of the way and we begin some more bouts of compulsive spending. (I'm telling you, we're in such denial right now. The Gokarns say they aren't shopaholics, but we really need a family membership to Shopaholics Anonymous.)

Its strange. When I was in school and hating every day of it, I used to wish fervently for two things. One- a voice recorder so that I could record my friend Mulay hatching her evil plans, which were thrilling (for us) and lame (in general), and which she would conveniently blame me for when we were busted. When we were younger, she was the personification of the 'Junior Anti-Christ' for me; now she's just a Chartered Accountant. And two- the ability to wipe the slate and begin all over. I really really wanted that in school- just to be able to make a clean break and begin anew. I was given that opportunity later in life, and as I look back, I've been given very similar opportunities to begin afresh every few years. I'm very thankful for those.

I used to think I hated change. Now I realize I can't do without it.

There are so many uncertainties. I'm full of questions. Friends and family are brimming with advice. Parents are already displaying signs of anxiety. A list of things to do was started this morning and now, at 15.02pm, its already 28 items long. The next two months are not going to be easy. What about the two years beyond that?

OMG!

2006-04-24T11:20:00.000+05:30

I made it to Mica! Oh-my-God, I made it to Mica! *WooHoo* It happened! I made it to Mica!

I'm such a ball of emotions right now. Wow!

Will post after I feel capable of sitting in one place. And thinking.

The Fourth Seat?

2006-04-24T00:30:00.000+05:30

Okay, so the last time we went wedding shopping for Mossy, I admit I turned to mush. It turned into a sequence from a feel good Meg Ryan movie or something. We shopped, we spent, we bonded- yeah yeah, very cute. But I've realized this whole bonding over the shopping excursion thing, for me, has a two day expiry date. Two days exactly.

For the last two days, it feels like we have done nothing but spend money and take occasional stops to pee and eat. And with the gang setting up base camp in our apartment, it has turned into a MADHOUSE. The floor is practically invisible. Fold-out beds have popped up everywhere. There is constant talking and it hurts my head, it really does. Its ceaseless and high pitched. I'm thanking God my father is in Mumbai right now, because with the potent combination of the spending levels and the decible levels, he'd bust a vein or something. Then again, he'd be great company for grumbling.

It's becoming a tough life. Mossy is more irritable than ever, and GrandMossy is, if its humanely possible, more hormonal than her testosterone-d daughter. MiniMossy is multitasking- shopping and handling boyfriend issues. So we can feel a huge well of hormones about to attack her as well and are steering clear of Mini. My mother, angel that she is, is trying to pacify everyone- the bride, the entourage and me, her funked out daughter who is caught in a whirlwind of satin, taffeta and admission results.

All of this energy- nervous and otherwise- was building to a crescendo. You could feel the lachrymal glands gearing up for some solid work. Then this evening, as we all sat down to dinner, something sparked it off. One minute the five women were talking and eating, and the next Mossy was crying, then Mini was crying, and then GrandMossy. Mum trying once again to pacify and me to keep up the supply of water and tissues. But it was okay after a while. Much to our relief they stopped with as much synchronicity as they'd started. Little did I know this was the preview to the real cry fest.

The remainder of the evening was spent talking about marriage and all that it entails. It was genuinely touching. Mum and GrandMossy telling us their marital ups and downs and the Mini and Mossy telling us about their marital hopes and fears. Yeah yeah, we bonded. And I had a tough time keeping those tissues coming. But it really was genuinely touching.

It was then that GrandMossy told us her analogy of marriage. GrandMossy has an analogy for everything under this sun and every other sun there is. So she told us about the Fourth Seat. In Mumbai's crowded local trains the train seats are only made to seat three people. But commuters always try to tell people to shift a little and make some room for a fourth person- the fourth seat. Sometimes the people already seated shift and sometimes they don't. The crux of the matter is- you adjust. Marriage is like asking for the fourth seat. Whatever happens, both have to adjust, or else no one is comfortable.

I do not know if this will make sense to you, my sparse readers. But to the five of us it made perfect sense. Here is Mossy who hates the fuss of marriage and only wanted a court ceremony, but she's jumping the hoops. Why? Because she doesn't just marry the guy, she marries into a family. And you try to keep people happy. There's GrandMossy who quit her job and followed her husband to his various jobs around the world. There's Mini who must deal with a long-distance relationship and all its aches and pains. It may be the fourth seat, but its a seat. Things aren't always as you'd like them to be.

It's odd. Speaking in terms of the analogy, I always figured love and marriage should be, must be, the seat by the window. Comfort and great views. I'm not sure I want to give this analogy, my analogy up. Not yet. But beyond that, I'm glad the wedding jitters are out of our bevy of beauties. It really is therapeutic to cry. And talk.

And maybe the expiry date on the whole mushy-bonding thing isn't two days after all.

Aargh!

2006-04-23T21:21:00.000+05:30

I'm in such a funk. It's Sunday night. And I feel exactly like this->

MICA refuses to let even a peep escape its pursed lips. My final results are due any time now. That has been the status since Friday, and 'any time now' just isn't some time right now. Aaaaargh! Why do they have to take weekends off? Why do they not update their website? Why do they use the stupid post to send us their letters? Have they never heard of Bluedart or UPS or bloody DTDC?

To push me further into the abyss Akshay Kumar is serenading Priyanka Chopra on TV with the lamest lyrics after "Tujhe mirchi lagi to main kya karu?" and that other classic, "What is Mobile number?". I can't believe he just lip-synched to "Do me a favour, Lets play Holi..."(WTF?) But yes, I will do you a favour Mr. Kumar, infact I will do both of us a favour by switching channels.

I'm in a funkey, funkey, funkety funk....

Painting the Town Green

2006-04-21T18:03:00.001+05:30

In countless movies over the years, I've seen this typical image of the heroine walking out of a big mall, arms loaded with shopping bags and letting the inner primadonna truly shine. For some reason, that's an image that is really enduring for me. It exemplifies a certain sense of style and glamour, even grace. It's all Audrey Hepburn and Sharmila Tagore. Elegance, extravagance and expense. But ofcourse, walking out of a mall loaded with bags doesn't really happen every so often to mortals. And even if you do blow it all on a shopping trip, chances are you'll be too guiltstruck/ exhausted to come out of the mall looking all glam and smelling like roses.

"Shopping is intense, it's hardcore and the strain it puts on the mind and feet is so underestimated, its just not funny. Shopping is serious business!" So I was told yesterday evening after I was recruited for exclusive shopping purposes by my maternal aunt, aka Mossy.

And this wasn't just any shopping, this was shopping for Mossy's wedding. Not the actual wedding trousseau, more like the pre and post D-day clothing. And so efficient is my Mossy, that we were split into three groups. Mossy and her mum, the GrandMossy, were incharge of clothing. My Mum and her younger sister, MiniMossy, were incharge of accessories. And me, lone trooper, was put incharge, of make-up. Since I can't really bother myself with the stuff, it was odd that I was put in charge of that department. But here is a tip: If you are ever face a similar situation, do as told, it's just plain unwise arguing with a flustered, hormonal, last-minute VLCC-ed bride-to-be.

So standing outside a big mall here in Bangalore, I received the first commandment of shopping, "I work hard, I deserve this splurge, so don't look at the price tag." That makes sense, justify maxing the card with rewarding the self. It's a great self-psychology ploy if you think about it- attack your guilt before your guilt attacks you.

Then the second commandment of shopping, "Remember the rule of three Cs: Colour, Class and Cut." These words were actually spoken. And then the third commandment, "When you pick something up for me, don't forget it's going to pass down to you soon- so pick well." This one is pretty crucial. It really put the spanner in the works. I was so planning to get Mossy some horrid looking Made-In-Chinchpokli make-up that would make her look florid and pale all at once. Damn!

That was it, off we went. I asked why there wasn't a customary list of 10 commandments, but was fixed with a get-to-work look that was so intense, I scuttled stright into Marks and Spencers. The details of the trip are hazy to me. It was four and a half hours of testing on the hand and removing with cleanser, testing on the face and removing with cleaner, testing on the wrist and removing with cleanser. Its tiring. And here's something nice, you become colour blind after a while. After about two hours, Berry and Wine look all the same.

Never-the-less, we were diligent, we were focussed, we were goal oriented and armed with very sharp credit and debit cards. After all those hours of asking the truly important questions like, "Does it go with my skin tone?" and "Do you think it will look good in the pictures?", we collapsed into chairs at a restaurant, pooped and dehydrated. I thought this was the end, this is where I get my manna- a good cup of caffeine and some FOOD! But sadly, no. I sort of forgot the steps in the shopping process a little bit. It's Shop, Pay, Examine, and then Eat.

So we sat down for some serious expenditure examination. Bags were opened, contents checked for colour, size, smell, feel. I sat back and wondered. They were all so happy; no, they were so satisfied. There was such excitement and giggling. It was so cute to watch. It wasn't just a shopping expedition, we bonded. Sure, it was a bit like a mission, but we did well I think. And I looked at the group of us again, hunched over the buys with such deep exhilaration, chattering loudly. I realized then, I'd caught some of their happy too. I was one of these women, joyous with the excitement of a wedding and joyous to have let go of the every-day self- cautious, sparing and over-thoughtful. We let ourselves go, and it felt so good.

I asked Mossy how she felt, she said, "I feel like I'm a cross between a princess and a movie star." And when we walked out of the mall, each loaded with bags and bags of shopping, looking and feeling happy, I have to admit, I felt a little like a celluloid princess myself.

Budget

2006-04-19T20:33:00.000+05:30

Was studying the Budget for some college work, and was awestruck to read this quote on the first page. What wonderful words.

"We reap what we sow. We are the makers of our own fate.

The wind is blowing; those vessels whose sails are unfurled

catch it, and go forward on their way, but those which have

their sailes furled do not catch the wind. Is that the fault

of the wind?

We make our own destiny."

-Swami Vivekananda

(Almost) Saying Goodbye

2006-04-19T16:29:00.000+05:30

It's not like I like my college. Infact anyone who knows me well enough should have heard me rant about college atleast once. It's one of those things you know. You dislike something so passionately and for such varied reasons that you can't help but complain and complain and complain, and then you get sick of complaining, but you can't stop complaining anyway.

Well today was my last official day at BWMC, and for the very first time I felt...something. It was too small to label remorse and not insignificant enough to remain labelled just something. I still can't quite figure out what it was. Am I sorry for leaving? Am I going to miss the place? I do doubt that. Infact, after I typed that, it made me smile because its just so impossible. Miss the place? Please.

What was it then? The more I think about it, two things become more and more clear to me. And I'm not liking this sort of clarity all that much, let me tell you.

One, I think I'm feeling sorry about complaining so bloody much while I was there. Yes, I hated it. And yes, they hated me. But I think I might have marred my time here by only thinking of the place negatively. Maybe if I'd complained less, sort of tried to get used to things as they were, swallow the bitter syrup if you will, I might have spent some happier days here. It's nasty to realise this now, but everything is a lesson right?

Two, things are coming full circle for me. It feels like an episode is about to close. Not quite finished yet, but almost. Uncertainty lurks ahead. But the future has stopped being so big, bad and ugly now. It's just things that will happen and I'm not so scared anymore. So that's good. But this part is certainly coming to a close- I feel like things need to be wound up, loose ends tied. Some nostalgia, some wistfulness is a part of it I guess.

One thing is for sure, I'll never forget that unexpected feeling that suddenly lurched up my throat as I stepped out of the college gates today. I was stunned because I never expected to feel sad about leaving BWMC behind. I guess no matter how eagerly one looks forward to finishing something so that one can embark upon something new- a goodbye must be said first. And you know what goodbyes are like.

I guess I said my goodbye today. Well, almost.

A Very Inspiring Read

2006-04-16T14:29:00.000+05:30

Sometimes you read something that makes such perfect sense. It hums in your brain. Maybe its because you've thought it but haven't quite lived it, experienced it or you just haven't been able to express it well enough. And then you read something where someone puts that very thought across in the simplest of words. Minimum fuss, maximum sense.

Reading a speech that Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple and Pixar, gave at the Stanford Uni's graduation ceremony did that for me. I really wanted to share it. Pardon the length, if you dislike too many words. But all the words are precious. Its by someone, who I suspect, found the fount.

(Thanks to Saurabh Vardhan's Blog for being the source. If you read this Saurabh, I hope you don't mind, but this speech is just so good.)

"I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life.

That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out? It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, its likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started?

Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I retuned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.

This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope its the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept: No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much."

Ask me!

2006-04-15T21:34:00.000+05:30

Admit it, you've seen this button somewhere, sometime. And I don't know how many will admit to this next part, but I've always just wanted to ask for the heck of it. Hell, here's someone so desperate to be asked a question that they're walking around wearing a pin that screams it! However, as tempted as I have felt to ask the chubby lady on the train or the moustachioed man at the vegetable market exactly what wonder drug they're trying to market in a legal way, I just don't. Its not that I can't. I just choose not to.

And these aren't the only pins out there. There are tons of people just begging you to ask them about height gain/loss, hair gain/loss, muscle gain/loss and many more exciting physiological additions and subtractions. But a physical revamp is not the only thing on offer here. Someone wants you to ask them about their religion, methods of Palliative care, their goals in life, their coin collection, their favourite butterfly park (and to top it all) there's even one that begs you to ask why the wearer is just so damn happy!

To me, the pins made no sense. I had not seen a pin-ed person being approached in a crowded or not so crowded place and I'm pretty sure I don't know anyone, no matter how curious they are, who will actually ask. The more I thought about it, the surer I became about the fact that no one would want to humiliate themselves by walking to a complete stranger and asking a question like "I'd like to know how I can lose/ gain weight please." How do you start a conversation based on a question written on a pin? What do you say? "Yes, I'd like to know." Or, "Yeah, I want to know how my lost follicles will return." Or, "Hey, so why are you so damn happy today?"

But you know what? I was proven wrong today. Today was the first instance where I saw a man actually approach a lady and ask, loudly and very very publicly, how he could also lose some weight. It wasn't embarassing for him, didn't make him cringe. Made me wonder though. Would I ever have the courage to walk upto a stranger and ask them a question that reveals my insecurities about my body or my religion or just my way of life? No. Put yourself in that position. It's surprisingly hard.

I can't speak for anyone else, but the truth is, we're too bunched up in the blanket of our own fears and misgivings about ourselves to expose our insecurities. Makes us vulnerable, completely exposes us. Even a small, practically inconsequential thing such as asking someone a question. I suppose I realized a couple of things once I reflected on the man who did ask. One, I wouldn't have the courage to expose myself and my insecurities to anyone, no matter how curious/desperate I was. Two, the man was.

Strange how one question can raise so much thought.

Heroes go home

2006-04-14T23:39:00.000+05:30

Today is an invincible day. I feel on top of the world for no good reason. I have that fist-pumping-high-fiving-heel-clicking mood going today and I have done nothing to deserve it, really. Everything seems smothered in goodness today. Quite strange since I don't know where all this feel-good is coming from. Hormones are so funky somedays.

Still can't get Thursday's insane violence out of my head. 9 dead? Just makes me more sure that everything is so chockfull of contradictions. I have a lifetime subscription to the theory that life is just one giant ball of juxtapositions. Gentleman's funeral and crowd goes beserk. Time of mourning and people dance on the streets after burning buses. Grief and giving grief.

More ironies. Yesterday was the day heroes went home. Javed, Meerut's new hero, succumbed in hospital to burns. Meerut wept in collective fury, misery, bitterness. Salman, hero of millions, came back home with promises of fixing toilets and providing TVs to inmates. In what was perhaps a more embarassing event than being jailed, the man took of his shirt before the Bandstand crowd in a public display of what? heriosm? stupidity? adulation? appreciation for his fans? and showed them what he's really made of. Then ofcourse there was Dr. Rajkumar's funeral gone so regrettably sour. Really makes me wonder- what of heroes?

Insomnia

2006-04-14T00:30:00.000+05:30

Insomnia attacks. Thoughts cross, flit through randomly, criss-cross. Head is full of things that aren't sleep. Highest sheep count so far is 458. Seriously. Warm milk. Warm shower. Warm bed. Yet no sleep. Books have been read. Music heard. Toenails decorated with little swirls. What could be more inane? Still no sleep. Random acts of meditation performed. Breath concentrated upon- inhale hold exhale. No sleep.

What's missing?

Mourning

2006-04-13T12:32:00.000+05:30

Screen Legend Dr. Rajkumar passed away yesterday. Since his passing, something seems to have caved in in Bangalore. You could feel the unrest on the streets late yesterday afternoon. Offices emptied and cars packed the roads, buses stopped plying and shops pulled their shutters down. You could feel something about to happen. Local news channels ran just one story- Rajkumar passes away, the Legend is no more, Our hero has died and so on. After about 7pm last night, most parts of the city were deserted.

This morning, mayhem was loosened. The body, kept in Kanteerava stadium after much dilly-dallying, seemed to have become the centre of the madness. Crowds poured in, police were outnumbered, tear gas and lathi charges were resorted to. I wonder, like so many others, would Dr.Rajkumar have wanted this? How is his family coping?

The city is divided. There are those of us who wonder what is going on and there are those who take part in what is going on. It sounds like blatant exaggeration but currently, everything in Bangalore seems to revolve around only this. Perhaps the fact that only news channels are running on the cable network- and all carrying images only of Bangalore streets going wild- are creating this myopia. Yellow and Red state flags have popped up on houses, flying at half mast. Clusters of people are walking to Kanteerava carrying posters of their deceased hero- its a pilgrimage. By the stadium itself, crowds have gone beserk as I'm sure you've seen on your TV screen. I've seen nothing like it and it is in equal measures- scary and sad.

Many people who live here I'm sure will agree, Bangalore often ceases to make sense and this is one of those times. Its ironic how the two images contrast- the IT city of India and a city gone wild over the death of an actor. The images on news channels are horrific. Policemen beating people. People beating policemen. Thousands gathered to pay homage to their hero being manhandled and mauled. Buses set ablaze. Crowds dancing with joy as they pelt stones and bricks- revelling in the numbers of a crazed crowd. The glass cask carrying the body belittled at the centre of the mayhem.

It's a sad day for Bangalore. For the fans of Dr. Rajkumar, for the administration and for those of us who wonder what is going on. Death isn't supposed to be like this. Mourning isn't supposed to be like this. Perhaps its the constant bombardment of images on the TV, I don't quite know, but I feel that it stopped being about mourning the loss of a hero a while ago.

The First of the Ten Things

2006-04-11T01:42:00.000+05:30

On the Reading List:

1.Thoughts Without A Thinker- Mark Epstein

2. Farenheit 451- Ray Bradbury.

3. All Quiet on the Western Front- E M Remarque

4. Winnie the Pooh- A A Milne

5. Granta (Issue 57): India

6. American Voices- various

7. Cakes and Ale- W S Maugham

8. Two Lives- Vikram Seth

9. Herzog- Saul Bellow

10. Waiting for Godot- Samuel Beckett

It's nearly 2 am and I suspects that me is suffering from a little burst of insomnia. So what does me do? Me makes a list, and a pretentious one at that! Parp!

Everybody Hurts

2006-04-10T22:41:00.000+05:30

REM in full consolatory swing are trying their very best to convince me that Everybody Hurts and Now It's Time To Sing Along. But I'm just not feeling like my best song-bird self today, you know. Mostly because the news today has an extra dash of awfulness and some-ly because I don't really have a song-bird self.

Salman to finally get a real taste of the slammer (about time, the guy got away with murder- literally.) Fire at the International Convention in Meerut, 45 dead so far. (Clearly not very international standards of safety being followed, what with a single exit and all) And Arjun Singh hellbent on raising enough muck to put Chirac to shame. (Still not backing down despite the PM and Sonia's silence and the EC's nudge.)

In other news closer to home, Ammu claims to have gotten "the tingles" just thinking about getting her tattoo which has gone from being the ambitious Gemini constellation (also known as the Doorway to Heaven) to being, erm, the keyhole on the Doorway- a single star. Tingle Tingle Little Star.

Old bud Sri Sri James, currently perfecting the alternative AOL- Art of Lazy- messaged to say that his team won the Beach Footie Cup in Goa. Cup filled with beer ofcourse. In his words, "Saved 5 goals for team, but took one in my Area 51. Everything seems to be in working order though." Valiant man.

Aunty G subjected us to one of her visits again, this time to complain about her sons- which ended up being emotionally painful for her and physically painful for us. But Aunty G truly worked the waterworks when she saw her favourite non-actor Sunil (Sunel/Suniel/Sunile/Senile?) Shetty cry on Indian Idol. (Do not ask me why- I'm clueless.) I believe it is a phenolemon known as Sympathy Pain. Boo and Hoo.

To conclude then, most things seem sour-bordering-on-depressing today and in their own special ways, Everybody Hurts.

End of Broadcast.

The Effects of War

2006-04-09T11:57:00.000+05:30

After an endlessly beautiful afternoon spent analysing first and second World War poetry, either of two things can happen to a person. Either one feels incredibly jaded, distrustful and weary all at once, which in my experience, isn't very nice no matter how lovely the afternoon; or one simply wants to hear more about the wars. I'm quite thankful the latter happened to me.

I went to the British Council Library (BCL) looking for writings on war: poetry, prose, bios, anything really. I was suddenly siezed by wanting to know more about life in the trenches, how ugly it got, the shell shock and the gas bombs, the repeated effects of seeing ones friends blown to bits and the disguised but forever flickering empathy with one's enemy.

I got my paws onto some war stuff immediately. And this is stunning because in the Bangalore BCL I once found Shakespeare lurking in the Surgery section and Naipaul in Nanotechnology.

The book I found was Paul Bailey's 'Old Soldiers'. As the title suggests it isn't quite life-in-the-trenches so much as what life-in-the-trenches can do to a man post war. The book was an unexpected and great find in many ways. The writing is so easy that getting involved with the characters was near instant. There were no flimsy introductions and descriptions, one just begins with a slice of Captain Standish's and Victor Harker's life. The war leaves deep scars on both men's lives and it would be easy to say that these scars hinder the course of their lives, but that isn't altogether true. And that's where the beauty of the book lies for me. The effects of the war are both bad and good for both men. Realizing that war can construct whole lives, not just destroy them- it can completely rebuild people- was an eyeopener for me.

After that last paragraph I feel like emboldening this next bit. It's a funny book. It's funny in clever ways: lots of word play, lots of irony, lots of quirks in the characters. I really like books or stories where one feels like one has understood the charcters and this was one. There's some crazy, irreverent moments in the book, but its never contrived. And it's tiny! It's really like a long short story, if you get my drift. 'Old Soldiers' took me about two hours to finish, and that's quick because I've been crowned the Princess Slow of Reading.

So if you can, read 'Old Soldiers'. It is funny, sad, irreverent, thought provoking and small, all at the same time. It's a great read and it definitely gave me a wider base on my World War knowledge, but with a quirk. I never expected to find a book about war that wasn't filled with gore, fear and horror. I guess like everything else, war is not one-dimensional. Clearly, the effects of war are many.

'Of Human Knowledge' -Sir John Davies

2006-04-05T20:28:00.000+05:30

I know my body's of so frail a kind,
As force without, fevers within can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will.

I know my Soul hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;
I know I am one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain and but a span,
I know my Sense is mock'd with every thing:
And to conclude, I know myself a MAN,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

- Sir John Davies

A Decision

2006-04-04T22:33:00.000+05:30

There are some terrible things about going to college at Baldwin Women's Methodist College. It's been a rough and unpredictable couple of years here and I couldn't be happier that I've done my time and will be out soon. But like all other experiences, this one is also bittersweet. I've met some pretty interesting people, learnt about cultures and customs from the far corners of my country and learnt how easy it is for some to dedicate their lives to religion and truly live their belief.

That last part is difficult for me mainly because my religion, Hinduism, is so ambiguous to me. I was born a Hindu and therefore, I am one. I do all the things that others do- celebrate the same festivals, visit the same temples and pray with the same (ir)regularity. I don't feel particularly religious and find that my lack of (necessary) understanding of where my religion comes from is a huge hurdle towards my living as a Hindu. I feel guilty about this but also struggle with how to cope with it and change the situation for myself.

But I've decided its time for me to do something about it. If I want to understand my identity, atleast my social and religious identity, I can't expect for the answers to arrive. I'm still not sure where I can seek the answers that I want about the origins of Hinduism, customs, the rituals of prayer etc. I'll probably speak to people and read about it. I'm thinking of beginning with the Bhagwad-Gita. But that still requires a lot more thought and planning around my schedule.

Currently my interest in understanding my religion is knowledge-based. I'm curious to understand more. I'm not all that sure it's some subconscious need to be closer to a higher power per say. I think my faith, as it is now, is healthy and I understand, interpret God or a higher universal power in a very personal manner, much like most others. I suppose its just the need to find the meaning of that large part of my identity which manifests itself in my daily life as well as that of others.

I need to know why.

Pari-wars

2006-04-02T20:36:00.000+05:30

I sit before my computer screen covered in yellow goo. Almost delicious, gloopy concoction of milk, honey, haldi and besan. It's rather befitting the occassion I think. The What-ika Star Pari-war Awards air tonight and one and a half of my family is watching with, what is to me, scary amounts of fascination and near reverence. I will not hide the shameful fact. I have Kekta lovers in my family. Sob.

I say one and a half of my own Pari-war is watching because my Maa and Aunty G from the fourth floor has graced us with her chatty presence tonight. Now she isn't khoon ka nata, but she's decided not to let that get in the way and has adopted my little family in her endeavour to create her own Pari-war, Baa inclusive. Therefore, one and a half.

I was attempting to understand Public Administration when Aunty G bust open, literally, my closed door and yanked me out, textbook and all, to watch the awards. This is an occassion she annouced and besides, she complained that I have turned into something of an Id ka chand and my mukhda is chupa-chupa these days.

I think it was at this point, as she pinched my very inadequate cheeks in her ginormous fingers, that she noticed the "state" of my mukhda. Apparently, I had taken my being the Chand a little seriously and my face had developed "itne bade daag(s)" on it. Not good, not good she announced. And thus, the Aunty G Anti Daag squad was deployed. Ingredients were duly glooped and applied (plastered, actually) as we watched a series of Bahus and Betas and Baas and Betis get jiggy wid it on TV.

Aunty G is very satisfied. As I feel my facial muscles stiffen into place Aunty G says, "Oy-hoy, muh pila ho gaya, ab bas haath pile ho jaye." I suddenly find my muscles stiffen more from shock than congealed goo. I knew this day would come, but come on, not when my defences are down and I'm looking like a massive bhujiya. My mother giggles politely, "There's still some time for her to get married," she offers lamely. But this is Aunty G- she ain't backing down so quick. "Haan haan, but she's 21 now. Balik hai, BA hai. Ladka to dhundna shuru karo." Balik and BA, my two qualifications.

I knew better than arguing with the G-force, and besides my face was incapabale of movement. Thankfully some Kantaben and Kamleshbhai in shiny clothes started dancing on our TV screen and distracted Aunty G. Before her argument for the addition of a suitable boy to our Pari-war can go any further, I escape to the sanctuary of my room.

Here I'm not 21, Balik and BA. I am neither Id ka chand, nor chand ke daag. I'm just covered in yellow goo.

Resolving

2006-04-01T18:56:00.000+05:30

So now the anxiety part is partly resolved. The Dakia came and delivered the MICA letter carrying my result. I am waitlist number 52. Okay. I'm still a little shaky about how to deal with this new situation. I feel a little unprepared. I'm really not used to being on this side of the fence and it feels very new. Its perhaps cocky to say so, but in the vein of letting it out honestly, I'm the kid who usually does well, who tries hard and gets results. This time, it's different. And I feel emotionally unprepared to deal with this, I'm not used to waitlist number 52. I'm used to Congratulations, you're through! I know this must sound very egotistic, which I'm not, but I'm trying to put this new feeling and new situation into words so that it's easier for me to understand exactly how I'm feeling.

Well, I have to be honest. Here's how it is. I've invested a lot of my time, money and most, most importantly, a lot of my emotions into this whole endeavour. I've nurtured my dream of going to MICA for the longest time now and as I am used to just "making it", I now realise that I'd somehow automatically convinced myself that this would be easy sailing as well. That is not to say I didn't study hard- I did, which is why falling just short now hurts all the more. Now that I'm at the point where I can't fuel my dream with any more hard work or just plain focus and drive to achieve it, it feels very odd. It's out of my hands now and it's just plain luck. I'm used to my diligence yielding results, so this is a new situation.

A more optimistic dose of realism now.

I now have to wait for people to forfiet their confirmed seats so that the waitlisters are invited to join. Not everyone on the confirmed list will take up their offers, they might choose to take up offers from bigger and more conventional MBA schools. So that's good news for waitlisters. The fee MICA is asking for is also pretty steep, which might discourage some. I feel nasty saying that because someone else not being able to afford MICA only increases my chances, but that is the way it is. MICA is asking for a significant amount to be sent with the acceptance letter, to confirm our interest. Now this is another factor, because most students apply to numerous schools using their CAT/XAT scores and if they are accepted by multiple schools then, like MICA, each school asks for a large amount to confirm interest. In such a case, the student might pay up at the school s/he's most interested in, or perhaps another school as a back-up. And I've already heard a few people say they're not accepting MICA's offer and taking up something else instead. So this might mean I still have a chance.

One thing is for sure though, I'm going to keep an open mind now. It's time for me to distance myself from this and not pin my hopes onto this so much. I suppose I'll just send my money to MICA now and tell them that I am interested and if there is a place open, maybe I'll get it. I honestly don't know my chances, so I'm in the dark. And that's a good thing, because I'm not so disheartened. I actually think it's a good thing I feel unprepared to deal with this situation because now I'm so busy trying to figure out how to deal with it that I'm not feeling disappointed! It's all luck from this point onwards now. It feels difficult to resign control and say, If it's destined, it'll happen. But I have to learn that now, and it's always good to learn.

I sincerely believe everything happens for the best. And my faith in that is very strong. If I don't make it to MICA, I'll learn that life doesn't always play according to my plans. I'll learn patience and how to deal with, not failure, but the collapse of a dream. I'll learn new ways to pick myself up. I'll learn my strengths and weaknesses. I'll learn to look forward and think of my future in a different light. All of these things I need to learn. It most certainly isn't the end of anything, let alone the world! I always learn from experiences and I'm learning from this one just the same. I'll just be stronger at the end of whatever happens now.

And you know what? I am proud of myself for realising that.

Anxiety

2006-03-31T22:04:00.000+05:30

anx·i·e·ty
n. pl. anx·i·e·ties

1. A state of uneasiness and apprehension, as about future uncertainties.
2. Psychiatry: A state of apprehension, uncertainty, and fear resulting from the anticipation of a realistic or fantasized threatening event or situation, often impairing physical and psychological functioning.
3. Eager, often agitated desire: my anxiety to make a good impression.

I'm trying to think of a time when I was more anxious about something, and I honestly can't come up with anything. I seem to have shortcircuited somewhere in my cranium and it's becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything other than two things: My MICA result and the letter carrying my MICA result. It's a strange situation. I'm perfectly aware of the fact that waiting and biting of perfectly nice nails is not going to speed up the Indian post, but I can't seem to get my mind latched on to anything else. I'm so desperate, I was actually humming "Dakia Daak Laya" in my head like a background track. And when you begin singing songs like that in your head, it's time to do something about it!

So I thought I'd enlist the help of omniscient, omnipotent Google (which I have realised I cannot lead my life without). So here are some of the more unusual things my trusted Google would have me do to beat, punch, kick, hit, pucture, pulverize, pound and bust the stress.

Prune my garden and talk to my flowers. (I hope weeding my two flowerpots will do the trick.)
Buy a ranch in the countryside. (I'll tell my accountant to keep my millions ready.)
Eat Mexican yams. (Batata chalega? Mexico zara door hai...)
Challenge yourself with a new game of skill. (Thumb wars!)
Don't read the newspaper. (Because of all the little evil words?)
Reach your "zone". ("Address" please.)
Laugh. Or Cry.
Find a secret pal. (Imaginary friend?)
Go shopping. (Now we're talking...)

I'm probably going to find it a little challenging to buy a ranch or eat those Mexican yams, but I know I did something right just now. Google might not have helped me all that much with finding viable means to beat the stress until the Dakia does decide to show up. If anything, it has suggested some exceedingly cheesy options as well as the weird (and expensive) options mentioned above. And I think it'll be a while before I get me that ranch or even a bowl of those Mexican yams.

But Google has alleviated my stress. Its kept my cranium occupied, fixed that shortcircuit a little by forcing me to do something apart from looking out of my window wistfully and singing filmi-ishtyle for Dakiababu in my head. I've barely given my letter a thought during the last couple of minutes! Wahey! So I might not exactly have found a quickfix for my anxiety, but I did find something to keep me occupied- so I suppose I did find a fix.

As always, Google- my hero!

Handsome, not Fair

2006-03-28T15:33:00.000+05:30

I remember barely a couple of months ago when Fair and Handsome made its controversial debut on billboards and televisions around the country. I know many people who thought the product was absolutely nonsensical, many couldn't imagine a man going to a shop and asking for a tube. Fair and Handsome was the new condom, people couldn't imagine anyone going to a shop and asking for it. I was actually one of those people. Although I do not contest the existing demand for Fair and Handsome, I still can't imagine most of my male friends going to a shop to buy the product.

Then today, during a commercial break in the ODI, I noticed some subtle changes to the Fair and Handsome ad. 'Fair', save its appearance on the pack and one mention by voiceover at the end, is entirely missing from the rest of the ad. The emphasis has shifted from Fair to Handsome. So now the condescending male friend asks, "Mard ho kar ladkiyo wali cream?" Earlier, the dialogue was, "Mard ho kar ladkiyo wali fairness cream?" Even as a bevy of young women twitter around Mr. Man With The Tube, the voiceover only emphasizes the ability of the cream to make its user handsome, NOT fair.

So what's up with the omission of 'Fair' from the campaign?

Fairness creams for women have raked up a huge storm earlier with their banality and insistence that fairer women are more intelligent/better wives/more talented/more popular/etc. They're infuriating enough as they are, more so as they only go to hammer reaffirmation into the nation's psyche that fair is good, dark is bad. Instead of moving forward, we pull ourselves back with idiocy like this. However, ofcourse, if anyone wishes to be fairer, for whatever reason, it is no crime.

The Indian 'Skin-lightening industry' is valued at $190m and before the advent of 'Fair and Handsome' targetted only women. Both sexes feel the need to look better, one doesn't trump the other. With Emami quoting that a staggering (and slightly unbelievable) 29% of Indian men use skin-lightening products, it is evident that fair is now equated with 'good looking' for both sexes. But if this is so obviously the case, then why the sudden and thorough omission of 'fair' from the 'Fair and Handsome' ad?

What I get from all this is that 'fair' and 'lovely' remain markedly feminine adjectives, while 'tall', 'dark', 'handsome' are considered the ideal all-male qualities. In reality, a woman would as soon like to be called 'Dark and Handsome' as a man would like being called 'Fair and Lovely'. Fair skin might be preferred by both, but apparently it's still not acceptable for men to want/say it. So Emami can go right ahead and capture a large untapped market, so long as they remember not to mix their adjectives up, because 'Handsome', they will; 'Fair', they won't.

AJ Jacobs- The Know-It-All

2006-03-27T18:29:00.000+05:30

I knew I had to read this one when I looked at the cover. "The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World" I just knew I had to read it.

Excelling oneself (as well as one's genius father and super-brainy brother-in-law) is what this book is about- becoming the smartest man alive. So what did AJ Jacobs do to achieve it? He read the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica, all 26 alphabets, 36 books, 33000 pages and 44 million words of it. Some quest.

What's great about the book is it concentrates equally on Jacobs' quest to become intelligent as on the hard, cold facts he has to digest along the way. It is filled with weirdo trivia to keep it entertaining and funny, but it's AJ's life as he chomps through masses of info that takes centrestage. So we have him talk about his reverence for his father and his endless diplomas and world record for the most footnotes in a legal document, his jealousy of his brother-in-law Eric who seems to him, and sometimes to me, like Rainman-cum-cocky Jerry Maguire-cum supreme overachiever; then ofcourse, there are his infertility woes and his devotion to wife Julie. You get the image of a normal man who wants to break the rut not in some pansy let's-go-for-a-weekend-away fashion, but in a phenomenal way. I was rooting for AJ throughout. And that's why the book is a fun read. It's conversational and almost logbook-like at times. It's arranged alphabetically, predictably enough, so we chart our way through 'a-ak' to 'Zywiec' right beside AJ. It's a good ride.

I'd definitely recommend it to anyone, not just trivia buffs. Read it because:

It's a very human book. It's about going on a silly quest to break a rut, fulfil a dream and achieve. It is a book about how, in the end, it's not the 44million info-packed words that make the man intelligent, but what he discovers about himself and our mad mad world along the way that brings him a few steps closer to wisdom.
It's filled with trivia that may come in handy someday. Like Pueblo tribeswomen divorce their husbands simply by keeping their mocassins by the doorstep (teepee-step?), which could come in handy when you're out of creative ways to break-up with someone, or like army troops survived in the wilderness by eating lichen (weird, green mossy fungus stuff) incase you're in a battle and wandering without food in a mossy area. You never know.
It's very jewishly funny. (That's a legitimate adverb, btw) So you find your average Woody Allen-esque mother-in-law who reads phone directories for fun, hippie-feminist-animal rights activist-raw foodist relatives who say shtick and schmaltz, and classic witticisms such as, "He was a city man. Always at two with nature."
It's a good, light read. And in the vein of modern marketing, gives you the best of two worlds. For example, you'll read about Benthams's utilitarianism v/s deontology debate even as you read about Jessica Simpson's Chicken v/s Tuna debate a few pages later. (It also features some very interesting commentary on Vin Diesel and Ivanka Trump.)

Blogs Away!

2006-03-26T23:39:00.000+05:30

My previous attempts at blogging have been less than perfect, which is a really polite way to put it. The first got too pretentious. The second, too personal. Honestly, I feel tremendously guilty about creating them and then abandonning them halfway through. Actually, its more like a quarter of a fifth of the way through. I barely got started on them when I decided I'd had enough. I somehow feel like a bad mother. Odd analogy, I know, but feels that way.

This time around, I'd like to think I'm wisened by experience. I'd like to think, mind. I'm going to try my best to not make this into some sort of diary, but also to verge away from some dry commentary with big words I've flicked from thesaurus.com.

Surprisingly enough, what I've noticed until now is that it isn't such a fine line after all. I'm being conscious about keeping it pretence and angst-free. Though I must warn my sparse readers, as a very wise person once said: Life likes to donate you a pimple once in a while.

Blogs Away!

P.s: Currently listening to Dave Matthews make magic with DreamGirl. Smooth.... Please please for the love of all things that aren't Britney, Jessica or Kaanta Laga, listen to it!

Sadha Soudha

2006-03-25T14:52:00.000+05:30

We went to the Vidhan Soudha to view the sessions yesterday. Despite several warnings from classmates who had already been, I was actually looking forward to it. "It can't be that boring I thought."

Which only proves that I should listen to people with more experience. It pays.

The day was jinxed right from go. I missed the damn bus. So had to go all the way in a rickshaw, which, I kid you not, made 12 consecutive traffic stops. WTF? After paying the rickshaw-wallah a bomb, I made my way through the garishly painted portals of adminstration waving no pass, no letter- only my College ID card. Mighty easy. My bag was checked only once and that too after I was almost inside the sessions chamber.

Now for all you common souls who haven't yet been there, the Vidhan Soudha doesn't just sport that weird peppermint colour on its facade, it's splattered all over the interiors as well. It's like DannyBoy's Licorice Factory in there- Fuschia, Lemon Yellow, Azure and Peppermint are painted on every possible surface. The overall feel is so overdone and so non-political. I'd imagine (Chandler's) Janice would love a home in those shades, know what I mean?

Into the Legislative Assembly we go and this is the funny part, my collegemates and I (58) outnumber the MLAs (28). Beat that.

Question hour was in progress. Now here's where the day suddenly dipped in the fun ratings. The whole jhol jhamela was in Kannada and thus I was absolutely clueless about most of the proceedings. And there's only so much polite/curious observing that you can do. So after noticing the weird fashions of MLAs (furry Nehru topi, Khadi and Rolex), their complete lack of discipline (they can roam even as others discuss- only so long as they namaste the speaker when they leave their seats and return) and their healthy somnambulism (even as farmers' suicides were being discussed by the lot awake); I decided to take a leaf out of their books and napped a little myself. Though I hope think I looked a little more fetching than this:

Now the Assembly was dull, but the Council was genuinely interesting. No, really. We heard a rather acerbic discussion about the state budget. Finance minister Yediyurappa was present, but HDK was no where to be seen as his camp took a righteous beating from the opposition. Professor Chandrashekhar had a fantastic go at the budget, sarcasm and all. He pointed out glaring mistakes and several appallingly hypocritical comments from HDK's ministry. For example, the introduction to the budget congratulates the Krishna and Singh governments for doing such a wonderful job with infrastucture and agrarian development (haha) and promises to continue the same. This, after years of rivalry and criticism about the very same issues. Strange...

The best part was the way in which the Prof took charge. He never raised his voice, never pointed fingers, was dignified (and sarcastic) throughout and totally blew the budget to pieces. Yediyurappa never said a word.

What was truly interesting though was the contrast between the conduct and composition of the Assembly and Council. Striking differences.

I don't mean any of this to sound offensive, but this is the way it was. The Assembly was larger as per size, smaller as per attendance (and attention!) and did seem to have a largely rural membership. The discussion was conducted, in general, at very high decibels and very low standards of respect. At several points the debate was so heated that the Speaker actually had to stand and shout for order. He wore the distinct look of a harangued babysitter.

The Council was smaller, had a higher comparative attendance, more organised representatives, a calmer speaker and much higher levels of decorum. Not to mention the discussion, lead by Professor Chandrashekhar, which was far more dignified and if one can say so, intelligent. Quite predictably, the Council had a far more learned group in attendance, who in their dress and mannerisms seemed very urban.

All in all, the whole thing was both very interesting and very boring. I wish we had some sort of translation aids, but then again I should keep dreaming. Whatever it was, it was very surprising in many ways. Legislation was at work. Very contentious issues were being discussed with great enthusiasm. The effectiveness and outcome of the debates is very debate-able though. Also we weren't the only audience there. The seats were filled with many people, several groups of farmers, a few noted NGO representatives. Yes, we got a taster of the heated arguments that the Soudha is infamous for and we saw some sleepy MLAs and it was very disappointing because they proved the stereotypes right. But it was heartening to see our elected representatives concerned about the very issues we worry about, it was good to see them take up issues with genuine passion. I suppose somewhere deep down I believed they'd all be asleep.

In retrospect, it was an illuminating visit. I'm glad I went.

Digging Deep

2006-03-23T20:15:00.000+05:30

Read a Paul Theroux short story yesterday called 'Subterranean Gothic'. Reading the title I thought it sounded mighty occult-ish. As I read, however, I was surprised to find it spoke about the New York Metro System. Made sense.

I thought it was a particularly ironic piece to read at a time like this with Mumbai planning to hoist up its Monorail and Bangalore preparing (noisily) to furrow deep beneath its Silicon Valley.

Hearing a multitude of colourful tales about the horrors of the Metro, ranging from the fantastic to the heartwarming to the plain absurd, Theroux set out on a week long odessey to experience the dreaded Metro for himself, bless the man.

The product is Subterranean Gothic- at times investigative journalism, at times fable and sometimes just Tales from the Crypt. I thought it was a great read, recommended reading for sure. It give you a honest picture of the dilapidated, overburdened, over-vandalised, over-confusing and over-crazy Metro system as seen from the eyes of a New Yorker. I find this surprising in itself because I find New Yorkers are usually a passionate people when it comes to their city and quite rightly so.

Mr Theroux's unforgiving depiction of what has been a gradual lapse into dysfunction and ill-repute, however, is also not a stinging critique. And this is precisely why its such a good read. It treads a very fine line between critique and complaint. It never lapses into unnecessary emotion or annoyance as is so common when one talks about problems such as these- for a sample of the same just pick up your daily newspaper. It manages to be honest, truthful to the core which is essentially investigative and gives the reader a distinct feeling that Mr Theroux is trying to understand where the fear of the Metro in the minds of New Yorkers really comes from. It never bashes and never lampoons. Infact, if anything, one can easily sense his growing respect for the people who man the Metro day after monotonous day- especially the Transit Police.

If for no other reason, read it for Mr T's masterful command over the way his emotions translate into words. One begins the journey with him, mildly weary of the widely notorious transport system and we journey with him, miles underneath, slowly gaining a better understanding of why the Metro's problems exist and where they come from. There are no denials and no cheap suggestions. It is just an attempt to understand. And that's why it's fantastic.

Also, the story is full of those A-ha moments. You know, when you read something and you just know its right. You've felt it, you've been there and now someone's put it into words. I suppose certain things are just universal. Here's a small piece that gave me the goosebumps. I've been there, have you?:

"It was a salutory experience for me, riding through Brooklyn with Officers Minucci and Haag. Who, except a man flanked by two armed plain-clothes (police)men...would walk through housing projects and derelict areas and wait for hours at a subway station? ...For the first time in my life, I was travelling in the Hinterland of New York City with my head up, looking people in the eye with curiosity, lingering scrutiny and no fear. It was a shocking experience...I had never had the courage to gaze (at this alien land) so steadily. It was a land impossible to glamourize and hard to describe. ...(Because) As a New York City subway passenger you are J. Alfred Prufrock- you "prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet." "

Golden Glory

2006-03-23T19:57:00.000+05:30

After all the headlines screaming 'One Billion and One Bronze' after the Athens Olympics- here's something to really scream about.

We're holding third in the medal tally at the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne. A resounding 19 golds, 12 silvers and 9 bronzes as of 23.03, India have truly achieved a remarkable feat. Rejoice.

I'm so proud, nearly bursting! How I hope there's a huge rally to welcome home our sporting heroes. I can picture it already. A Rajpath packed several shoulders deep, people clapping and rejoicing, confetti raining down upon them all and an audience with a proud President as they reach Rashtrapati Bhavan. Smiles all round.

There are three more days to go. The Women's Hockey team is lined up for a final showdown against the Aussies and there are a few more shooting events to go on the 24th.

Here's hoping for some more glory!

Landmark-ing (I)

2006-03-22T17:36:00.000+05:30

I had wanted to buy a Granta Book for so long, its not even funny. Then last week, floating upon a pathetically anorexic wad of cash earned from a part-time sub-editing job, I walked into The Landmark Bookstore. I'm quite sure my face wore some sort of cocksure look as I walked in, "Yes boys, I'm actually here to buy today. I shan't be sitting on one of those idiotic looking, green faux leather stools and reading for hours without paying you a penny. I have cash and it is greener than that stupid leather on your stool. So hand me a basket, and a salaam while you're at it."

Past the door and rapidly away from that travesty of browsing (the actual joy of a bookstore apart from the lovely books)- the bestseller stand.

But hey, not so rapidly.

It's difficult for me to not hate the bestseller stand. Plonked about 3 feet away from the main entrance, such that it forms a pretty effective barrier on your way to the good stuff on the back shelves and piled high with titles from the house of Shobhaa De and her firang fraternity of Joan Collins and Co., the cryptic tomes of 'C', 'C+', 'C++' and so on, the illogical series of 'How to...', 'xxxxx for Dummies' and 'Chicken Soup for (just about every economic/social/bipodean subsection)' and innumerable management series, it is difficult to miss.

Now the management section just brims with duds posing in management garb. Sample these: 'Manage your Emotions', 'Managing your Workstation', 'Manage your Annual Holiday!', 'Mind Management'. And so on. I'm severely confused as to how a single word suddenly ballooned in its capacity to carry such a variety of titles on its trisyllabic back. Perhaps I'm going crazy, but it does seem as if 'Management' has suddenly become one of those 'It' words that sort of mushroom in every possible cranny when they're in fashion. And Management certainly is in fashion. I perhaps need to manage my growing confusion about the tremendous applications of the word management. Perhaps 'Manange your Emotions' should have found it's way into my basket afterall...

But swivelling swiftly back to the point- the barrier that is the bestseller stand.

Now, not only is it a physical hurdle, I think it forms something of a mental hurdle as well. Not to mention a decently effective barrier to your spending money on Good Books (they deserve the capitals).

I couldn't help but notice the numbers lurking around the bestseller stand (well, it's actually more of a carousel in Landmark) which are usually far greater than those near any other section. Except perhaps the shelves labelled 'Kamasutra' which on weekends suddenly become the meeting point of an unmistakably thick band of voyeuristic men.

But that apart, I thought it was a little saddening to see that most people usually shop from amongst the bestselling titles. I saw empty baskets fill up right there. There was little browsing, a lot of cover summary reading and far too much attention paid to the How to's.

Placing the bestseller carousel right in your face as you enter leaves you little room to manoeuvre- it commands your time and attention. It's selection of glossy paperbacks, arranged neatly and flashing those yellow stars with exhortations like 'Now Rs.799 only' are admittedly difficult to resist. Not to mention the fact that bestseller stand often host titles which are not bestsellers at all. They are well priced, however, and are best business for the bookstore if they sell well. It's a good management ploy (there's the word again), I must admit.

Before you know it, you've picked up a few and have almost (b)reached your spending limit.

You have picked up your quota of books, feel a little guilty about not looking around too much but also feel vaguely satisfied that you will read quality stuff. (Bestsellers are often, sadly, equated with quality. De, Collins and Co come to mind.) You decide to concentrate on Classics, Travelogues and Poetry the next time around.

Mr Neky and the Histories of Time

2006-03-21T23:12:00.000+05:30

Mr Neky, my friend from one of the Countryside treks, promised me three months ago that he'd send me some books about the theories of time. I thought he was kidding then.

But lo and behold!

The balding courier guy handed me a thick air-mail parcel with the customary (and free) corny smile and a "Sign here, pliz."

Inside were 'A Brief History of Time' (Hawking), 'The Arrow of Time' (Coveney, Highfield) and 'Chaos' (Gleick)...

How wonderful. A perfect stranger but for a couple of days spent trekking together. And he goes to the trouble of finding, buying and mailing those books to me all the way from Bristol.

They're right, book lovers are a wonderful bunch.
I'm so grateful. Thank You Mr Neky.

It's strange how quickly one can bond when trekking. I find that all the things that would bar one from befriending another on a day-to-day basis are suddenly of no concern when amidst the mountains. Nature really is a great leveller. Such wonderful, inexplicable friendships are forged then. Friendships that survive for all times and in all weathers in that wonderfully relaxed, free atmosphere of shared adventure and passion. But they're also delicate friendships, which somehow don't withstand normalcy. I find its best to enjoy these friendships while one is living them, but then they must be left to live on in peace and perfection in that unhurried air. Taken beyond the boundaries of the mountains, they somehow struggle to survive.

Almost always...

Mamma says...

2006-03-21T22:48:00.000+05:30

Mamma says...
Write a diary so that you have something to tickle you when your cares are different.
Mamma says...
Preserve your thought, like well-made pickle.
Mamma says...
Leave something of you in this world, even if its only the slimmest shard.

Who knows? With my transient nature, will I be able to write everyday?
Will I have much to write about?

Life certainly does seem to pass by rather rapidly. I seem to be teflon coated between the thick plates of my ideals and constant day dreams. Much of life seems to flow on by without my notice. Will a blog, a diary of thought help me scratch at the teflon surfaces a little? I certainly do hope so. It is scary to find at the end of each day that my preoccupied, half connected self has registered only colourful and largely impossible day dreams. It's a scary thought- not thinking.

So kicking off, here's to dreaming regularly, writing regularly and most importantly, thinking regularly.

The Miscellany Manifesto

coming up for air

...and just like that, its all good!

warm fizz

Rip. Tide.

Bored Chocolate-y and Waxy

Chasing Creases over Edges

adrift

Ignite?

Manana

Swing- for Us.

City Life

All Fool's Day

Arriving- Work in Progress...

Defining The Elbowroom

Untended Garden of My Thoughts

Going home...

Waiting Rooms

Of Dams and Learning to Ride Again

Tubelight-ing

Gmale Comes To Town

Beginning the Goodbyes

One Day Poems

Fanaa: Destroyed in Lameness

Limbo Bimbo

Ten Days In This Life

Done. Nearly. But Done.

Blog Sabbatical

HD *hearts* Black

Fighting for Dead Causes

Exams, AI and Ghosts

Connectivity Isn't Bad When It Looks So Darn Good...

Waves of Colour

Hung Up

Mossy chali Sasural

Confessions and Celebrations

Utopia

Rest In Peace

Democracy=Mobocracy

Just one Bentley?

How Opal Mehta REALLY got a life...

Wiping it clean!

OMG!

The Fourth Seat?

Aargh!

Painting the Town Green

Budget

(Almost) Saying Goodbye

A Very Inspiring Read

Ask me!

Heroes go home

Insomnia

Mourning

The First of the Ten Things

Everybody Hurts

The Effects of War

'Of Human Knowledge' -Sir John Davies

A Decision

Pari-wars

Resolving

Anxiety

Handsome, not Fair

AJ Jacobs- The Know-It-All

Blogs Away!

Sadha Soudha

Digging Deep

Golden Glory

Landmark-ing (I)

Mr Neky and the Histories of Time

Mamma says...

HD hearts Black