A Christmas Story

This is a Christmas story. And if you tell me that Christmas was a long time back, I would tell you that writing a Christmas story at Christmas would be tacky to say the least. And when did I pretend that these stories had a point anyway?

He had many names- Father Christmas, Saint Niklaus or Santa Claus in its corrupted version. And he was essentially a collector, a collector of stories. There were millions of stories floating around and what he did was to cut and slice and transfer them around. In that way he was some sort of a creator.

And there was Blinky, the elf whose job it was to keep track of good stories and give Santa the heads up. Cause obviously Santa was the public figure, the relationship man, or so Blinky believed. The real work was done by her.

So Santa was strategizing with January over a strong cup of sweet tea and buns. "Good buns Blinky", said Santa while January sniffed. She was a cold hard woman with a permanent hangover post the festive season. “So anyway", she went on. There is war going on everywhere. The world is in a state of strife. Figure you could get your dose of raw emotions.”

Santa looked troubled. But it was his job. To absorb excessive emotion, to absorb stories of war and strife and heartbreak, so that at Christmas some part could be transferred to those who deserved, or were destined. Christmas… when he would try to restore some sense of balance to the world...

...Blinky brought little heart shaped cookies for February who took her assigned role so seriously that she was almost a cliche. There she sat pink and trinketed, with her tinkling laugh, this last was a new development Blinky privately observed. "Oh darling I have the sweetest love story ever !"…..

It was a dull sultry night and Blink was working late sifting through the bottles. And there he was. She saw the bottle marked April and it came back to her. April was almost as dry as the arrowroot biscuits he ate and had told the story of a deserving young guy and his love for this girl. But she had not shown any signs of reciprocating and on the contrary took pleasure in giving him pain.

Blink had rolled her eyes at that story and stifled a yawn. She thought the guy was a loser in his own right for letting himself be treated that way. But Santa, the incurable romantic had gone to take a look ostensibly claiming that his stock of longing and heartbreak had run out.

And as she sat looking at the story, a strange mix of emotions surged through her, heady almost euphoric. She had never felt anything like that before. At first she thought she had accidently split some essence and spent a while checking for leaks. But there was no denying. Blinky had irrationally, irrevocably fallen for him.

And there was nothing she could do about it. The ancient treaty and all that jazz. She was surprised at herself. For she was an elf who prided herself on being level headed and mature. She was not like the other female elves whose dearest ambition was to serve the Elf Queen and dance around toadstools with prospects. She went out and got an “education”. And here she was. Drawn towards a human of all things.

She tried to divert herself. May came and paid a visit. Blinky loved May. They sat by the sea on the rocks and just listened to the sound of the waves. Not a soul for miles. She had enough contentment to last for a life time. She stole the essence and drowned herself in it. But to no avail.

Wisdom came with July. Wisdom and erudition. Listening to great men speak. Bringing back essences of motivation and action and focus.
She knew it was of no use. She knew she had to do it. She would mix him a story for Christmas. But this time she would play a part.

She thought of the day she had first gone out with Santa. She loved seeing him in action. "How do you know what to give them?” she had asked wonder struck, the first time.
“I just give them the essence, the thought, the idea. It takes the shape of whatever they want. That's true of most things in life", he had said.
“The emotions are there to influence the thinking”, he said and winked. “But there are some who do not feel the power of emotions”, he said suddenly sober “and they really get what they want..but such men are very few ”.

She tried to get a grip on herself and sprinked a few drops of patience to help her. “I must be as immune as those few men”, she thought wryly.

October came with her knack of firsts. The first ten seconds when you realize you are in love, the strength of that emotion had taken everyone by surprise last year, this year, she made them experience the dawn of a new day, when reality hasn’t fully sunk in and the air was full of promise and hope.

And the hope was her undoing. She sprinkled the scent of a ballerina’s dance, a heady mix of seduction, exhilaration and ecstasy and went before him….

Santa was furious. “You know what you have breached”, he said, strangely quiet. “Well so you must go”.

She walked up to him that Christmas eve..and he was there waiting for her..with a smile on his face..but she was there too and the instant she looked at him looking at her, she knew that he would never love her. And she surprised herself by wishing for his happiness and giving him the essence, the essence which would take the shape of what he most loved and desired….

But the magic would not work however much she tried…and eventually she gave up and walked away..

December was watching the scene with Santa. “You should have let her have this last wish”, he said quietly. “ It was not in my power”, said Santa. “ What she felt there was love, and love made her human. Elf magic would not work for her”

“So love actually pushed her to a lower level of existence? Pity I liked her biscuits..”drawled December sarcastically.

And Santa looked at all the emotions he had collected over the years, willing himself to feel a part of what the men in the stories felt, willing himself to feel love..”

“Actually, it is higher”, he said softly..

The Gods play scrabble

So how do the Gods chalk out millions of different life times, millions of different stories for each individual? Or is it just an old formula rehashed time and again with a few subplots thrown in for variety? That had been the standard procedure with the result that the Gods had plenty of free time and were consequently bored. Among the more conventional pastimes was Scrabble which an enterprising God had once learnt from a pearly white (their euphemism, coz the Gods where the whitest and there was no better white), while he was waiting for an admit.

Consequently a cruel streak in them, for Gods have to be cruel to be effective, which mortal would remember them otherwise, made them adopt this device for designing new lifetimes ,a collaborative process now (the Wise One was very keen on collaboration. He called it a buzz word since so many gods talking at once reminded one of angry bees) .The possibilities were immense thwarted only by vocabulary but the Gods were quick learners.

The first word had to signify the beginning, usually words like creation, inception or idea (for the metaphysically inclined) were used, but this one started with “Baby”, made by the practical motherly-looking-old-lady-god. The other Gods groaned at this because it severely limited their possibilities but an eager-fresh-faced-goddess made Beauty.

“So the fairy godmother has done her work again”, drawled a sarcastic no-nonsense-looking-God and he added wit and the Wise One added intelligence.

 This was met with protests since these stories tended to be much drabber than the others and the Gods liked their fun as much as anyone as and more than most. But the Wise One just smiled and said that the fates had willed it at which Fortune threw him a dirty look. This new system meant a lot of implementation work for her and she was feeling the strain.

“Ok time to start the story now”, said the Creative-God also the god of mayhem, thunderstorms and the likes.  “I am tired of the same old rigmarole, it curbs my creative instincts”. And he took the lonely Y which was free and made Y-E-T-I.
“But that’s not even a word! They don't exist “, snapped the starry-eyed eager-fresh- faced-goddess. “I was going to use it for a youthful flame”, she sighed.
“Yea like you ever have any ideas. Of course they exist, I personally supervised the look, and all this mystery only adds to their glamour”, snapped back the Creative-God.

The Wise One had to intervene. “We agreed that this would be a normal life”, he said acidly . I am done with the rock band groupie crap”, he added wincing , the memories of the last story were clearly still fresh.

So the Creative-God made yak and settled down with a smirk.

Fortune firmly put holiday and then school. She was glad to get her turn in as early as this. At least they steered clear of the gangs and the cults, which were quite a rage with the Creative-God right now. The Al-Qaeda was it? It seemed to be the theme of the season! No this would be a good life, she was firm, if they could just get by without Lucifer arriving.

Lucifer ambled in crooning, “So you think you can tell heaven from hell”. “Well you can”, snapped the Wise-One.
“Relax it’s a song”, said Lucifer grinning. “Chap called Pink Floyd”.
“It’s not a chap you moron”, said the Creative-God.
“How do they know”, said the old-motherly-one suspiciously. “If you ask me these bands are getting too smug for their own good. Why I heard something like a “stairway to heaven”, gave me a turn I must say. “How would he know how to work the switch?”

“It’s a metaphor nanny”, said Creative one indulgently. “You know a symbolic way of expressing”.
” I don’t hold with metaphors”, sniffed the nanny. “Stick to the plain facts. What if we started calling death, the end of all hope?”
She laughed wheezily at her own wit. Death and Hope were constantly in a state of strife and everyone knew who won in the end!

The story was unfolding before them. A small fresh faced girl, laughing on her way to school, a youthful teenager holidaying in Tibet (heh heh, laughed Lucifer. He was the only one who got the Creative-God’s jokes. They called it a satire).

The wise one made college and work since the Creative-God hand had been hovering close to the D and R . “Well then let’s make it love”, he said angrily “and heartbreak yes heartbreak”.
The sound of her sobs smote the heart of the eager-fresh-faced goddess, who promptly made marriage, and tried to explain to the elderly one that “a nice cup of tea “would not work both in the game and otherwise.
“Depression!” screamed Lucifer, in his element now, and the eager-fresh-faced goddess made a trip to Europe and old-lady-god made babies.
Creative-God however made I-P-A-D. “It’s a chance” he said to his bewildered audience. “But I will take it”.

This was met with deep suspicion.

“Whatever is this? The other day u were talking about some IPod and now this?” The IPod is the biggest revolution since the invention of the wheel”, said the Creative God.
“Bigger than Let there be light,  countered the Wise One his eyebrows raised.
“ Oh come of it”, snapped Lucifer. "The guy is pretty much a demi-god there”, he said, as Jesus blanched. “Just a figure of speech”, he added hastily.

"Well let’s not do grandchildren and all that!”, said the no-nonsense-God as her saw old-lady-god hands hovering dangerously towards "crib". I thought she would be doing something worthwhile?"
“Let’s make her write a book”, suggested Creative.
“Careful”, snapped Fortune. “The last one produced “The Secret”, having people believe they could bend me at will. You know I could never refuse a little attention and a girl is helpless in the face of devotion” (“Girl!” cackled Fresh face). “This one had me working overtime for weeks.”

“No not that one”, said Wise one quickly. More on the lines of HP since her life has been devoid of great love or tragedy to produce anything groundbreaking”.
“Oh that can be remedied”, said Lucifer quickly and death looked hopeful (Hope flinched).

“No”, said the Wise One, “It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day”. “Hee hee”, wheezed the old one who always got a pun late. “Now who fancies a game of chess?” said the Wise One. “I feel like there is a war coming on”……….

A stupid post

As Calvin would say, the quality of network programming is all violence and sleaze, and obviously we are hooked. How else would shows such as "Emotional Atyachaar", which sells infidelity, vicarious titillation and underhandedness and "Dare to date" which is the last word in wannabe behavior be allowed air time? Since I had not been a part of the “Rakhi ka Sawyamvar” movement, I made it a point to watch “Rahul Dulhaniya..”. To watch a couple of misguided females lie and cajole their way into the heart of a groom of questionable charms stops short of bizarre. Of course love is not blind; it can see and smell the money (ok maybe that’s a tad unkind!).

This was also the year the three Khans got out their magnum opus and fought for air, copyright and political time. While I liked 3 Idiots and MNIK (Yes I liked it, but I am an ardent SRK fan anyway), it is Veer which made an impression. After all it took Salman Khan 35 years to think up the story, so it deserves at least 35 mins of our time.

A narrative rich in history and patriotism and machismo and hence substantiating the torso revealing nature of Veer (the script demands it), Veer seeks to portray the lives of the war torn Pindaris .

Maybe his brain was overheated with 35 years of thinking, but Salman seems to have thought too far back into the past. The Pindaris seem very primitive in the evolutionary scale, their grunts and chants resembling the early man much more than any post Christ civilization.

Add to that a predilection for wrenching spleens, a general preoccupation with parts of the anatomy (wrist hacking and head butting), disturbing mom behavior (provocative dances with sons), the Pindaris seem to be a tribe in desperate need of a biology, anthropology and a societal norm lesson.

But their heart seems to be in the right place. Unfortunately the same cannot be said of their brains. For the Pindari father will kill his son and vice versa to be proved right and hence show that he is a man of his word (lessons in prioritization please!), the dashing Pindari guy will kill palace guards with impunity and steal royal treasure, but will endanger the rest of his clan in seeking to return “ek maa ki nishani”, the ambitious Pindari guy will impersonate a royal title to gain access to the palace, but his heart will then reassert itself and remind him of his true identity. He will then choose the most importune moment and emotionally blackmail people into addressing him by his correct title (gets beaten up till the heroine shrieks out ‘Veer”).

But he evolves fast. While he has been brought up delighting in simple pleasures such as dousing his dad with water and head butting him umm, he is equally at home in a royal cocktail party, playing the piano! He doesn’t know the alphabet but reads GB Shaw and figures out the divide and rule policy of the British based on his interaction with a racist professor.

But then Veer is no ordinary Pindari. He has been raised for a purpose. He is sent to school in England by his father who fondly believes that three years in England spent courting bovine heiresses will equip him with a firm understanding of the “way Britishers think” and hence enable the clan to defeat them at war! And what about the Maharajas they could never dethrone? Didn’t they already understand the way they thought?

The epic love story talks of the forbidden love of a princess who resembles the royal elephant for Veer. While she has every cause to hate him, she has for the alternative a gold fisted (he he) father who can kill her at slightest provocation. The film toys around with her dilemma for a while and then quickly retracts when faced with her complete inability to register any emotion. She is told to stop thinking, fall in love with Veer, dance with him and is then relegated to the background while the epic battle unfolds.

The Pindaris are bound together by a bond which is stronger than family, friendship of even acquaintanceship. It is a mutual love for violence. When Veer gets hit thousands of Pindaris from other provinces who would never have heard of him, attack the ramparts and get killed for his sake. And hence are sown the seeds of revolt , till the Pindaris get their rightful place in the scheme of things. Ok did I tell you that the son is born as his dad? Yes that is the disturbing  mom behaviour in action.

Sunset Boulevard

When BW woke up in the morning , she knew it had been too real to be a dream. That the place existed and was not just a figment of her imagination.

She had touched those flowers, their sweet fragrance wafting through her, intoxicating her sun kissed body. She had tasted the icy cold water of the brook which bubbled frothily over mossy boulders. And the fact that she had the dream, the very night she moved here, far from everyone, meant that it was a sign.

That place was here somewhere. Waiting. Especially for her.

So she set off immediately after breakfast.

The early morning light had just begun to seep in between the fronds of the trees skirting the lodge.

The proprietor said that there were many springs and brooks in that area, but if she took the straight road through the woods, she would doubtless come across the one her friend had told her about (it was the only story she could come up with) sooner or later.
She found the first one soon enough. But it was obviously not her brook. The flowers were wilted and the water too muddy.
She found a dry patch on the grass and sat down to rest for the walk had tired her out.
And she dreamt of the little girl who had played house with her friends, and who had brought up a new role for herself every time. Doctors, teachers, actors, dancers, she went through each with a comfortable assurance of her own right to them.

New roles, new possibilities and a belief that possibilities were endless and that ability was infinite.
"You can be whatever you choose darling !" and there was nothing holding her back. But it changed the day she went to school when the teacher said " You are too gauche to be a dancer" and her classmates laughed at the idea of her being an actress. "Get real", they said.
Reality was all about imposing limitations.
BW woke up with a start. The sun was in her eyes almost blinding her and she quickly resumed her walk. The next one was prettier and the flowers especially.
The same flowers he always bought for her because they were so "her". The same flowers he was carrying the day she said , " I don't want you to love me for a reason. I want you to love me for all those imperfections which anyone else would find irritating. I want you to love me because of them and not in spite of them. If these flowers remind you of me , why do you get me new ones everyday? Because you do not like them when they are wilted. I would want you to love the flower regardless of the state it is in, regardless of season, love it when it is fresh but equally when it is wilted. "
BW thought wryly that love blooming was a good analogy for a relationship. Yes it blooms. But it also wilts and fades.
The next one was almost but not quite perfect. There was a sharp nip in the air and the water was too deliciously cold for comfort.

Yes comfort, stability was what one wanted. She thought of the choices she had made.
Any risky alternative was abandoned in favor of the slightly more known. Career choices were conventional, opinions if just her own were too risky and had to be ratified by someone else.

There was comfort in letting others make decisions for your life, it was made easier in a society in which it was the "proper" thing to do.

There was comfort in treading paths once trodden by others and not making the same mistakes. In running away from the unknown and untried, in not going against the opinion of others.
When did comfort become cowardice?
Well she would not let it this time. She trudged along.
When she came to the next one she knew instinctively that it was the one. Here at last could she finally be at peace. But there was always the nagging doubt at the end of her mind. What if there was something better, something unimaginably better further on. Shouldn't she at least try?

When should one learn to be satisfied and stop being ambitious?
And the answer came to her as she watched the sun set ushering in the sudden nightfall. It was too late , too late to go further, too late to turn back , too late to change anything.

Stardust..

In days filled with..

Assortments of garments piled high on display, a dizzying collection complete with for sale exclamations ..

A sea of humanity trying to out bargain the other..

A more "sophisticated" sea vying with the other for the more expensive purchase

A sea of consumerism..

Gucci clad women, high heeled and skinny jeaned, flamboyantly bagged, blue toothed cell phoned men, teenagers clad in shorts and black slippers (why does everyone look the same?)..

Amidst a head spinning array of merchandise.....

skin colored make up counters shimmering with blue and pink glitter, blue coloured perfume shelves, each fragrance more saccharine than the other, steel and diamond watches, cold to the touch, bags and belts glaring from the sidelines, shoes and accessories glittering and golden, coffee counters with a nauseating aroma of hastily brewed- muddy beverages in Styrofoam cups and crumbs of muffin on the tables....

In the midst of all this imagine..

A brown branch of a tree bent in the night breeze, with dark green leaves , specked with dew, and in the pale light of the moon, the bough is inky blue and the leaves inky green and the dewdrops glistening like globules of mercury swaying gently in the breeze..

The taste of bittersweet coffee drunk after a chunk of dark chocolate, the ones with nuts, smothering the sweetness with its subtle fragrance, the first few sips only, warm and invigorating..

A single pink rose, swept wildly in the breeze, in the windowsill of the house on the edge of the cliff, looking down on the chalky white sea raging behind, observed in the moonlight by the stranger in the house..

The sense of clam which pervades after you cry your heart out..

The first rush of love or affection at the sound of a long forgotten voice, or the involuntary smile at their messages..

Music which electrifies you in a movie theatre , spine-tingling , mesmerising melody..

Early morning paper reading sessions with a cup of tea..

Standing in an air conditioned room and feeling the warmth of the sun through a bay window..

A few flavours to get you started..

It was the stuff dreams were made of

When she was a child she had imagined a room full of innumerable mirrors, at all angles, of all shapes and sizes such that a single burst of light would make it sparkle and shine as brightly as a giant polished diamond.

And she would be inside too awed to speak, content to just bask in this sea of jewels, a queen in her own private fairyland.

The lights were dimmed now, pale blue and white.

She would dream of lands far away , smothered with clouds, pale blue and white, of sparkling fountains and snow capped peaks, of pale blue summers and white winters, of pale blue ribbons in white dresses.

Of a pale blue dawn seen through the whites of the mirrors, many mirrors, evoking a realm of possibilities, each mirror a vista silky white to the touch.

The lights that were falling were harsh and red, smouldering and fiery to the touch. the reflections were her own, many aspects, many faces, some whom she recognized, many whom she didn't.

Some enduring the harshness of the fiery light and getting lost in the darkness and shying away.

Some fighting the flames which would then glow orange and pink and illuminate a mirror, previously undiscovered, a face hidden in the shadows.

Broken shards from thunderbolts of light, broken dreams and broken personalities.

The room was dark and a single flicker of light would open a multitude of possibilities, a plethora of emotions.

But she knew that the sights would make her dizzy, so she stayed in the darkness.

There will be a time..

There will be a time when music would no longer accompany sorrow

When music would no longer accompany festivities

When outpourings of music would no longer mirror outpourings of grief or joy

When there would be endless music..

And it was not just the songs.

A chance remark evoking vague memories, innumerable objects, random people on the streets, making coffee and working nights, there was a bit of him in each of them.

Bits she was trying to shake off but they were parts of her and clung too tight.

He was no longer her last thought when she went to bed, or the first thing she thought of as she faced another dreary day, but they were there, memories , dozens of them , lodged firmly in the back of her mind, weighing her down.

The day he left, the day he died, she felt a void so sharp, as he took away a part of her that was made for him, for their lives together, a void which just got bigger the more she let him claim.

There was a time when reason and emotion had walked together and indulged in devious games of power play.

There was a time when she welcomed Fortune as a fitting adversary and exhilarated by the test she put her to.

There were times when she just succumbed.

The Broken Song

I'll write a song for you. A song with words so green and fresh that it would remind you of the times you walked with me and the air was full of promise and the world was full of laughter and dreams were but an inch away from reality and home was warmth and shelter and love was the clear, bubbling water of the brook, unhindered and unshackled.
The words would twist around that happy moment and there would be words and games, a play on words, there would be less spontaneous prose and more calculated undertones, there would be lines between the lines, spinning a tale of sorts, spinning the picture into havoc and it would remind you of hurt and tears and willful acts , of times when laughter was more contrived and conversation more guarded, when the brook was dry and the remaining water listless , and the world held foreboding and the air was heavy with the smell of rain.
The words would slowly unravel as the tone would become calmer , there would be philosophy, there would be experience , words of erudition backed by learning, words of age and age old, words picked carefully with a wealth of meaning, for those few who understood(if it was and worth understanding in the first place )or thought they did, and it would remind you of patience and discretion and of wisdom over emotions, of icy cool water washing away the distortions in the picture, which would emerge new though faded and not so colorful , divested of its vibrancy but toned down and pleasant and the brook would fill again , but the water would not dance over the pebbles but be frozen into ice and the world would be a set of rules and the air would be devoid of feeling.
I would then raise the music to a crescendo, the beats would shake you from your reverie and tear through that page of written words, and it would remind you of the music in you, within you ..but would you remember how to dance??

PS: After this long hiatus, I accidentally deleted all the comments while reviewing them, but thanks to all those who took the time out to read these ramblings, and the time to tell me what you thought of it. Trust me it means a lot!!

The Chronicles of BW- Part 1

BW decided that it was time for some soul searching. Ever since her entry into the real world so to speak she had been riddled with AOL banners, power yoga techniques, meditation pamphlets, reiki, kundalini, you name it. So she set out on a journey to discover the deeper meaning of "life". Not that she had much of a life anyway, or so said some equally lifeless colleagues.
So she bought a Ferrari , since that showed that you were serious, it was like an induction of sorts. Since a journey it would have to be, to attain the elusive nirvana. After all it did one good to mix business with pleasure. Till she morphed into a saint-with-a-ferrari , she might as well make the most of it.
So the third dimension it was and Pratchett's discworld seemed the obvious starting point. It was a world where unreality was its one reality, the rest were just figments of one's imagination.
So Death was companionable, witches were friendly guardians though slightly coarse and satire was king. “Such was life”, thought BW. A sense of unreality was exactly what one needed to try out the most bizarre. Here at last one could become oneself or one’s vision of oneself at least.
So she rented a cottage, kept cats, danced with witches at moonlight and made tea 5 times a day. And waited for realization to set in. She would be free at last, and at peace, no strings attached.
Days passed and yet she felt nothing. She did feel a vast void welling up inside her. But nothing else.
She slept in one morning, and when she woke up the sun was in her eyes, its rays sharp and she felt a spasm of irritation. And she realized what she had been missing.
She felt the heat of the sun coarse through her, and went to the garden and plucked out the roses feeling their silken touch against her skin, and pricked herself with the thorns, oozing blood and welcoming the pain. She bathed in icy water and shed hot tears. The tears were real, as were the roses, the sun was real because of the heat, and she was real because she could emote and feel again. Joys, sorrow, pain, happiness, fear, anger made her what she was, her ability to think, feel, reflect and smile were her own, they were unique to her. She couldn’t do without a life which did not stir them to some degree. Without them she had as much personality as those rapidly wilting rose petals.
So she decided on the next fad. After all philanthropy had many takers and what could be better than helping the underprovided little kids. Why she could even adopt a few after she was sufficiently famous.
So she plunged into the good works, cried buckets at her first encounter with misery and set about her duties zealously, and it must be admitted a tad self righteously. She was vociferous about their rights and their privileges and would tell anyone who listened how rewarding it was.
But days passed and her unhappiness grew. For how could she admit to herself that their unhappiness no longer moved her, that she was hard hearted enough to become immune to it.
Familiarity kills emotions. Familiarity leads to numbness. Or was it just a sense of belonging since you could never pity anything you were a part of?
There would be feelings if there was love in the first place. In this case there was none.
So what was the solution? To find something you truly loved, something which would stir your emotions to the right degree, something you would never get tired of? And then you would find your calling, your own personal Nirvava. Till then you would keep looking.

To BITS with love

So Zans wrote a post on our BITS days and it frankly made me quite senti..what is it about things in retrospect which makes them so beautiful ??...as if a white mist runs through them..cloaking the painful moments, the ugly scenes, the anger, the frustration and leaving behind only a picture ....perfect ..more so because it is elusive and transient and always in danger of getting engulfed ...by the very same mist of time ..and thats why we love the memories and thats why we cling on to them..
And thats why we cherish the Bitsian lingo, and use it again and again, when we meet someone who understands , and it is a connection of sorts, a badge of belonging..guss, sac, insti, audi, sky, psenti, sidey..its amazing how special these words have become now..
I hope you remember how we went hysterical in Chemistry classes so much so that the professor remarked that society had a separate place for people like us, how that just made us laugh all the more..how when the professor repeated for the umpteenth time..so wat do u do with a chair polymer that I repeated in frustration "sit on it!!!" , how we fought so much that we hated the sight of each other but still elected to have our farewell speeches written by the other..how I felt when I wrote the testimonial for you..how we forced an unsuspecting soul into inviting us both for the Bhavans night and promptly ditched him..how I ran to you for advice whenever I had to dress up and u would give it in ur usual condescending way :p, how sundays would be spent trying to figure out ur face from the multitude of face packed faces, or trying to pluck you away from the mirror before every class where u stood like a permanent ornament in whichever wing we happened to inhabit, how we giggled over guys, fought over them, gave each other horrible advice and then went for moral support in all the "gate calling" sessions..how Cnot felt at 10;55 p m on an icy cold winter evening wen we had to mug for an exam, and promised to wake each other up in 7 mins and woke up the next morning just before the exam, the dressing up for Oasis, the walk from Meera Bhawan to the insti on the first evening of Oasis , all excited and enthued, NC on nites when it was so cold, that u wore Zans blanket thinking it was a shawl..the Comsci-Chem fites and all the nights when we would cry over something so inconsequential..
I hope u remember how much I loved ur room, the pink and whiteness and comfort of it in the Pilani bareness, the hue and cry we made about studying for CAT and went to the IC after keeping our books in the ref everyday, the bus rides to Delhi and the My Fair Lady evenings, FRIENDS reruns when both we down with viral fever coz the doctor said we "slept together", the way I managed to drag you to Cnot just before u had an exam and you never said no, the way you cried when someone close to you hurt you, and you got hurt too easily back then..songs played again and again in your room wen we were both supposed to be in class..egg cheese and mayo sandwich at sky, the thousand excuses you made to hang out with us when you had an exam and the rest of us did not, blue moon sessions and gobi manchurian, hysterical laccha sessions ...
I hope you remember the assoc ragging sessions , the welcome song, the spectacle we made, the feverish pratice , the elaborate "plans hatched for the temple lawns", dinner parties at "Profs places" where we would put these plans into action, all nite movies at Oasis and sitting in the corner refusing to be dragged to dance, IC sessions immediately after every exam, and bicycles which were always at the bottom of a pile..the disconnect you felt when you thought I had changed, all nite singing sessions of our favorite songs, mindless games in the temple lawns , "Oriya Assoc sports days" where I always had a sore throat excuse, and farewell parties and bday sessions..
I hope you all remember attending classes through the window, P 0.5 comps, arbit fundaes about the letter K and our "haunted" wing, wing wars at the end of every year !!! and diwali sessions when each of us cribbed about home, the last day of the term when no one wanted to go back, and the last few weeks, when every spot had to be clicked and every memory revisited, the numerous senti dinners and lunches and saree sessions..and musical troupes which specialized in Zombie renditions..
Back then when we were all starry eyed and idealistic and full of promise about the future and ourselves..Back then when would hum this song and believe in it
"And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees?Hot air for a cool breeze?Cold comfort for change?And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?How I wish, how I wish you were here.We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,Running over the same old ground. What have you found? The same old fears.Wish you were here"
Wish you were here..just as you were..

Sea-Faces

She stood on a cliff overlooking the crystal green waves, a trick of the afternoon light... and thought of despair.
He tried to drown the voices in his head, with the roar of the sea breaking against the rocks he sat on and thought of hope.
She rested her head on her hands, looking out of the window, hearing the muffled sound of the waves and feeling the spray on her face . She was tired..very tired.
They stood on the beach feeling the warmth of the sun bring a rosy hue to the inky blackness of the water and thought of love.
She traced the name in the sand, feeling the water slipping between her fingers and the mud which clung to her nails and would not come off.... as she flailed her hands in the water and thought of favorite dreams.
The sun was in his eye as he walked back from the beach, feeling the sand clinging to his toes and as he shielded his face from the sun.. he thought of loss.
The sea absorbed each of these shades. After all it was known to change colors....


PS : Made someone read this..so these are not 2 people but many..its different colours for different people and moods at different times of the day..and its about the sea

Somewhere, between the sacred silence and sleep

Can music save your mortal soul

Can thoughts be orchestrated?

The noise was loud, deafening , piercing right through her ear drums to head throbbing sonicity. It lashed out relentlessly, mercilessly. She would not stop it. She could not. It was after all her own music.

There were moments when she could manage to turn it off for a brief respite, and others when she could turn it down, when the strains were lower, softer and if you listened hard you could almost hear the rudiments of a piece which was once joyous , brilliant, and there were other moments, though few and far between when the song would burst forth into a crescendo, a medley of desires, and at moments like these she would smile such that her eyes crinkled at the corners, she would talk such that there was a promise of sunshine and she would sing along.

But sometimes the music was frighteningly loud, jarring, shattering hopes, eroding convictions, tearing to shreds all measures of normalcy, the notes dark and foreboding, casting a shadow over her face. In such times she would be wary, her eyes would reflect the sounds of the music and they would shift warily, uneasily and if she were lucky she would manage to shut them and drown herself in that disturbed melody.

And sometimes she would slowly find herself even enjoying it, she would deceive herself into understanding it, she would find comfort in the words and a sense of familiarity in the music. And these were the most frightening, when she would find herself slipping into the cacophony , the music taking hold of her and she letting herself be sucked in .

These were the most intriguing, cause when she returned she would often not recognize herself.

she acts like summer and she walks like rain..

Retail therapy…this weekend was by far the most relaxed in ISB…went shopping bought formals..ok this is not working..

Pencil scrawls are so insubstantial but I somehow can’t type if I have to write. Call it a quirk or just a handicap, call it technologically challenged..hmm not really, call it shutting yourself out from any semblance of work or social commitments , call it just an inadequacy, or a desire to “pen” down thoughts, or call it just a lack of thoughts, coz I have been increasingly morphing into a wilted cabbage. I have to write. Devoid of thoughts, ideas and sometimes even emotions. Devoid of any sense of urgency or responsibility. I have to write. Its an effort. I try not to steal glances at my laptop where every minute or so, a mail pops out, reminders and otherwise..

So anyway back to clothes..

Pinks and pastels, cool and silken to the touch , browns and blacks, preening and sturdy, saleswomen nodding and smiling ...like for ever, prospective customers, rich and supercilious. Blue..the cool blue of the appraising glance, blue.... dark around the eyes, lighter as the shadow, lighter still in the stole, red around the wrists, proclaiming, blatant red, red of the finger nails digging deep into that sole support..

Trials and fittings, discerning eyes, scanning shelves, mental calculations, sweeping glances over expensive knits, critical glances, surveying the keep..more smiles still and protestations, cajoling and conniving , indecision and firmness, and the final flourish of that signature and the final swish of that gold card..

Movies and popcorn and a half empty movie hall..the plot a drag, but colors on the screen and larger than life, music and laughter and sketchy characters, desperate to find meaning in their roles, infusing one with their own hopelessness, but there is one actor who is brilliant and he makes you smile and he keeps you there, entwined , entranced, though you know its silly, ( I hate going for movies in a group, never understood the point, I want to watch them undisturbed) , some songs make you smile, some scenes make you cringe, lights on and the crowd, teeming, jeering and unusually loud in their remarks, unusually mirthful in their comments, as if acting themselves, or desperate to prove intellectual superiority..over whom??

Music and snazzy lights, music and dance, music and laughter, music and compliments, music and more music... faster and faster..

Editing word docs..white and vapid..streaks of fluorescent ...of highlighted text, streaks ad hoc when you are bored and guilty, multiple tabs open , many more closed, and opened again…a sense of accomplishment, and coffee and tea..steel grey and black, ginger brown and sugar white, and hot and piping and reviving , like F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reruns watched again and again..vicarious pleasures, hot chocolate feel and cookie comfort..

Ok so this was my weekend …

khoya khoya chand

"kyun khoye khoye chaand ki firaaq mein talaash mein udaas hai dil
kyun apane aap se khafa khafa jara jaraasa naaraaj hai dil
yeh manjilein bhi khudahi tay kare, yeh faasalein bhi khudhi tay kare
kyu toh rasto pe phir seham seham sanbhal sanbhal ke chalta hai ye dil
kyun khoye khoye chaand ki firaaq mein talaash mein udaas hai dil"
and sing again...and sing along
So I am going to rant in this post..I am going to whine..I am going to say stuff I had avoided till now coz of what "people wud say"
I dont care now..I wish I had never cared...But Google interview prep is killing....they expect you to prepare everything in the world for that 45 min phone conversation. ...
I got shortlisted for the role of a product manager..ok so the next time a prospective intern googles for product manager interview prep hopefully this post would show up provided it has
a good number of incoming and outgoing links..and well..no click fraud..n the likes (ok so that’s
the extent of my prep till now)

I had resolved when I came to bschool that I would not go back to tech again..and of course that is exactly what I would end up doing…if not google which is a minisicully microscopically possible given some 13 rounds of technical and design and strategy and calvin and hobbes( ok I made up the last part..but u get the drift) questions. So now that I have gotten over the initial shock of getting shortlisted..(the typical profile of a PM I was told would be a Computer Science Btech, preferably MS with about 8-10 years of work experience in the tech sector)..I am a Chemical undergrad with about 2.5 years of work ex in Oracle..so now that people have stopped expressing shock and wondering which word of my CV got me the shortlist(!!!!)..I guess I have to start prep..

Guess I have been very quiet about my life here at ISB..

The terms at ISB have simply flown by..I have learnt a lot… in the course work mebbe..but otherwise too..about dealing with people, about myself and what matters to me and what does not..actually more of what does not ....(thrs too much of a time crunch here..u have to take a call)..and I am almost on to the placement season …and I will not look back and reminisce..coz that’s very boring and too much effort anyway..but things will surface..

So the action in the placement front till now has been that I got shortlisted for Deutsche bank
..did not make it though..and dats another story..Im not going to make this one of those preparing for Deutsche blogs

Making a CV is a painful process..especially if you are one of those who doesn’t like talking about
herself, or hasn’t thought too much about why she did anything ( well it just happened that way,
doesn’t cut any ice in any interview), was happy doing whatever work was assigned to her, and
never gave a thought to whether she was honing her analytical and problem solving abilities in the process..

But thanks to a few wonderful people who helped me out, a mutinous hastily typed scrap of paper can now join the hallowed ranks of what would officially be called a resume..dont get me started on the EOI..dats another story..well not really coz I still cant write that one..Even while I am writing this I am flooded with phone calls and mails about 3 different assignments, and submissions..but I will persist..But anyway..u live and u learn..(though the learning aspect had been reduced to a minimum for me post term 5)

So switching tracks…

The next post will be different..will I stop feeling guilty about writing!!!! I waste enough time as it is..

Breathe into me and make me real..

Wish I could write poetry.

Wish i could describe in profound , meaningful terms the incredible ennui and tiredness, which which makes you refresh ur mailbox for the 100th time without knowing why, mindlessly delete all the incoming mails, refresh that orkut screen again and again, browse through old pics and try to play around with a few, well ...do everything except what you have to do.

Wish I could wax lyrical about the way my room looks in the afternoon when it rains and I switch off the lights, draw the curtains and let the delicious earthy , murky greyness and scent seep in..the cool ,calmness ..the stolidity of it, the strains of the music in the background and the whitish softness of the sheets when I lie in bed just like that..

Wish music did not sound so harsh when I leave it on for sometime and return to it after a while, when I am doing something else. The preppy bouncy number takes on jarring ..accusatory overtones and also sounds incredibly loud..

Wish u were not so far away..

Wish I could fall in love with a new song everyday..

Wish I could describe in detail how I feel when i do discover a song I can fall in love with..or the warm satisfaction of repeated playings after that..

Wish I could remember where I lost that book, I am suddenly reminded of it even as I am typing this, and I am upset that I lost it while shifting..

Wish I could be all informed and deep and have an opinion about many things. I dont have an opinion abt most..but I do have the facts( as an afterthought)

Wish I could write well enough to describe the warmth of my hands clasped around a coffee cup on a cold morning..Its like putting iodex or smelling vicks..umm if u care for these things:-s

Wish i could make beautiful music..

Wish I could dream up the lyrics I am listening to right now..

"When ur born ur afraid of the darkness/ And then ur afraid of the light”- Aerosmith, Taste of India.

So when did we stop exploring the world for ourselves and began to believe in what was told and accepted? When did we start constraining what we did or felt because we saw others doing it.. ..and when did we stop believing that we could be otherwise? When did ecstatic happiness give way to measured expressions of joy? When did uninhibited enthusiasm give way to cautiousness, when did the stars give way to practical goals? When were dreams constrained? When did we not want to seek any light beyond what we already knew, and when did we become content basking in its glory? When did we start loving the darkness because it bought the illusion of a new light the next day?? And when was it that we stared saying ...I wish instead of I will..

Fear of the dark

I have the fear of the dark. No I like the song. But really. Seriously. I fear many other things too. But that will come later. If I want to that is. If I feel like it. For I fear I will reveal too much of myself.

I cannot stay in a room which is pitch dark. I need some kinda light, however dim. I need some kinda security, however fleeting. Darkness makes me insecure and helpless, and in the paranoia I cling to the diffused sense of security provided by the night light. And when you are desperate and fearful how important is that feeble ray of light? of hope? How we exalt it. How we feel at once secure and able and ready to take on the world. Basking in the aura of something so inconsequential.

We are optmists . All of us . We are hopeful. We hope to find that elusive ray of light. And we do find it. In most things. Purely because we want to.If it is just a question of will and if we know that the bulb is dispensable why then are we so afraid of the dark? Of loneliness. Of venturing out alone. Of breaking free. Of assuming responsibility. Of taking control. Why cannot we carry on alone in seemingly hopeless situations knowing that it is just our distorted vision, just a trick of the light?

Why do we clutch like a dying man in a sinking ship to any straw that we find and exalt it to a rescue boat? And it mostly sinks. It mostly lets us down. Except when we realize that it is but a straw.

Sing for the moment

Empty words..strained smiles...mumbling platitudes..typing politically correct replies...

The melifluous strains of the latest song ur addicted to..u play it again and again...a sudden headrush..a sudden will to break free..a sudden wish to rebel....

The second time you play it..soft soothing melodies..lulling insecurities..

Exam grades...CP propoganda's...pre-read discussions..project plans...tactics and strategies..guarded conversations..self deprecating announcements..5 minute sales pitches...

The first time you listen to that song after a long time..and u hv forgotten just how intricate the beats are..a happy discovery ..a resolve to play it again and again...

Struggling with readings..mechanically typing mails...depressed too..the aftermath of grades ....questioning ur self worth....obsessing abt where u went wrong...

The song plays on and u sing along...u resolve to learn the words..and are for a moment diverted..happy....inspirational thoughts...promising futures..a sense of accomplishement..an urge to reward urself..And so end the first three terms at ISB..the most hectic of all terms.. We can live again..or so I have heard

ISB MBA?? Before the end terms

I feel lost. I feel inadequate. I feel like life is rushing past and leaving me gasping in its wake. I am trying hard to catch up but I just can’t.

Remember BW aka Beggar Woman. Well here is a sequel, or first a refresher. Well she was a pretty little thing(always helps to put things in perspective, and this puts it in a way in which nothing else can), a little lost, well lets say very lost, but then I have a soft spot for BW so cant be too harsh...

Its been long since I read a book , there is just sooo much to catch up on, Istanbul , Snow(Pamuk), Umbert Eco, Pratchett , my manna, Shataram, all perched tantalizingly on the teak wood shelf while I connive for project teams, tussle for company projects and dream up uninspiring business plans .And I do have to study. Though that I gave up a lost cause the last term.

So BW had been suitably catharsized with the chance encounter with the witch and that had quelled her queenly ambitions for sometime, and she decided to pursue more constructive hobbies like learning how to read. Not that she trusted books anymore after having been painfully betrayed by one but it always helps to research your enemy (I should be calling this a competitive advantage but I really cant bring myself to)

BW had become an avid reader, and was currently reading the biographies of jack, snow white and all her old cronies. She kicked herself for not knowing all that before. She could so easily have avoided being duped(refer BW blog for the uninitiated)

BW came to the life changing conclusion. It’s all there if you just know where to look. I mean which book to look into.

Knowledge is an overpowering emotion. It instills in you a feeling of power, of confidence, sometimes misplaced, but overpowering nevertheless. And you feel ambitious. So BW decided she could still pursue her dreams. Only now that she was a beauty with brains (as she liked to call herself, a queen seemed too ornamental a career goal. Also she had been following the news, and it seemed that the place was abuzz with the coming of a new factory which had people moving around with video cameras and shooting her friends. Animations they called it. And they even paid you for it.

And this was just one of the many things the corporation did. They were into a zillion other activities, all of which sounded very exciting to our freshly minted scholar. She decided the future lay in that corporation, and the people who worked in them. They had a funny name for them. Many Busybodies Active (MBA).

And I walk past the corridors of the library looking for that elusive book. Its exam time here. Everywhere u see groups of people huddled together, channeling their collective energies to solve such metaphysical mysteries of life as DMOP( Decision Models Using Optimization), MarkStrat(Marketing Strategy), CompStrat(Competitive Strategy) andGLEC(Global Economics), the 4 courses we have this term.
Vocabulary seems to be limited to a permutation of these 4 terms with prepositions thrown in half heartedly.
Nothing instills comradeship more than imminent exams.

Its raining outside and that makes me calmer. It seems to wash away for the time being all insecurities. The sky outside is a deep, dark musty grey flecked with specks of startling white...the last valiant attempt of the sun before it succumbs. Deep dark musty grey but now flecked with more somber shades, still white but duller , calmer now, as if triumphant but tired and unsure of conquered glory .The clouds crawl through the landscape, slowly very slowly , lazily, hazily like grey moss, like a dirty stream listlessly bubbling through the grass..the grass is green painfully so, blatantly green, it resolutely attacks the stream as if wishing to smother it under its ever proliferating expanse, and now the stream is lost...but the grass is darker too, moist and murky, as if suppressing an ugly secret, and unsure of the imbibed glory.

BW sits by the stream, now lost in tangled undergrowth. She feels the chill of the wind but its a pleasant sensation. From the distance she sees the cold hard grills of the factory. They look forbidding.

But she wants be famous so she sets about her education. As she knows, its all there if you only know where to look. But its sundown and she sees the workers teeming out of the factory. She sees them looking in her direction, cool appraising glances and hears snatches of “brand repositioning, she would make a good seductress, we need to cater to that niche segment”, or “oh don’t u see, she is the perfect helpless waif, ideal for the singles!!!, they are a growing segment after all”, “it’s a perfect strategic fit, murder and revenge, who wants tht Shrek hogwash anymore!!!”, mushy and moronic, “ok lets conduct a conjoint for the same”..

And she is filled with misgivings.

And God said let there be light...

The shutters let in the light, mellow at first, warm and dewy with that delicious thrill of the early morning breeze, that sharp nippy air, in an instant so cold that it brought goose pimples and a wild burst of euphoria.

The night air had been warm and stuffy, but now she loved the cool feel of the pillow against her skin. That brief steamy grayness flecked with gold, like someone spraying grey ink on the canvas of a long forgotten painting..that of a tempest..smoothening it out, so that the waves looked calm and still and the occasional ripples of gold as they glowed in the sun only held promise..

She shut her eyes to that image and held on to that promise….

But the light was too harsh… too demanding…too fraught with worry..restless with the guilt of unfulfilled promises..

And the day wore on dull and listless..the air smelled dank…heavy with despair..

She closed the shutters as the evening approached and the wind …as restless as ever was lashing out with a wild frenzy…And she waited. Her thoughts were dark and brooding, mirroring the transition of the world from a hazy practical blue to a slate grey…dark and obscuring…comforting and she grew calmer as if lulled into a false sense of security..enveloped and hidden by the fast approaching gloom..She found solace in that gloom..

But the sharp flicker of the street lights being turned on, the unforgiving orange glow which hurt her eyes and drew out beads of frustration, that sharp jolt back to reality..the snapping of a thread

It was night again..