Of greed and fear

Well, the greed part was more of an attention grabbing gimmick :D. What I really want to write about today is fear. In all the "about me", know me better posts there is one integral aspect of my life which hasn't come forth. And that is my deep , irrational cynophobia (or more commonly known as the fear of dogs)...

My earliest memory is of a chubby, tiny (well I was never tiny) me, waddling through rose bushes, and running for dear life while being chased by "Lucy", my aunt's mean Alsatian. And not to mince words here..Most dogs are equally mean, but some are more mean than others. (Disclaimer- I am not targeting any species, group or cult here, views are personal, for every one mean dog you have many cute, cuddly, loving etc dogs and so forth..So peace?). And Lucy anyway nurtured this deep hatred for me cause she always had to be tied up when I visited. So when she saw the 5 year old me pottering about in the garden she gave a yelp of delight and made a dash towards me. I gave a subsequent shriek of horror and tried an unsuccessful exit while screaming my aunt's name at the top of my lungs. And she finally rescued a much scratched and bloody me (that was the bushes not Lucy). So the fear which till then was more budding in nature was deeply ingrained from that day on.

My second encounter of the third degree kind was with "Silky", a name possibly on account of her coat? Silky was a childhood friend's Pomeranian (aww so cute??). No shudder. This one actually bit me.I felt that silky coat against my skin and felt as though a million insects were crawling on it. And was the cause of many painful injections.

I don't know if this is the case with everyone who fears something. But the moment I spy a dog, the rational part of my brain seems to sputter out and die, only to be replaced by a deep overpowering fear, skin crawling and nausea. Its something I am trying to fight against. I have tried to trace the root of this fear. It could be a subconscious reaction to my mom tightening her grip on my wrist every time she crossed a dog, when I was very young, she is pretty scared herself or what I always maintain, the fact that maybe I was a slave/ convict in my previous reincarnation and was chased down by a pack when I tried to escape. I am reformed now(Disclaimer again)....

But enough of the philosophical speculation.
Now living with this handicap in a place like India presents its own set of problems and planning.Where at almost every nook and cranny you are bound to chance upon a member of the species, (yes yes again I know usually they mind their own business and the likes) a dog free existence is a utopian concept. And please don't ask me "even puppies???". I hate that. Puppies more. Cause at least dogs know the ways of the world and propriety. Puppies are finding out.....

So existence in Pilani was a series of minor heart attacks. There dogs would prowl the hostel corridors with gay abandon and I would gingerly skirt the corrdidors with the wariness of an army novice negotiating hidden mines.

Back in those days when I went to engineering college, we had dinosaurs in our backyard and no cell phones. Getting a phone call from home meant, your name being shrieked out by a multitude of women, till you scrambled out of your room. The telephone enjoyed a place of honor in the corridor along with the full length mirror and was seated on a brown rickety table. That day I was perched on the table, talking to mom. I usually have a third eye for dog presence nearby, but that day I must have been really engrossed, cause when I looked around there were about 5 dogs surrounding my table, gamboling playfully and trying to put their paws up.
My mom tells me later that she thought I was dying of asphyxiation when she heard my strangled voice. A gladiator couldn't have felt worse than I did at that time. Well my convict self would have I guess.

My life flashed before my eyes and I thought how ironical it was that instead of being surrounded by loved ones when I was dying, well that place was taken....
I could hear my mom's hysterical voice over phone urging me to be calm and chanting various "mantras" - yep she is very religious and equally scared (its so funny when I think about it ). But now I whole heartedly support all her religious fasts cause when i unclosed my eyes which were screwed shut the dogs were miraculously leaving. I sprinted back to my room as fast as I could while mom I think took some nerve soothing medicines.
Another incident which comes to mind is when I agreed to go on a picnic with Giddy and her friends when I was visiting Bangalore. (Giddy please remind me to pay you back for this). We went in a TATA Sumo some 5 of us and one dog. Giddy had "forgotten" about the dog she claims. Anyway there was no turning back then. The dog was called Twincy or Pincy or some such terror inducing name. Its owner also professed being scared of it. And the worst part was that it didn't have a tail.

Now in the absence of any other insight into the species I usually relied on the tail (as we had been taught in primary school) to determine danger levels. Now in the absence of a tail, I had no forewarning. So I sat in front, with Pincy behind. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, a role reversal of sorts and I sat with my hackles raised ready to pounce out at the slightest sign of Pincy's movement towards my general direction...

I have made a complete fool of myself on many occasions given this irrational fear, clutched random strangers, missed classes (yes)and generally made a laughing stock of myself. I have also been branded a sinner...

Well the last incident happened in school. I was in class 1 or something, and we were having moral science (this was a convent) taken by our principal Sister. Now the Sisters had a pet called Susie and it was white and docile and generally very nun like in appearance and behavior. It was similarly respected in school.
While the class was going on Susie ambled in and made straight for my desk and promptly sat below it. Now my fear for Susie then was matched by an equally strong awe for the said Sister at that time. So I sat petrified, fighting back tears, afraid to make the slightest movement lest Susie should become aware of my presence. I am sure I stopped breathing.
So the Sister was asking some random question like "Who all would like to go to heaven?", which a sensible 7 year old would pass off as rhetorical. Well they wouldn't and the entire class promptly put up their hand. The entire class except me. I was sitting on a live bomb remember ?

And this brought Sister's wrath down on me. "You dont want to go to heaven?", she asked incredulously little realizing that heaven at that time seemed closer to me than she could have ever imagined. I sat as though turned to stone and she came towards me. At which Susie gave a yelp and disappeared and I could hear again.

The trick to conquer your fears they say is to laugh at it. Over time I have tried to do the same. Now I affect a nonchalant attitude whenever I see a dog nearby (like it cares)and it has helped a bit. I must learn to whistle....

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”……….

Weighty Issues

Mumbai is an accommodating city. It is a city in which jam-packed train compartments can always make room for one more. It is a place where landlords will graciously accommodate 5 people in the space meant for one, where narrow roads clogged with cars will still make way for that BEST bus (which should not be allowed in those lanes in the first place).
Where after being stuck at a traffic signal for 45 mins the taxi driver will wait even longer to allow the casual passerby, one who trundles along complacent in the belief that it is his right of way and glaring at the hapless car which comes too close or has the audacity to honk.
Mumbai is a resizing of expectations, one size smaller in everything.
So it is strange that in a city where the space constraint has made Mumbaikars evolve into slight, slim individuals, a survival of the trimmest, would be a city where, against all Darwanian edicts, I would manage to gain weight.
Now I have always been very tall and in a country where tall women are an aberration, it is more of a liability than anything else.
So right from kindergarten where tall equaled big, I have been made to feel guilty about taking up more than my rightful space in the terrain of life.
"Oh god Namrata, you are so BIG", would say a dainty 8 yr old, accusingly, my classmate then, who plainly thought I should be several forms higher coz of my "age" , while I would shuffle uncomfortably and try to look smaller.
Or in middle school when your friends come to about your waist, you would have to slump and slouch and generally contract in an effort to stay more grounded with real people.
You do have your usefulness to society. People identify your group quicker since you rise like a mast amongst a sea of other heads, you generally get pulled in for repair work and changing tube lights (yes I'm BIG if you insist but not necessarily stronger).
During shopping trips all your ready made garments have to go through a customization process and an incredulous salesperson.
Now it’s worse. You are tall as well as fat. That’s a new dimension to your problem.
You become aware that you are sporting those extra pounds, when waiters start showing you low fat options and automatically assume that you would have your coffee without sugar and your tea green, tactful colleagues start referring to you as "just right" instead of slim, you begin to think that jeans shrink a lot more during wash than commonly believed, and when your friends call and say that you look fat in your pictures.
So in a city where you are anyway taking more than your fair share of vertical space, throwing your weight around does not help much. Now you not only have to slouch your shoulders and bend your knees , you also have to suck in your stomach and such a 360 degree contraction is enough to make you curl up into your own ball of shame.
Shopping trips for more strategic clothing are also no fun.
Shopkeeper:"L madam?”
You, optimitic post your week long green tea stint and the lack of glucose making you light headed, fix him with a steely glare.
You: "No M will be fine".
Repair to the changing room where you grapple unsuccessfully with the garment, till your friends knock in concern. Emerge huffing and puffing and red faced your white outfit making you resemble a blushing penguin more than anything human, and assure them that obesity does not cause a heart attack immediately.
Now your mom advises you to go to the gym. "Doesn't help", you snap. "It will make you feel good about yourself", she counters.
"I still feel good about myself. And there is more of me to feel good about anyway. I feel so good I'm hysterical."
But then you watch London Dreams and realize that if Salman Khan does not apologize for his presence in Bollywood, you have no need to.
Well time to stop writing. The green tea is almost over.

I want to write but cant think of anything

Nice to know that people had been tracking the blog (grins from ear to ear). As for a "good post", we might have to do some "expectation setting" here. This is what happens when you are in a risky sector in a downturn. You swallow all the advice sprouted by the employee motivation and human research columns in a bid to retain your monthly paycheck. Till other sources of funding can be arranged. After all you are just marking time till your dream offer comes along.

But leaving aside me and my job woes (and the fact that the HR columns have warned me strictly against writing anything about my job in public forums ), I could try writing about what else I have managed to do between a 9 -12 pm work schedule (weekends included) for the past few weeks. And I still cant define what I do! (No not what you are thinking).

The only movie I managed to watch was Love Aaj Kal, for which I was 45 mins late. So though I missed the break up party (?? really??), I was in time for Saif's espousal of the new corporate generation having too many things to worry about , like "Global Warming" (typical celeb! Anyone remember the downturn?), to give much thought to love. How apt.

Add to that the scenes where the lovebirds mask their true feelings by pretending to hear someone at the door, we have a movie which provides an amazing insight into the current Indian psyche.

Of course we are no different from the aww-so-romantic generation. We are as sacrificing as them, if not more (they drink black tea , we let them keep their jobs), we love getting beaten up for them, since in this age of digital photography we still have only one picture of her, and we make realizations only during weddings and love breaking them up. Yes we are no different.

But everyone looked hot and danced well (umm except the wooden capers in the Punjabi wedding song) , and the music is preppy. And for a generation too busy trying to keep carbon credits to a minimum could we ask for more?

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..

And it was just another day

So being in Mumbai and staying alone at Worli, I have pretty much the same experience as many others , that of mute and horrified spectators. Much has and will be written about it, and my sense of outrage and disgust would be as good as any other. The weekend before i had watched two movies at Metro (yes the same one) and though it seems like an eternity away i shall do my best to return to normalcy.

So Yuvraaj happened to me the day it made its unwanted presence felt in the movie theatres. One time celebs rehashing a formula which might have worked once (and still makes me embarrassed that it did ). As if the effeminate, multi pierced, fake-accented , aging Khan wasn't enough, you had an eager to please by-copying-autistic-children Anil Kapoor along with the non descript(whats his name again?) Zayed Khan. Saas-Bahu inspired seductresses and holier than thou poison administering Mama-ji's completed the demented family picture (no Anil kapoor was not the only one). Katrina Kaif and Rahman were brought in to temporarily reduce eyesores, and calm nerves which had been frayed with trying to watch blubbering Khan's and hamming Kapoors. I rate it a sell (Ok so I am reading analyst reports)

Dostana was better than I expected and that is that.

Of Drona and other inconsequential things

So obviously this post is not on the current financial crisis, since the likes of Krugman have been commenting on it and have received Nobels for their effort , and I cant obviously better that !(heh), so would stick to movie reviews which are more my realm. But as an aside, I should seriously stop giving the impression that I am blessed with the intelligence of a housefly who likes reading. People at my work place are quite willing and beginning to believe that, but impression management in the office environs will be the subject of another painful post. Sufficient to say that I do understand math and finance and CDO's and all those subjects outside the realm of your regular Economic Times reading house fly.
So back to Drona (pronounced drone (ur lazy and boring male bees) and rhymes with groan). I think I sat through the flick in a state of suspended stupor, dozing off occasionally since what comes to mind are intermittent scenes which are scarring nevertheless.
So AB junior taking his junior status to heart plays an oversized Harry Potter , the uncanny resemblance to Privet Drive and his bedroom making it clear , even to the meanest intelligence. He is surrounded by a clan of protectors, a sample set drawn from the United Nations, signifying solidarity and unity in the face of Rizz Raizada oppression (a lesson imbibed by all governments while dealing with the liquidity crisis). Talk about drawing parallels!! Coz if that was not the intent, I don’t know what was the purpose of the motley crew, except Priyanka Chopra of course. She made hr stance abundantly clear, when she sang the "Drona Drona" number, in praise of the great one with a dance routine to match. She was his greatest fan, philosopher and guide and the female lead (they could not afford different people for these characters I guess).
Since the director realized that he could not appeal to the rock-on going audience, after a few shots he decided to make it a complete family entertainer, to hedge risks so to speak. He needed to. So enter the mom (or the only one who could be persuaded to play the mom, purely out of maternal instincts), who begged to be turned into stone before she could see her son embarrass himself further.
So Drona who till then looked as stoned as his mom, comes into his avatar, by donning a Mahabharata costume (so that’s why the name!! and of course not the other way around, since there is no other reason why he should be a Drona and not say "The-Indian-Hancock", but I digress), overcomes his fear of water by coming face to face with himself in his costume (guess that was scarier than any water could ever be) and visits Baghdad styled secret cities. After which the director having by then lost faith in the human race, introduces a horse into the script, mass appeal so to speak , presumably hoping for some equestrian following for his vapid script. The horse is whiter than the Drona and tries to conceal him for the rest of the film, and manages quite successfully I guess, since the only other thing I remember about the film is a black and white chessboard fight and I-want-to-be-heath-leger-Rizz-Raizada making grotesque faces..

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.

The Chronicles Of BW-Preface

So BW stepped out of her fairy tale land and into our world of dark knights and kung-fu pandas( ok this is a serious identity crisis). It is a world where Joker surpasses Batman (though I still maintain that Christian Bale was my draw) and Kismat Konnection manages to rake in moolah ( or so Google News would have me believe). But seriously what were they thinking!!Given my attraction for inane films I was drawn like a bored fly to a pot of honey. So I was able to witness first hand the actress-who-should-be-the-mom working on her sex appeal(??) to seduce the actor-who-should-be the-son. Wild hairdos dont work( though the collection of hair slides is another story), pious than thou , helping the aged, the mother teresa of the NRI image doesnt work (the aged themselves get on ones nerves, they are like the Chopra kids, I have spoken about that species at length in previous posts) And so the director had to resort to the totally believable plot of her being the guy's lucky charm to help us understand why he falls for her.
Lucky charmer (heh) does have a purpose in life quite apart from being the arm-candy-cum-mascot of the failed hero. In fact she has too many of them. She divides her time between caring for the aged homeless and relaxes by waving to the remaining on solitary beaches , presumably to include them in her ever encompassing frame (..of love of course what did you think ?) , romancing the first bf and running protest marches, romancing the second bf and slapping the first..
Such is the scintillating storyline..But it is didactic too and before we leave we have one of the aged beach wavers espousing the cause of not just the profit motive in business (CSR anyone??)..I mean talk about insights..This is one community-love story..
But we digress..when dont I??
So back to BW ..but thats another story..

The idiot box

So I switched on the television set and was greeted with He-Man (??) Baweja's vision of life , universe and everything in 2050. Apparently red heads would be a rage again, and that would be the crowning achievement of mankind's evolution... hair raising enough I would say. There would also be musically inclined robots, and the spectacle of them dancing well..robot like is enough to make an ancestor like me cringe and change the channel.
Next is what you would say..and so do I..What are we supposed to infer from a spectacle of Aamir Khan behaving like a chimp with headphones listening to celtic music and getting excited and reminded of the african jungles and grunting and oomphing (or whatever it is they do..or rather he does)..
And why are we being inflicted with the blast from the past a.k.a Mehbooba..this one is time travel gone badly wrong..the tuneless songs with the vapid lyrics (behold..jaaon doob doob doob doob..till u change the channel), accompanied by twitching belles afflicted with a seizure of sorts..so wild is the shaking, and passionate men who travese deserted terrains in search of the loved one, accompanied by nothing but their sunglasses which serve to reveal their angst when they take them of at the first glimpse of the leading lady (who behaves like a Miss Havisham of sorts clad always in a wedding attire of a red sari and the accompaniments)..

Very happy in my heart, dil dance mare re

Since no one wants an update on what I have been upto in this hiatus , I will refrain. I hate giving them anyway.
So now that I have joined the teeming multitude which commutes to work every morning, checks orkut in the afternoon and finds nothing to do in the evenings, I shall dutifully update this blog since that is what is done in the night.
But like I said there is nothing I find more boring than describing the events of a day/week so this will not be a chronological time line with milestones described.
Though I have been on a movie watching spree ever since my last term at ISB, of course the one movie I remember the most purely because of the effect it had on me is Tashan. I have to thank the Chopra community for providing me with such an extensive repertoire. I owe them many film reviews.
So size zero Kareena manages to find time between doling out "power yoga" discourses and the benefits of the "aloo-paratha" breakfast to "dance mare" with much publicized and much tattooed boyfriend and "chance mare" with Akshay Kumar in a highly unconvincing childhood sequence which which explains the rise of a small town belle (gudiya to her fans) to the scheming seductress , a career move justified as the best course to avenging her father's murder. She avenges him by running off with his killer's money to Mauritrian islands where she dances and sings in tropical paradise " very happy in her heart", till the director remembers the reason for her stealing the money and sends her to "Benares", where she is discovered mermaid-like underwater by Saif and Akshay who are pretty aquatic themselves. This amphibian trio then sets out to recover the stolen goods hidden wherver the unit got a chance to shoot or wanted to visit. Here "white white face" Kapoor sheds and cuts garments to reveal the sole reason for her agreeing to do the film, and discovers childhod flame in Chesire Cat Kumar. He is the "good bad-guy" (its a Chopra invented character trait) , and tries unsuccessfully to look coy in all romantic sequences as befits a small town "seedha-saadha" murderer, but probably too aware of boyfriend Saif lurking behind, just ends up looking harassed. Then enters "Tashan" laden Anil Kapoor (he he this has to be an oxymoron, for the uninitiated Tashan=style), and seductress murders him in a Kill Bill (shocked emoticon) sequence.
Since the director thught the story would be too brutal to digest, he interspersed the film with well meaning light hearted sequences. So Anil Kapoor tries to be diverting as a novice to the Englsih language, but speaking it nevertheless (aww so cute na?? ), Akshaye is the village hottie (maidens swoon "dil ye beating fast") who works on his bad boy image by playing "Ravana" when not getting electrified by Kareena and poles in that order.
Worth a watch.

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 …

raat ka shauk hai..raat ki sondhi si khamoshi ka shauk hai

Should I make this post like most other b-school posts and inform you that we have google , microsoft, Mr Gopinath (of the Air Deccan fame) and Mckinsey all coming to campus in the next 2 days ?And that there is a clash of class n events and we dont know wht to do? Or that term 4 has been riddled with frantic resume preps, alums flying in for case workshops, AD Little creating a frenzy, and the club I am the President of , the Arts n Creativity club calling Julius Macwan and Ms Kalpana Lazmi? I could but then you would be reading all this neway in the zillion other blogs which all we b-schoolers, assuming the moral responsibility of educating the prospective interns find necessary to maintain. But who said I am assuming any such responsibility. Not that any of you prospects read this anyway.!! But for the two people who do, I am sure you would not be interested in the journal of my fourth term here at ISB. Or at the fact that I am totally , absolutely confused about the job I want to do, or the electives I want to take. That consulting, the dream job of the dreamy hopefuls does not seem to be something I would enjoy. Or that Mckinsey or BCG(ok this is in a voice hushed with reverence, thats the kind of aura these firms command here, Im just observing protocol btw), doesnt seem at all likely to even consider me:D..No you would not be interested.. Or would you? Then you would just be amused actually, chuckling and thinking to yourself , who asked her to rush to b-school when she wasnt even sure what she wanted to do? For everything in life you need to have a goal and a plan..you would murmur complacently and suggest that I better start introspecting and find out. Self awareness is after all ..essential. Is it?

I feel this entire goal concept is kind of overrated. I am tired of fending questions about what I want to major in, or the company I want to apply to, or the kind of job I see myself doing some 100 years down the line beacuse the fact is I DONT KNOW. And I dont want to know. Self awareness is just a depressing exercise and the only thing I am made aware of more acutely is the fact that I dont know. And I am happy not knowing. I am happy just learning stuff for the sake of learning( but I do know that I hate accounts), and working on my "socialite club" coz it interests me , and yes it is not a huge resume point and it maybe absolutely unrelated to whatever I finally decide to do with my life, but the fact is it makes me happy now.

And when was the last time we here at ISB did things just because we wanted to , without obsessing about whether it would help us in that dream shortlist?? I did that for some time myself. And I am not sure how much it helped and how happy I was doing it. But then you would say, hedonism is hardly what you came looking for... to ISB...

This would hardly be classified as hedonistic..Ok I think this post is just a fallout of the fact that there has been an overdose of people claiming they want to do such n such just coz it is a resume point..and this is my blog and my ranting space so bear with me..

I dont think it is wrong. I would most likely do the same myself. But there is a time when you need to sit back and maybe do something just coz u like to, study for a course, work on a bplan, organize an event just for the sake of the activity itself, and not wondering whether it would help you in anyway..and you would enjoy it much more....at least I think you would..but enough of this..the people here are amazing, brilliant, talented people and this is just because of the fact that we have too little time, too much to do, and too big a loan to pay off:-s

Neway I am currently crooning this song shauk hai, (film guru), its that ultimate warm doughnutty, candy flossed, hot chocolatey sweet song..u get tired of it soon, but is pleasant while it lasts..

"subah ki roshni

bezooban subah ki aur gungunati

roshni ka shauk hai"

It just going to be dark and the sky outside my room is a smooth silky velvety blue, right after the rains, the clouds form dark shadows but these are fast disappearing..

My room is at the end of the "student village" as they call it here and there is this deserted orange track running amidst the dark greenery. From the orange glow of the night lamps you can sometimes see the occasional stray dog but thats about it.

But if you just press your face to the glass pane, and just look out, the glassy eyed view of that scene (pun fully intended), and u think..well..what do you think....

Words..

I am addicted to coffee. I don’t know when, and at what point in my life did I develop this craving but it has firmly embedded itself in the innermost recesses of my consciousness( I do wax eloquent about it). And I say inmost because it has become my panacea for everything. From sleepy mornings to depressed evenings, a cupful of that brown, thick, sweet manna makes me revive like a wilted flower treated to a generous amount of spraying and sunlight. So when I sit down to write this post the first thing I do is make myself a cup of the holy grail , my brain simply refuses to function without the hallowed steam. And once that steaming cup is in my hands this potent brew can activate dormant brain cells, making me feel all witty and intelligent, depressed neurons and make me all sunshinny and optimistic, cowering neurons and give me the courage to tackle that impossible task, mend broken hearts..er well..u get the drift..
Those two hours after each cup, when caffeine controls my life, are happy and productive hours. And I have resigned myself to this cyclicity of life, like the phases of an unimaginative moon...the caffeinated and the non-caffeinated...
So for everything I do, I need the stimulating companionship of this beverage. Except when I am reading.
Which I am hardly getting time for , this year. Which makes me look back all the more longingly to rainy evenings, to the rising sense of anticipation when I used to return from the library armed with truckloads of books, to night long vigils because you just had to find out what happened..
Books have been an integral part of my life and they have given me experiences I could never have got otherwise. They have shaped my beliefs ..my opinions. And I am wistful about the times when I was reading them for the first time and wish I could get them back all over again..
So Enid Blyton. The secret series when Jack, Mike, Peggy , Nora run away to this idyllic island and spend a year in hiding. The excitement which used to build up every time they thought they would be discovered. The sheer genius of the writer who could make living in caves and making a tree house seem like pursuits granted only to the luckiest kids. Oh how many times have I wished i could own my very own private island and live alone in the wilderness. It taught me to see the beauty in everything. To filter out the doubts, the fears, the preconceived notions and just enjoy something for what it was. And it is a wonderful experience. The cocoa made in a steel tin which vied with a 3 course meal. Oh she was devious about food..
The Five Find Outers with Fatty who I secretly disliked coz he would always claim all credit and Daisy and Pip who I sympathized with coz they were the underdogs.
The Secret Sevens. The entire fairy tale world of snowed in mornings, wood sheds, secret meetings, passwords, hot chocolate and macaroons. That soothing chocolatey mellow feeling. And a mystery thrown in for completness. But the mystery was just always sidelined. To be attended to when you had nothing better to do.
The Wishing Chairs and The Faraway trees. They have to be credited with making me that dreamy eyed, anti social, zonked out school girl that I was. The sheer longing of climbing that tree and meeting Silky, Moon face and even more exciting ...the lands at the top! Lands you could fly to ..in the wishing chair. The number of chairs I have been disappointed with is not funny. How can you expect someone who has been exposed to the Land of Goodies, where one had gingerbread cottages, chocolate streams, biscuit trees( I was all of 10), the land of Take what you Want, the Land of Birthdays and Surprises where at every stage you had wonderful surprises with flying roundabouts, midnight seaside picnics, elfish fairy rings, come back to the drudgery of every day life and not regret it? I am grateful for the magic these stories wove around me. They gave me the most cherished moments of my childhood.
Then came the classics, Jane Eyre, the first exposure to cruelty , death and despair, the first exposure to love and loss, but again wonderfully cushioned with grand parties, dazzling gowns, preening women, very theatrical , very appealing.
Austen, Bronte, Woolf, Mitchell..of wit and innuendo, of social status, of the ravages of war( in small doses though)..Rebecca and Daphne De Muerier..of English breakfasts and morning rooms..of colours..colours galore, of hate and jealousy, of flowers and art and beauty..
The war chronicles..of Leon Uris, of Anne Frank, of desperation and neglect, of fear, of the Odessa files, of hopelessness, Of Agatha Christie ..of murder and intrigue..but very English,..very subdued and Alistair Macleans and Perry Masons..well the American versions..
Of the Good Earth and desperation, of poverty, of destitution , of famines and floods, of lives ravaged, dreams shattered… of Roots(Haley)..of the helplesslessness of it all, of politics, of death, of injustice of inequality..of pain..Of Orwell and Ayn Rand, of corruption and power, of hopelessness and righteous indignation, of the dangers of ideology, of fanaticism…..
Of Pratchett of satire and fantasy ..of cynicism and philosophy..of Narnia ...of pure fantasy ..of utopia..Of Pamuk , Muarakami and Eco..of literature, philosohy and erudtion..Of Jhumpa Lahiris. and Chitara Banerjee's and Roy..of alienation and disconnect..of supressed longing..of imagery and colours and the smells of home..
They say when Picasso started speaking the first word he uttered was "pencil"..Well I can't profess to carrying forward a similar extensive vocabulary from my previous life..I pretty much started with the letters and had to move up the value chain...but words have made me laugh, they have made me cry, they have become entwined with my emotions and my beliefs..and now they are making me express...

flick-flicker-flaky

So why do we derive a morbid pleasure from watching the silliest of flicks and reading the most inane of columns ?Its addictive for sure and really makes one think, if one wants a popular show or a book, why aim for perfection? Why not resort to the opposite. Reverse your efforts. I think the chopra clan is practicing this Zen like philosophy for WHY ELSE would they subject an unsuspecting audience to ta-ra-ra-rum-pum-chum?bum?dum(b)?hummmm?humph...I could go on..this is addictive for sure.
I saw this a while back, since earthly pleasures are few and far between when I am thus cocooned in the ISB scheme of things and expected to hurry my transition to a full "fledged" MBA propelled by pre-reads , cases, tests and other such evolutionary forces.
So the prospective high fliers had ventured out to the movies, since the only purpose of newspapers in their hamlet was that there were stacks of it kept outside their quad(hostel room) impersonating as doormats, till someone tripped on them in the middle of the night or had these rare moments of insight when they realized that there is actually a "larger scheme of things" and a world beyond the pearly gates of ISB.
So the fledglings innocently trooped into Ta-ra-ra.. Though I have thankfully managed to forget most of it there are a few instances which I morbidly recall.
So why is having a pillow fight the only sign of a happy family?I can forgive the TRRPM family since intelligible conversation of any kind was obviously beyond them but why must they squiggle like the dog in that film every time they have a truce ? I mean once or twice is enough..gets the message across quality time and all dat..Not like a screen saver...I thought the "dumb animal" was supposed to be just the dog..
The dog was smarter..The same cannot be said of the plot.So business tycoons daughters marries car mechanic..car mechanic discovers latent talent..catapulted to success. Fair enough. We expect that. Happens all the time. Car mechanic has a traumatic experience.

Erstwhile dare devil who cruised through the streets of London in a taxi cab?? :OOO practicing for the race track, is a broken shriveled up man who trembles and howls only near the finish line of every race. Owing to this jelly like behaviour pattern he eventually becomes “poor”. Now this is the yash chopra poor, which is a candy flossed , sugar coated, poor only when we want it to be kinda accommodating poor. So Rani M prances about in designers and splashes in public fountains , but steals from parties to feed her priggish kids(??)(shudder)So when one of the kids(with the unique chopra blend of uncharacteristic maturity (read priggishness) and nauseating lisping tactics) falls ills…cab driver is traumatized again. So both cancel each other..one good trauma deserves another, and negates it and all is well with the world again.

Ok I need to sleep

About ISB..on second thoughts no..

"Says it feels right this time
Turn around, found new high lights
Good day to be alive sir
Good day to be alive, he said.....
Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
Is just a freight train coming your way"-Metallica , No leaf Clover

Well almost..not quite so fast though...but a glance at the first week in ISB..and the word which comes to mind in speed..or rather rush, an urgency.There is a motion picture quality to everything, the screens zipping across really fast..and slightly unreal at that.It is unreal since everyone is unsure, everyone is guarded. "A sea of humanity" would be a very very apt term for what I am feeling right now, and its a very restless sea at that!!!But the campus is sprawling, the people are friendly and the facilities are awesome.But moving on to other things..ok before I digress, we do have a lot of parties here..they are loadz of fun and everything , but can someone PLEASE stop playing the "Summer of '69" like an anthem at every meet!!Its become like the background score to my life..
Ok I am sounding cynical..its the fossilization..age n wisdom creeping up kinds:D
Umm ok will try to be sunshiney and summery(the 69ish ones at least)
So on to Terry Pratchett..he ROCKS..thats it..that says it all..
So world changing activities have been happening while I hv been secluded.Ash finally "unentwined " herself from the arms of the banyan(or was it neem tree?) and said I do..in a highly sensational ceremony marked by literally swooning maidens( on account of slashing wrists..read ur papers) .And Richard Gere did some calisthenics with our very own , self proclaimed desi Angeline Jolie..why is this news??yawn..give me rakhi savant any days..she has set standards that one..everything else seems lukewarm..."overshadowed" as it is by the bulging Mika Singh.
Anyhow saw "The Namesake".Liked the film much better than the book..the book was frankly a disappointment..the usual Indian(read Bengali) diaspora feeling unsettled. Jhumpa Lahiri had already explored this theme exhaustively in her Interpreter of maladies, where we had a story about a confused mom, grandmom, daughter..the entire kyunki saas bhi clan.But the performances were touching.
At ISB we were told on the very first day of orientation, that they work on the maxim "Trauma Transforms".If these words struck a chill in our tender hearts there was more to come. they have a scary 10 commandments kinda document called the HONOR CODE. You are supposed to drop your voice to a reverential whisper when uttering these hallowed syllables. Since not too many of us are of a religious persuasion they have a system in place to detect honor code violations.So for all those who digress from this Middle Path, we have a committee which conducts investigations, hearings..u name it!! We are just short of the electric chair, but if u suggest it, it would be a good "initiative".
But all said n done..this place is cool,..and I really hope I get what I came looking for.
Till then sing for the moment
" I wish I may
I wish I might
Have this wish I wish tonight
I want that star
I want it now
I want it all and I don't care how"-Metallica, King Nothing

Of enid blytons and posing for photographs...

Ok after ranting and raving in the previous blog..here is a breather.

Ok before I begin, I have deleted two comments fr my previous post entirely by mistake…so wud the people who commented plz resend it? Really sorry..but I was kinda groggy at 3 in the nite….thnks tho!!!Ok back to business..

There are 2 kinds of people in the world, I am secretly jealous of…..the first are those who can marry Abhishek Bachhan( I have a narcissistic streak in me..) and the second class of people are those who manage to resemble themselves in their snaps.

I have gone through life trying to keep my passports, ID cards and all those cruel docs which demand a photo id hidden from public view. Because I know the person with the vacuous smile and dopey eyes who stares back from each photograph, is just not me!!! There is a conspiracy here!!! However much I try, my snaps unfailingly fall into one of 3 categories. I have classified my snaps as the Demented, the Depressed and the Doped.

The Demented: The problem lies in posing for the camera. I still haven’t figured out where exactly to look. If I look straight at the camera, I get really self conscious and trying to smile at those moments is a Herculean task. The most I can manage is a semblance of a happy sneer (is that an oxymoron?).This involves pursing the lips and stretching them horizontally as far as possible (I avoid baring the dentures, for reasons to be disclosed later), which kinda accentuates my wholesome cheeks and makes me resemble a smiling hippo.

The photographer has often gone into fits of helpless laughter and instructed that I try not to look at the camera, if that makes me feel less like a goldfish in an aquarium.

I don’t know if I am unconsciously muttering a prayer to the heavens but in these endeavors, my eyes seem to be focusing on some giraffe standing right in front of me…(dilated pupils are wht one is trying to express here).My face is a homogeneous blend of a forced smile and a furrowed brow which leaves me mystified. I do go through an emotional turmoil!!!

The Depressed: I decided that smiling for photographs was not my forte since when I tried that “natural” laugh and smiling eyes look…..like the harbinger of sunshine and warmth, I bared too many of my teeth, and displayed a more werewolf resemblance than any non member of the species would be comfortable with. Plus no one I know associates a were wolf with sunshine and warmth.

The Doped: So for me it was the philosophical pose, lips clasped firmly together, do not giggle, do not look at the camera. Most of my snaps show me as about to burst into tears and have drawn many concerned queries about my suppressed sorrows. I guess I can live with that,..coz when I tried a few other variants, crinkling my eyes, squinting at the camera, lips half parted..the quintessential seductress….they could have used my poster as a mascot for the Stoned and Happy cult..

But this was a painful subject. The other day someone reminded me of Enid Blytons(thank u btw!!!).

When I was young reading an Enid Blyton was pretty much like opening a treasure trove.

I would open every book dying with anticipation and wait to be mesmerized by the Faraway trees ,Wishing Chairs, Silky, Moonface and amused by the Malory Towers and St Clare kids, not to forget the famous Fives, the five find outers…the list goes on.

They transported me to an alternate reality and it was difficult to break free, I would always stop a book halfway and spend the rest of the day in a dreamlike haze, trying desperately to postpone the inevitable end. I am sure most of u wud be mentally classifying me in the weirdoes section but bluhh!!

The three of us (me and my 2 younger sisters) were very taken by this entire English environment. We would tirelessly work at producing our very own pantomimes, plays and operas. Our “captive” audience, usually our polite parents would be subjected to these soporific renditions. After sitting through too many of these and tired of our incessant demands for meringues, seed cakes, macaroons, our parents decided that their demented daughters needed to get a grip. Especially after they found us combing the garden for a dark patch of grass (the entrance to the wising chair for the uninitiated).(I am really not making this up!!!)

So my dad decided that it was high time I read a few serious books. Maybe the shock was too much for him or he wanted a radical cure, the first book he gave me was the Autobiography of a Yogi. This was followed by Conversation with God and the Celestine Prophecy. Recipe for instant nirvana!! I was twelve then. And totally at sea. I tried reading the books, gave up pretty quick and then demanded of Dad as to why he thought being a nun was a lucrative career option, reminded him of the fact that I was closer to 15 than 50, and that both of us need not necessarily read the same books. He realized that he had gone overboard, but that was just a natural reaction, when we demanded chocolate blanc-mange instead of the gajar ka halwa, and vacations in Cornwall.

But the point being , he realized that to understand the deeper meaning of life, his daughter needed to live at least a shallow one for starters and he gave me my very first Agatha Christie. So I was again embroiled in a web of intrigue, romance and mystery.All was right with the world again, and I was no longer a prospective intern for a sisterhood.

I did finally read a few serious books and all the ones I mentioned. And I did stop dreaming of trifle puddings. But I still hope that I would find that darker blade of grass, that fairy ring. And if the faraway tree is anywhere near, I would be the first to believe it.

Of colors and people

The last few days have been a whirlwind with my getting into ISB, and hence coming in contact with a wonderful bunch of people. Its interesting how people can find a connection..
You would have a colleague or a batch mate you hardly interacted with, and you meet him in the next college you go to, and u meet him with elation, with uninhibited warmth. Its familiar and the familiar is always comforting. But there is also the bond which forms when u spend 4 years in the same environment without ever talking to each other.
It is the same bond which forms, when you meet people who have read the same books which u did and liked the same characters. You feel you can relate to these people better.Its amazing how happy we get when we find someone from our city in another country..u immediately have expectations..u feel familiar , you feel u hv a bond, so u naturally expect.The same person in ur own city.... u may never speak to him..he was just not your type..
All of us are basically more alike than we ever imagined. We can find familiar ground with almost everyone.

And the rest is just colors.
I cant imagine a life which is black and white...a life which is devoid of colour.For colours are emotions.....
Green...the golf courses in the hill stations you walked on…. invigorated, intoxicated, absently admiring the dark green of the thicket in the distance, …u feel alive ..ur thoughts are vibrant ,refreshing, fertile , ur thoughts are green....
Blue ...the sky on the morning of the anticipated day..when you wake up early..and look out of the window devoid of thoughts and worries..like you havent done in a long time…
The denim of ur favourite pair of jeans..tossed carelessly after returning from an exciting evening..whn ur excited to get on the phone..
The mottled colour of the sea..striking against the cliff, which u dream about....
The frothy milky blue which hits the beach on ur vacation..
The royal blue of the ink which smudges over, after u sign ur name with a flourish..
Red..the original colour of the flames before it lashes against the yellow and the blue ..the warmth of ur face when u sit too close...the colour of ur skin when u switch off the lights..and put ur hand close to that flame.
The orange glow which bathes everything on tht candle lit evening, the slate gray of the sky on the morning that it rains..of the pullover that u wear to work..hassled and depressed..the colour of the day that stretches before you…lifeless and dull….
The colour of the world when u get into an airplane and of ur thoughts when u close ur eyes during take off..and imagine urself on a giant roundabout, which pushes u higher and higher and at the same time backward, the more u tilt u head...
The sky is grey and ur that tiny black speck, on that roller coaster. U open ur eyes and the lights are dimmed, the early morning world is grey and white. Yellow... the shaft of the sunlight which comes in when u open the shutter, the delicious warmth which spreads over and ur thoughts..yellow and mellow, warm lazy and honey coloured….
Black..of the purses, and wallets, of the cellphones and diaries, of ur thoughts concise and business like.
Of when u shut yourself from the rest … and imagine the darkness swallowing u..
Of rose tinted perfume bottles, and pretty pink slippers, of roses and lilies, and of ur viewing the world though tinted glasses…pink and careless, bubbly and happy.
Dark brown of the chocolate and coffee…indulging, stimulating….and of ur senses…excited, energetic, earthy and brown
Of purple capes and hats in the fantasy stories….of jewels set in gold and silver of the shiny new cars...making u feel royal and powerful..

The maker sits with a blank canvas. He dips his brush into the Red paint, and scrawls across the page with a vehemence. Anger, passion ,pain and sorrow spew forth.
Orange from the easel, milder and wiser, signifying the wisdom of centuries, abstinence and determination. The Yellow of the sun, the giver of light and warmth, and the Green of the trees, spawning fertility.The Blues and the Indigos, almost indistinct, spurring aspiration and harmony. The magic and aura, of that smattering of the mysterious Violet.

The maker doesn’t have the perfect creation. But he does have a rainbow. And the rainbow is hope.

Of friendships and Orkut

When I initially started writing this blog it was just for me. I wrote what came to my mind and it was an exhilarating experience. But the moment people started commenting on it, I felt wary. I felt responsible. There were expectations, demands and judgments. As long as this was about me, I was unfettered. The moment I connected it to people, I felt restrained.

Society is important in that it forces us to exercise some basic restraint when dealing with other people. This is what makes a community function and is important.

And so we make a compromise. And we stifle our imagination. We create imaginary boundaries. And we concur. Somewhat. We all do. Humans are amazingly receptive. We concur without realizing that we are. Every time....everywhere.

But enough of this. This blog is about Orkut, or should I say about Orkut and well meaning prospective friends...with the likes of whom we are supposed to tread on "rocky roads of friendships"..or “stormy seas??” depending on preference.

So u have people coming to your scrapbook and posting a "hai!!!!!how hv u bin?"..with other innovative variants of the English language...and color codes..so that u have fluorescent looking blobs..in place of strategic letters..(its a gud tactic, if ur not too sure of the spelling..kudos!!!), and whilst u blink trying to recollect when u met venkatesh or is it chiranjeevi?? or rajnikanth last, complete with sunglasses of shades which merge successfully with skin tones...

Whilst u do that…there would be another epistle from some cOoLDuDe(is this some kinda secret code??) ABC with a "lonely and depressed" or a "waiting for love" or some such declaration trailing after this Morse coded name….announcing "myself ABC..friiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnddddddddddddddzzzzzzzzzzzz"..with a determination designed to make u notice, if at least the irritating scrollbar which appears when the zzzzzzz's are stretched to infinity!!!!

Or you would have this taciturn dude who plainly believes that brevity is the soul of wit (or a hit?? depending on short term goals)..

So every time u refresh your page there would be a "hi"...and then another...and after a few hi's floating around your page, u would find him getting restive and there would be the last determined effort which would be a "hiiiiiiiiiiii".Talk about words filled with meaning!!!

Some domineering ones would also demand "why you not RePlY me!!" and end the scrap with a "keeeeeeeeep scrapppppppppppppin''..which makes you wonder if an MPD(multiple personality disorder for the uninitiated ) might not just be more common than actually believed.

Since my imaginary boundaries are screaming a red alert at this point, I shall clarify here that I think Orkut is a great way to make friends and keep in touch...and discover people with similar interests, these are just random occurrences and are NOT meant to deride anyone…and the bottom-line, these are after all just my thoughts… so peace..

So anyway, back to business :D..and again if u happen to be a presentable looking female..u would be flooded with "u luks lOvElY"( again a coded message which I am sure is a word filled with meaning and implications;)..if I can just read between the umm..caps locks??)

or a drawing of a questionable chick??duck??rose??..an entire farmhouse..with a greeting.."for my most sweeeeeeeeetttttttttessssssst best friend"..ok..this dude sure doesnt have too many expectations from life!!!! or from the more emotional ones.."myself XYZ..will u JOIN with me??"..umm join with u??this early?this has to be one presumptuous guy!!!!

Another class are the "wanderers", people who just "pass through" your profile on an average of 8 times a day..They would go "Hai(ok this is one version of the greeting which never caught one with me)..how HAVE u been?was just passing thru" and u would wonder at the description of your profile as a stop over on the road to.."higher profiles?"

So u decide that you have had all the well wishes to last u a lifetime, and u cordon off ur profile with a "private property..DO NOT trespass"(read..I DO NOT add people i dont know..or make friends with them), u would then be paid a visit by the "Thinkers".

It is the lot of the thinkers to gently advise people trespassing from the "all encompassing love" of their friendships" with aphorisms.

So u are flooded with metaphysical queries.."If u don't add people u don't know..how wud u know them??"
Now this is a vicious cycle..a question comparable to the proverbial chicken and the egg theory and my mortal unfriendly brain really cant come up with a solution!!!

And so we create boundaries…and then we try to digress..all of us..sometime or the other…and then people mock us, question us…and some of us conform…

Of fairy tales...or mebbe not

Life can be pretty scary sometimes.
There was once a poor maiden who dreamt of being a queen(no this is not Cinderella..thts just so passé).This is a modern day fairy tale, the kingdoms and queens are just for atmosphere.
So armed with her favorite book she set out. No she couldn't read, but she had found the book lying near the brook one day, and the embossed gold lettering had fascinated her(In those days, gold not diamonds were a girls' best friend).She instinctively knew that it was meant for her. Now our pretty little beggar woman (BW), (and yes she was pretty) never bothered her head too much over such trivialities as ethics and possessions, I mean get a life..she was a beggar, so obviously she would grab it.
So she set out to where she knew the castle would be, it was dangerous terrain, through a forest, and the usual paraphernalia. She could see the spires of the castle from her hut. She was excited.
On her way she met Jack, of the beanstalk fame. He had just purchased the magical beans and so was thrilled. He hailed her. She was impressed with the sparkling beans and her eyes nearly popped out when the beanstalk grew.
"Lets climb", said Jack excitedly. Now our BW was doubtful for who knew what lay ahead? And besides she couldn't climb to save her life, having tried it once when chased by the neighbors’ Alsatian.

But this climb was simple. But she was scared of what she might encounter.
"Well from the little general knowledge I have:, said Jack,"u are accosted by a giant, u kill him and then we can be king and queen", he said looking at her fondly.
Now BW was practical. The probability of being a queen after being "accosted" by a giant , seemed pretty microscopic. But she was sorely tempted when she heard the queen part.
In a fix, she opened the book.” Run away" said the book(she could understand what was written, fairy tales don't bother with such technicalities, nor do the K serials and both are equally popular). Chuck this Jack, I’ll find better looking guys. I mean no offense meant , he might be brave and all that, but Jack was hardly a Brad Pitt, and one did want some romance in ones life, even when one was a queen.” Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown", she thought in a moment of inspiration, but it should be regal looking head at least.
The day wore on, and she carried on. Our BW was a determined one. But she had had nothing to eat all day, and fainted on the way. When she woke up she was in the house of the 7 dwarfs. Moody the talkative one , being in a benevolent mood, came to her kindly. She told him about her ambitions.
"Well that’s easy", he said.” Statistically speaking, if u stay with us and cook for us and the likes, there would be a day, when u eat a poisoned apple and die and are then rescued by a prince".
The mortality rates for wannabe princesses seemed to be unusually high, reflected BW."What if I die?", she ventured.
" What is life without a few risks?”said Mopey uncharacteristically.
The BW considered this and agreed. But the days wore on and she grew impatient. Plus these dwarfs were a demanding lot. She finally decided that the elusive apple could be eaten by some other nutty maiden. She opened the book.” Run off ", the book suggested again.
On her way she met Jack, now a king with a beautiful though anorexic looking (she thought unkindly) queen, and felt a stab of jealously.
She noticed a tower with a beautiful maiden, whose unusually long braid hung from the tower. It, was tempting so she climbed up and heard Rapunzel's story.
She was irritated. The world seemed to be full of these starry eyed maidens all looking for careers in the queening department, and willing to go to any lengths (literally!!!), and letting their hair down(again literally!!!!), in the disgusting fashion, for every passerby prince.

She thought fast.” The prince is already married", she told Rapunzel."U had better escape. Here, let me cut your hair and tie it to mine, and then u can escape."
Now Rap, sans the weight of her heavy locks was actually a feather head.
Our BW settled herself at the window and began a soulful rendition of "Unbreak my heart”. Sure enough the prince arrived and began climbing up. But the knot was not strong enough and a horrified BW felt it loosening and before her eyes her prince charming fell flat on the ground sustaining a broken rib by the sound of it. He was rescued by Rapunzel who had lingered on, near the bushes.

In desperation BW turned to the book. A blank page stared at her. She felt a movement behind her and saw the witch.” It wont tell you anything ", said the witch. This book only tells people what they most want to hear. Its one of my favorite bits of magic ",she said proudly.

“And what use is that?,” said BW unkindly. "Well its for people like you, who are too scared to follow their own hearts, but readily agree when it is sanctified by someone else even someone as insignificant as a book. Plus my dear you never had it in you to become a queen. You lacked the courage of Jack, the patience of Snow White and the perseverance of Rapunzel".

Oh don’t sound like one of those self help books”, said BW crossly. "All these emotions are so outdated!!!"

"Well you don’t have too many brains either", said the witch now affronted. At this our BW burst into tears, and the witch felt sorry for her.” Well think of a fairy tale you want to be in, and I promise u shall be the queen if you stick it out".

But BW was not sure. She glared at the book which was now flashing "Cinderella" in gold leterring" .I am not even sure I want to be a queen", she ventured.” But I don't want a life which is pre-decided for me at least".

And she went back to that brook and kept the book beside it. She was a spiteful one, and knew there would be many more wannabe princesses, u just couldn't be too careful in these matters. Being a queen was serious business.