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.

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.

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.

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?

Coming back to life

And so I break the jinx which had me closing the window every time I clicked on my blog , either too weary or irritated or too uninspired to post. But on this particularly sleepy workday, I have finally managed to find a proxy to access these erstwhile blocked sites. And so I return, after having been given up for dead..or in this case dumb.

I dont even remember when I last posted so I cant really give an update on what I have been upto since. Just as well.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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)..

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..

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.

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.