The land is craggly. The twisty swirls of the dunes make you want to travel on them. But tempting as they are, you know their true story. You know how they shiver like fireflies and will quench themselves on a desirous touch. They are traitorous. They make you want to want them. They test you. They only want to see your eyes when you step on them. They want to see the surprise in your eyes, better yet, they want to feel the drop of your heart when you step on them and they morph into vortexes.
You see, each dune is a vortex of its own opening up to worlds unknown. Yet you know that each of these worlds is wrapped in candy paper for lure and what is inside is this shaky mass of nothingness that leeches at the warmth in your heart. Whatever warmth is still left after it has turned cold on seeing the façade falter.
You know this because you have dreamt them. But as prophecies, you cannot escape them. You may think you will if you do this and that, but a sight of those living crawly dunes and your heart is stolen. Your hear the sibilant hisses as the sand creeps under your closed eyes but because you can stop a sword cut in your dreams, you think you can stop the sands by waking up. But what if you wake up to a world where matter is sand? Where the very air is sandy? Where there is no concept of oxygen, of optimism, of hope? Where all that is there is the susurration that erodes the base of your soul and drinks from your marrow of faith?
So you want to believe but believe me, belief is overrated. Everyone wants to believe because we are lazy to find out if what we believe can be touched or smelt or felt between the thumb and index finger. You think, you will believe and this selfless act will inspire the universe to act as per your belief. But you see, this is such a selfish belief and really, how then can it happen?
I am very question-y today. I am often like this. I do not want to be like this. But you see, those sands, those fang-y colourful sands continue to shift under my feet, they caress my in-step and I hold on to the quaint trills of my fading sanity but they are relentless, they probe, they pinch, they cajole, they whisper how they want me and need me in their world of lone sands and I feel my hold slip even though I think I am in my dream and even if the hold slips, so what, I will wake up. I will wake up and see that it was all a dream but then, there is that little question that reverberates across my eardrum – which part is the dream: the waking or the sleeping and the incessant push and pull of the answer is all that I can slowly hear as I devolve into a million little sands, slowly and sandfully…
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Back on ground after a month-long flight :)
Hello Blog, I am deeply sorry for having neglected you for the past few months - but you see, there were some really strange things happening in my life.
I got married on September 6, 2009 and so August was my last month at work at plaNETsurfCreations, Bangalore. That meant hectic days of finalising the process of setting up teams for the Specials, Videos and Accenture projects as well as training the team members. It was a chaotic but fun endeavour - left the company with some really exciting people in place. They will be fine and I was happy to leave with some wonderful memories of a set of beautiful and great people there.
But it was time for me to move on, ya see. After 30 years of a lone existence (I will not call it lonely as I enjoy solitude and the peace to think soaringly) I was voluntarily going to share my life and days with another person. I would have loved to have just gone ahead with life as it is, but sometimes, one must pause to follow societal rituals and familial obligations. This pause was extremely boring for me as I was stuck in my native place of Kanichurangala, in Kerala for a good 2 weeks with no internet, no television and worst, no books to read. Though the last could have been amended if only, I was not too boringly lazy to open my packages.
The wedding ceremony went off well, the in-laws weren't allowed to get too bored for the two days that they were there and my dearest friend Daisy kept me completely and pleasantly sane. I hail a thank you for the dear girl.
From Kerala, we tripped off to Chennai to spend a few days with my new family. It was a fun few days of getting to know some close relatives and getting to know Chennai. The trip concluded with the quite successful Reception evening.
From Chennai, we went onward to Munnar for the honeyed moon sightings. Munnar is all that the tourist brouchers promised. Of course, as all other travellers, a bit of advice - Munnai aint the place if you want to do something, but it is absolutely divine as a place to just lie back, relax and charge yourself.
3 days of awe inspiring scenery and it was time to head to Mumbai for a more grounded existence.
And yeah, the air trip to Mumbai was my first flight and all pre-flight jitters turned out to be just that, fortunately. I would not have relished the idea of a 30-yr-old puking woman in the presence of waaay cooler infant travellers.
The view...oh the view. My first look at Mumbai was as stunning as Munnar's mountains. The myriad brilliant garlands and the vast blackness of the sea (it was 9pm). Mumbai had won me over at 30,000 ft. But of course, on the ground, Mumbai is still alien to me - I am aware this will require more than 2 weeks to be redressed.
Anyways, I am back on the ground but it will be sometime before even a semblance of status quo can be achieved. I am still going to be offline most of the time, but I am keen to sit down and begin jotting again.
Good night blog.
See ya back, Ciao!
I got married on September 6, 2009 and so August was my last month at work at plaNETsurfCreations, Bangalore. That meant hectic days of finalising the process of setting up teams for the Specials, Videos and Accenture projects as well as training the team members. It was a chaotic but fun endeavour - left the company with some really exciting people in place. They will be fine and I was happy to leave with some wonderful memories of a set of beautiful and great people there.
But it was time for me to move on, ya see. After 30 years of a lone existence (I will not call it lonely as I enjoy solitude and the peace to think soaringly) I was voluntarily going to share my life and days with another person. I would have loved to have just gone ahead with life as it is, but sometimes, one must pause to follow societal rituals and familial obligations. This pause was extremely boring for me as I was stuck in my native place of Kanichurangala, in Kerala for a good 2 weeks with no internet, no television and worst, no books to read. Though the last could have been amended if only, I was not too boringly lazy to open my packages.
The wedding ceremony went off well, the in-laws weren't allowed to get too bored for the two days that they were there and my dearest friend Daisy kept me completely and pleasantly sane. I hail a thank you for the dear girl.
From Kerala, we tripped off to Chennai to spend a few days with my new family. It was a fun few days of getting to know some close relatives and getting to know Chennai. The trip concluded with the quite successful Reception evening.
From Chennai, we went onward to Munnar for the honeyed moon sightings. Munnar is all that the tourist brouchers promised. Of course, as all other travellers, a bit of advice - Munnai aint the place if you want to do something, but it is absolutely divine as a place to just lie back, relax and charge yourself.
3 days of awe inspiring scenery and it was time to head to Mumbai for a more grounded existence.
And yeah, the air trip to Mumbai was my first flight and all pre-flight jitters turned out to be just that, fortunately. I would not have relished the idea of a 30-yr-old puking woman in the presence of waaay cooler infant travellers.
The view...oh the view. My first look at Mumbai was as stunning as Munnar's mountains. The myriad brilliant garlands and the vast blackness of the sea (it was 9pm). Mumbai had won me over at 30,000 ft. But of course, on the ground, Mumbai is still alien to me - I am aware this will require more than 2 weeks to be redressed.
Anyways, I am back on the ground but it will be sometime before even a semblance of status quo can be achieved. I am still going to be offline most of the time, but I am keen to sit down and begin jotting again.
Good night blog.
See ya back, Ciao!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
El Cielo Dividido - A Review
I stumbled upon a little treasure this past week – and it has enthralled me, intrigued me and beguiled me by its quaint charm. El Cielo Dividido (Broken Sky) is Mexican director Julian Hernandez’s second feature film. You would not think so if you watched it.
It is a simple story at its core. A story of two young lovers, who meet each other at university, fall in first lust and love, cannot keep their hands and lips to themselves when with each other, have roaring sexual encounters and fall to temptation of new adventures and watch jealousy and regret corrode a relationship with potential.
So then what’s so special about this film if it boasts the same stale formula? Quite a few reasons, actually.
Significantly, the film treats the homosexuality of young lovers’ Gerardo and Jonas, students of University of Mexico, as a matter of fact. This is no coming of age story or a coming out story. At no time does the film show a third party reaction to the boys’ very demonstrative relationship. Except a little scene when the boys are kissing each other near the garage and the camera slowly pans to show a straight couple walking past holding hands. For me, what appealed is the film’s unapologetic treatment of gay love. Most often, filmmakers use internal and external conflict arising from the protagonist’s sexuality to culture angst; here, the angst arises from the natural foible of first love – the temptation of the what ifs – what if this new person I met in the disco is my spiritual half?
Secondly, there is minimal dialogue - The film is over two hours long and there are probably only about a couple of scores of lines.
What helps is Alejandro Canto's complicated, confusing and utterly captivating cinematography – Canto exploits his lens to reveal viewpoints, the and uses camera spins and pans to move across scenes and gently shows us the evocatively lingering glances that the leads share. Canto and Hernandez are so taken in by the beauty of their leads that they do not make any excuses for the way the lens’ caresses the lead actors – Admittedly, Miguel Angel Hoppe and Fernando Arroyo are delicious to look at but they are also equal to the demands asked of them.
Gerardo and Jonas share a deep passionate relationship and the film’s first third devotes itself to one of the most honest portrayals of simulated sex ever on film. Soon, Jonas strays and is attracted to Bruno (Ignacio Pereda), who he meets one night at the disco, but he is also reluctant to leave Gerardo. The affair ends with Bruno’s sudden disappearance but Jonas cannot shake Bruno from his mind; it is Bruno he thinks of when in a passionate cinch with Gerardo. Frustrated with Jonas’ continued disinterest in him physically, a broken Gerardo begins a series of flings before seeking solace in the arms of college custodian Sergio (Alejandro Rojo). The film stays true to the end with a very ambiguous conclusion.
Fernando Arroyo’s Jonas is dark and intriguing and a perfect foil for the pouty and wide-eyed Miguel Angel Hoppe. Hoppe, especially, conveys the awe and wonder of the first spring of love and later, his eyes eloquently express his heartbreak and frustration.
El Cielo Dividido is less an art film and more of a relentless ballet filled with choreographed moves, gestures and conversations through eyes. It is not easy to watch – you have to dig into your deepest reserves of patience to sit through this silent masterpiece. This is also its worst, perhaps only, flaw. Not many audiences are so kind to indulge the slow passage of thoughts, the careful body movements and the intense back and forth that the leads convey through their eyes. Also, the periodic sex scenes will not interest the straight audiences. There is also an irritating and presumptuous voiceover which talks about love and life – Hernandez could have got rid of this device and added a few more lines for his leads. Understandably, the film did not do well in the US while it was welcomed in Mexico and Europe.
I, for sure, am awaiting Hernandez’s third venture – Rabioso sol, rabioso cielo (Raging Sun, Raging Sky).
It is a simple story at its core. A story of two young lovers, who meet each other at university, fall in first lust and love, cannot keep their hands and lips to themselves when with each other, have roaring sexual encounters and fall to temptation of new adventures and watch jealousy and regret corrode a relationship with potential.
So then what’s so special about this film if it boasts the same stale formula? Quite a few reasons, actually.
Significantly, the film treats the homosexuality of young lovers’ Gerardo and Jonas, students of University of Mexico, as a matter of fact. This is no coming of age story or a coming out story. At no time does the film show a third party reaction to the boys’ very demonstrative relationship. Except a little scene when the boys are kissing each other near the garage and the camera slowly pans to show a straight couple walking past holding hands. For me, what appealed is the film’s unapologetic treatment of gay love. Most often, filmmakers use internal and external conflict arising from the protagonist’s sexuality to culture angst; here, the angst arises from the natural foible of first love – the temptation of the what ifs – what if this new person I met in the disco is my spiritual half?
Secondly, there is minimal dialogue - The film is over two hours long and there are probably only about a couple of scores of lines.
What helps is Alejandro Canto's complicated, confusing and utterly captivating cinematography – Canto exploits his lens to reveal viewpoints, the and uses camera spins and pans to move across scenes and gently shows us the evocatively lingering glances that the leads share. Canto and Hernandez are so taken in by the beauty of their leads that they do not make any excuses for the way the lens’ caresses the lead actors – Admittedly, Miguel Angel Hoppe and Fernando Arroyo are delicious to look at but they are also equal to the demands asked of them.
Gerardo and Jonas share a deep passionate relationship and the film’s first third devotes itself to one of the most honest portrayals of simulated sex ever on film. Soon, Jonas strays and is attracted to Bruno (Ignacio Pereda), who he meets one night at the disco, but he is also reluctant to leave Gerardo. The affair ends with Bruno’s sudden disappearance but Jonas cannot shake Bruno from his mind; it is Bruno he thinks of when in a passionate cinch with Gerardo. Frustrated with Jonas’ continued disinterest in him physically, a broken Gerardo begins a series of flings before seeking solace in the arms of college custodian Sergio (Alejandro Rojo). The film stays true to the end with a very ambiguous conclusion.
Fernando Arroyo’s Jonas is dark and intriguing and a perfect foil for the pouty and wide-eyed Miguel Angel Hoppe. Hoppe, especially, conveys the awe and wonder of the first spring of love and later, his eyes eloquently express his heartbreak and frustration.
El Cielo Dividido is less an art film and more of a relentless ballet filled with choreographed moves, gestures and conversations through eyes. It is not easy to watch – you have to dig into your deepest reserves of patience to sit through this silent masterpiece. This is also its worst, perhaps only, flaw. Not many audiences are so kind to indulge the slow passage of thoughts, the careful body movements and the intense back and forth that the leads convey through their eyes. Also, the periodic sex scenes will not interest the straight audiences. There is also an irritating and presumptuous voiceover which talks about love and life – Hernandez could have got rid of this device and added a few more lines for his leads. Understandably, the film did not do well in the US while it was welcomed in Mexico and Europe.
I, for sure, am awaiting Hernandez’s third venture – Rabioso sol, rabioso cielo (Raging Sun, Raging Sky).
Thursday, June 25, 2009
My First Friends
My earliest literary memories are of stories in Misha and Sputnik.
Long before I could read properly, these were my eyes to the distant world. I would gaze longingly at the images and the printed word, wondering at the mysteries locked in their fist. And every letter and word identified was a triumph.
Of course, these magazines also proved how well literary propaganda works - because as a 9-year-old when I first began reading comics, mostly about World War II, I would cheer every time a Yank got hit and I would be disappointed and confused because I loved the Japs and Jerrys, while also disliking them for initiating the war. I could only stand the Yanks in these comics because of the logical and resigned (and ‘rummy’) Brit. These American comics, while making a case for American values of freedom and bravery, also made a case for German and Japanese technical ingenuity as well as British patience and resilience - all traits that I admire among these nationalities even today.
(yeah, no Russians versus Americans in most of those comics - yet as I felt culturally closer to the Russians, I was distant with the Yanks irrespective of who they were up against – isn’t that some propaganda? But 15 years later as the Red bastion crumbled – the second-hand books no longer came from the Soviet Union but from the US and I watched my little neighbour spend two summer vacations mooning over my Marvel copy of how America finally conquered the moon.)
But Sputnik went where even Kennedy's dreamy eyes couldn't with me. The wonders of science and the possibilities of crossing space frontiers and the literal stars in my eyes as twilight closed in was all because of this little piece of sky in binding.
But if I am no closer today to anything that is remotely related to science - blame the politically incorrect Enid Blytons I gorged on in parallel. The fantastical stories were just one aspect of my envy - most of it was reserved for the writer's prolific genius. I once promised I would read every Blyton in my school library.
(Knowing something is great but the path to knowing is what flavours our ultimate knowledge and harvests the greatest thrill.)
In my school, we could borrow a book every alternate week. Most times, I would bribe the librarian to let me borrow 2 books. I would argue that I was a prolific reader, I brought back books all taped and repaired and that I would never tell anyone. I will never know which point swayed her for she would sit, head bent and scribbling in her books and as I stiffly stood wondering if she wasn't going to be moved this time, she would just extend her hand, note down whatever librarians note down and hand them over to me with a stern 'be careful with them.'
My modus operandi was simple: finish mine as soon as possible and then spend the next 7-10 days borrowing my friends' library offerings of the week. For some, the bribe was the awesome breakfasts mom packed for me, for others, it was help with notes while for some others, it was the chance to simply exchange books. I didn't grudge the first for loving my mom's cooking - clearly she is the awesomest and I couldn't grudge the second, because they inflated my ego. But I loved the last best of all.
Even with all these shenanigans, by the end of the year I realised the effort was futile. Also, childish considering all the Nancy Drews, Oliver Twist (adapted), Hardy Boys, Tinkles, Chandamamas, Tenali Ramans, Malory Towers, Tom Brown, Huckleberry Finn, Robert L Stevensons, Super Commando Dhruvs (ah yes, that lost genre of Hindi comics!), Jane Austens, Louisa Alcotts, Alexander Dumas’ and the list only increased every day.
Every story luring me further and further into the quicksand of lively imagination. And when there seemed no likely rescue for a pre-teen lolling in the easy world of indulgence and drama and quiet romance, along came Charles Dickens to shock and repel and disgust and fascinate and mesmerise with the romanticism of reality. Dickens, and what a stay he made in my head!
(More on Dickens, Premchand and their writings soon.)
Long before I could read properly, these were my eyes to the distant world. I would gaze longingly at the images and the printed word, wondering at the mysteries locked in their fist. And every letter and word identified was a triumph.
Of course, these magazines also proved how well literary propaganda works - because as a 9-year-old when I first began reading comics, mostly about World War II, I would cheer every time a Yank got hit and I would be disappointed and confused because I loved the Japs and Jerrys, while also disliking them for initiating the war. I could only stand the Yanks in these comics because of the logical and resigned (and ‘rummy’) Brit. These American comics, while making a case for American values of freedom and bravery, also made a case for German and Japanese technical ingenuity as well as British patience and resilience - all traits that I admire among these nationalities even today.
(yeah, no Russians versus Americans in most of those comics - yet as I felt culturally closer to the Russians, I was distant with the Yanks irrespective of who they were up against – isn’t that some propaganda? But 15 years later as the Red bastion crumbled – the second-hand books no longer came from the Soviet Union but from the US and I watched my little neighbour spend two summer vacations mooning over my Marvel copy of how America finally conquered the moon.)
But Sputnik went where even Kennedy's dreamy eyes couldn't with me. The wonders of science and the possibilities of crossing space frontiers and the literal stars in my eyes as twilight closed in was all because of this little piece of sky in binding.
But if I am no closer today to anything that is remotely related to science - blame the politically incorrect Enid Blytons I gorged on in parallel. The fantastical stories were just one aspect of my envy - most of it was reserved for the writer's prolific genius. I once promised I would read every Blyton in my school library.
(Knowing something is great but the path to knowing is what flavours our ultimate knowledge and harvests the greatest thrill.)
In my school, we could borrow a book every alternate week. Most times, I would bribe the librarian to let me borrow 2 books. I would argue that I was a prolific reader, I brought back books all taped and repaired and that I would never tell anyone. I will never know which point swayed her for she would sit, head bent and scribbling in her books and as I stiffly stood wondering if she wasn't going to be moved this time, she would just extend her hand, note down whatever librarians note down and hand them over to me with a stern 'be careful with them.'
My modus operandi was simple: finish mine as soon as possible and then spend the next 7-10 days borrowing my friends' library offerings of the week. For some, the bribe was the awesome breakfasts mom packed for me, for others, it was help with notes while for some others, it was the chance to simply exchange books. I didn't grudge the first for loving my mom's cooking - clearly she is the awesomest and I couldn't grudge the second, because they inflated my ego. But I loved the last best of all.
Even with all these shenanigans, by the end of the year I realised the effort was futile. Also, childish considering all the Nancy Drews, Oliver Twist (adapted), Hardy Boys, Tinkles, Chandamamas, Tenali Ramans, Malory Towers, Tom Brown, Huckleberry Finn, Robert L Stevensons, Super Commando Dhruvs (ah yes, that lost genre of Hindi comics!), Jane Austens, Louisa Alcotts, Alexander Dumas’ and the list only increased every day.
Every story luring me further and further into the quicksand of lively imagination. And when there seemed no likely rescue for a pre-teen lolling in the easy world of indulgence and drama and quiet romance, along came Charles Dickens to shock and repel and disgust and fascinate and mesmerise with the romanticism of reality. Dickens, and what a stay he made in my head!
(More on Dickens, Premchand and their writings soon.)
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
phah!
I think I am slowly being converted.
From a confirmed shopaphobic to one who looks forward to shopping trips.
From a confirmed shopaphobic to one who looks forward to shopping trips.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
whackery pockery
Hmmm...What a weird dream I had this morning. Ever since waking, I have wondered what connects Naseeruddin Shah and Pakistan and my mom (!) drinking martini.
I dreamt of Naseeruddin Shah and another man (I knew him in the dream, cannot remember now) ride into the Pakistan High Commissioner's house located in a random mountain outpost (I have no idea why the HC would live there) and proceeds to talk to him in chaste Urdu.
I have forgotten most of it now but the meeting went something like this: Naseer and friend are treated to a lunch of biryani, curd and salad. Naseer takes a lemon from the salad plate and asks the HC if the biryani will still taste the same if he squeezes a drop in. HC laughs and says of course a drop will not leave its bitter mark. So Naseer squeezes the lemon thoroughly and says 'How about now?' Naseer and HC banter some more and the HC is left with a glass of lemon juice. Then Naseer says something like 'You should be able to drink that then.'
Then, it descends into the realm of complete whackery. As Naseer and friend drive away, I look up and see my mom and aunt (in their sarees) standing at the balcony of the next building watching them. Then, they are laughing and toasting each other as they down their martinis.
As I said, I have no idea what was going on.
Note: Apparently, in dream state I can speak Urdu - Though I am sure Naseer knows the language.
- And my mom drinking martini (snorfle!)
I dreamt of Naseeruddin Shah and another man (I knew him in the dream, cannot remember now) ride into the Pakistan High Commissioner's house located in a random mountain outpost (I have no idea why the HC would live there) and proceeds to talk to him in chaste Urdu.
I have forgotten most of it now but the meeting went something like this: Naseer and friend are treated to a lunch of biryani, curd and salad. Naseer takes a lemon from the salad plate and asks the HC if the biryani will still taste the same if he squeezes a drop in. HC laughs and says of course a drop will not leave its bitter mark. So Naseer squeezes the lemon thoroughly and says 'How about now?' Naseer and HC banter some more and the HC is left with a glass of lemon juice. Then Naseer says something like 'You should be able to drink that then.'
Then, it descends into the realm of complete whackery. As Naseer and friend drive away, I look up and see my mom and aunt (in their sarees) standing at the balcony of the next building watching them. Then, they are laughing and toasting each other as they down their martinis.
As I said, I have no idea what was going on.
Note: Apparently, in dream state I can speak Urdu - Though I am sure Naseer knows the language.
- And my mom drinking martini (snorfle!)
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Ssh...Bitter Confessions
How do people live in a place for years? How did people work in one place for years?
For me, this is an enduring question.
I like meeting new people and making friends. The whole process of making friends is a fine chemistry experiment - how much of this to add - how much of that to subtract for now - how much of compliments, confessions and treating, knowing the right time and amount of blunt truth to be dished out - how much of coffees, movies, and lending of books - how much of sarcasm to be dished on a Tuesday and how much of wit and humour to be showcased on flagging Thursday spirits.
So is it any wonder that once a friendship connection is managed, I am usually flummoxed on how to proceed? You told me I must make a friend in a new place - Done. But Step 2 is what? Maintaining that friendship? Ah so easy...Step 1 rinse and repeat! But wait. What is this new substance that my 'friend' waves hello to, goes on lunches with, makes calls to while I am 'waiting' and generally, doing exactly all that I am doing with my friend?
I will play the hop, skip, slide to the side but are you now asking me to hop, skip, slide to both my sides with the guarantee that I will fall on my arse every once in a while? At the best, that is. At the worst? Hah, I will fall and will probably cause no single goosebump to rise and disturb the larger scheme of things.
So now, I am at a situation of 'Ahem...ahem...what? oh no, I didn't say anything, just a scratch in my throat, oh no I do not mind at all, please carry on' with a parallel commentary in my head going 'Oh are they planning to watch Star Trek this Saturday night? And I am not even being asked about this? be still, make no movement, oh heck, here goes, shucks should have invited over myself, pharaoh! after spending a whole month talking about nothing but Enterprise? Hrmph! I will catch the Saturday morning show!' and poking out an imaginary tongue.
See, if it was you - you will probably have been laughing and having a real conversation rather than an imaginary one and you would have had a fun evening and offered a boost to your friendship with not one but two people. Maybe not enough that they would forget home and ambitions to war with the world for and with you. But then, that happens only once in 500 years, right? So why lose appetite worrying about that?
But with me, the chemistry of friendships is nuclear science. I may know the base elements but I have no idea what to do with them. Most of the times, I do not care. This is sad because I do have an idea of what could be done in a certain situation, but the effort stymies me. I would much rather subject myself to soliloquies, day dreams, lone jaunts to movies, chocolate binges, exotic food haunts (my translation for fried spicy food) and eventual boredom. In a weird way, I like this. I look forward to days when I can do just this. I will sit closeted in my room, with a juicy chicken leg, a plate of biryani on the table, a cup of chocolate cake in the wings, a sexy story to read and a comedy on the telly on standby and during this all, keep moaning about my lack of friends while answering a telephone call from a friend and saying I am too busy and hence, cannot come over for a Barista coffee trip.
And when this gets too tiring and predictable, the city gets too stuffy to negotiate and I am off to a distant land with no friends and acquaintances to slog and grind at new works and tackle strangers through the day.
Oh Woe! Such is the fun of life.
For me, this is an enduring question.
I like meeting new people and making friends. The whole process of making friends is a fine chemistry experiment - how much of this to add - how much of that to subtract for now - how much of compliments, confessions and treating, knowing the right time and amount of blunt truth to be dished out - how much of coffees, movies, and lending of books - how much of sarcasm to be dished on a Tuesday and how much of wit and humour to be showcased on flagging Thursday spirits.
So is it any wonder that once a friendship connection is managed, I am usually flummoxed on how to proceed? You told me I must make a friend in a new place - Done. But Step 2 is what? Maintaining that friendship? Ah so easy...Step 1 rinse and repeat! But wait. What is this new substance that my 'friend' waves hello to, goes on lunches with, makes calls to while I am 'waiting' and generally, doing exactly all that I am doing with my friend?
I will play the hop, skip, slide to the side but are you now asking me to hop, skip, slide to both my sides with the guarantee that I will fall on my arse every once in a while? At the best, that is. At the worst? Hah, I will fall and will probably cause no single goosebump to rise and disturb the larger scheme of things.
So now, I am at a situation of 'Ahem...ahem...what? oh no, I didn't say anything, just a scratch in my throat, oh no I do not mind at all, please carry on' with a parallel commentary in my head going 'Oh are they planning to watch Star Trek this Saturday night? And I am not even being asked about this? be still, make no movement, oh heck, here goes, shucks should have invited over myself, pharaoh! after spending a whole month talking about nothing but Enterprise? Hrmph! I will catch the Saturday morning show!' and poking out an imaginary tongue.
See, if it was you - you will probably have been laughing and having a real conversation rather than an imaginary one and you would have had a fun evening and offered a boost to your friendship with not one but two people. Maybe not enough that they would forget home and ambitions to war with the world for and with you. But then, that happens only once in 500 years, right? So why lose appetite worrying about that?
But with me, the chemistry of friendships is nuclear science. I may know the base elements but I have no idea what to do with them. Most of the times, I do not care. This is sad because I do have an idea of what could be done in a certain situation, but the effort stymies me. I would much rather subject myself to soliloquies, day dreams, lone jaunts to movies, chocolate binges, exotic food haunts (my translation for fried spicy food) and eventual boredom. In a weird way, I like this. I look forward to days when I can do just this. I will sit closeted in my room, with a juicy chicken leg, a plate of biryani on the table, a cup of chocolate cake in the wings, a sexy story to read and a comedy on the telly on standby and during this all, keep moaning about my lack of friends while answering a telephone call from a friend and saying I am too busy and hence, cannot come over for a Barista coffee trip.
And when this gets too tiring and predictable, the city gets too stuffy to negotiate and I am off to a distant land with no friends and acquaintances to slog and grind at new works and tackle strangers through the day.
Oh Woe! Such is the fun of life.
Where are the cookies?
What is depression? I do not know. The first sentence about 'depression' from psychologists and scholars will probably last 2 minutes. I think 'depression' gets its name from the way a person feels the chest cavity bottoming out - it sometimes feels like free fall.
Or we can use a cookie analogy here: Do you know the dismay you feel when you dip your hand into a box of cookies for a midnight snack and your hand keeps dipping lower and lower into the box and meeting no cookies on the way?
Or we can use a cookie analogy here: Do you know the dismay you feel when you dip your hand into a box of cookies for a midnight snack and your hand keeps dipping lower and lower into the box and meeting no cookies on the way?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Anil Kapoor talks 'Slumdog Millionaire' - Today Show (MSNBC)
Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Writer's Block Persists: Quiz Times Roll!
Your result for The What Sports Car Am I Test...
The Corvette/Mustang Mix!
4 Corvette, 17 Mustang!
Wow!
A Corvette and Mustang mix!
That's very unique... Only 0.7% of people share your personality!
You're passionate about what matters most and NOTHING stands in your way of true goals!
You have the speed and drive of a Corvette and the Muscle and integrity of the Mustang!
Congrats!
A Corvette and Mustang mix!
That's very unique... Only 0.7% of people share your personality!
You're passionate about what matters most and NOTHING stands in your way of true goals!
You have the speed and drive of a Corvette and the Muscle and integrity of the Mustang!
Congrats!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Roads Taken
Have you walked down a street at 2 in the morning? - All bundled up in woolly warmth but with that tendril of cold dread shooting up your back at each approaching face.
A street that you walk down with such familiarity and confidence under the warm friendly sun but under a blanket of stars, it's all about clenched jaws and unblinking eyes covered up by a deceitful easy swagger.
Have you walked down 20 feet of road flanked with dried shrubs on either side and deserted under the heated afternoon sun? - All covered up in the sweat of speed walking 2 kms from college to tutorial, clutching a collection of Economics notebooks to my chest while holding up an umbrella in self-defense.
A road down which you walk in easy camaraderie and jollity on the way back from tutorial to hostel with a bunch of guys and girls. A stretch which takes you 5 minutes to walk down with friends but which you crossed in a blinding minute an hour earlier with a 3 second break to wet your umbrella under the broken pipe on the wayside. For, whatever uncertainties lie in store, you absolutely must have that wet respite - watching that water flow allows you time to unclench your jaws and have a much-needed saliva respite for your throat.
Have you walked down a road in the dawn chill of 5 am? - Walking a dearest friend down to the auto stand to catch her 6 am train. Then finding that there are none, and so you desperately troll streets looking for the elusive auto. And when you have found one and your friend is on her way and you have come home and crawled into your bed to warm up your cold body, you fall asleep straight away and then dream of your friend caught up in a realistically ominous dark swirl and wake up hyperventilating.
Every road teaches us as we walk past.
A street that you walk down with such familiarity and confidence under the warm friendly sun but under a blanket of stars, it's all about clenched jaws and unblinking eyes covered up by a deceitful easy swagger.
Have you walked down 20 feet of road flanked with dried shrubs on either side and deserted under the heated afternoon sun? - All covered up in the sweat of speed walking 2 kms from college to tutorial, clutching a collection of Economics notebooks to my chest while holding up an umbrella in self-defense.
A road down which you walk in easy camaraderie and jollity on the way back from tutorial to hostel with a bunch of guys and girls. A stretch which takes you 5 minutes to walk down with friends but which you crossed in a blinding minute an hour earlier with a 3 second break to wet your umbrella under the broken pipe on the wayside. For, whatever uncertainties lie in store, you absolutely must have that wet respite - watching that water flow allows you time to unclench your jaws and have a much-needed saliva respite for your throat.
Have you walked down a road in the dawn chill of 5 am? - Walking a dearest friend down to the auto stand to catch her 6 am train. Then finding that there are none, and so you desperately troll streets looking for the elusive auto. And when you have found one and your friend is on her way and you have come home and crawled into your bed to warm up your cold body, you fall asleep straight away and then dream of your friend caught up in a realistically ominous dark swirl and wake up hyperventilating.
Every road teaches us as we walk past.
And thus were my Sylar dreams squashed!
Your result for The Heroes Personality Test...
Mr. Bennet
You scored 67 Idealism, 54 Nonconformity, 42 Nerdiness
Congratulations, you're Mr. Bennet! You are one mysterious person with mysterious motives. Despite all the mystery, it's clear that you believe what you do is for the greater good, and you are obviously a well-educated person in your field.
Your best quality: Dedication to your work/organization/etc.
Your worst quality: Keeping too many secrets
Sunday, January 4, 2009
In A Name
My name is Josephine. You can call me Meenakshi. I also love the name Celeste. In mandarin, my name would sound like Rong Zhao. I could call myself Vicky, I heart the name of Denziel and I wonder how Iberatu would roll off my tongue.
I am alternatively in 19th century France or in 13th century South India or in early 20th century Argentina. I could be in late 20th century Britain, a breaker in the pathbreaking 60s Black America or in a clan in interior Nigeria.
What’s in a name? Asked the master.
Or I could be me. Carrier of a name simple to tongue and unassuming to the ears. I could have the license to be interesting in complicated times under the guise of an unpretentious moniker.
As I continue my believable one-dimensional existence, behind my open eyes – there exist intriguing times and stimulating lands. In that closeted space, I fly across verdant lands, gallop over patchy terrain, dive under sparkling green oceans, fight state-crumbling ultras, flush out dirty fishes, write time-distinctive poetry, spin timeless tales, fire up a stage with my fierce performance, win those tinkly medals at that international festival of nations.
A flick of eyelashes and I wake.
I am alternatively in 19th century France or in 13th century South India or in early 20th century Argentina. I could be in late 20th century Britain, a breaker in the pathbreaking 60s Black America or in a clan in interior Nigeria.
What’s in a name? Asked the master.
Or I could be me. Carrier of a name simple to tongue and unassuming to the ears. I could have the license to be interesting in complicated times under the guise of an unpretentious moniker.
As I continue my believable one-dimensional existence, behind my open eyes – there exist intriguing times and stimulating lands. In that closeted space, I fly across verdant lands, gallop over patchy terrain, dive under sparkling green oceans, fight state-crumbling ultras, flush out dirty fishes, write time-distinctive poetry, spin timeless tales, fire up a stage with my fierce performance, win those tinkly medals at that international festival of nations.
A flick of eyelashes and I wake.
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