Go Away From My Window

I have a problem.
A problem to cut loose.I cut but I also lose.A good part of me and myself.
I am tired of that.
I am tired of attachments .
It wreaks havoc in my mind when it starts to fray.And when it eventually tears, I find myself in this godforsaken vacuum.
It irks me to think the space it took up to leave behind a vacuum that big.

“Clouds,Illusions I recall”…I really don’t know people at all.
All my life, it has been the same story.
I misread people.
I think for the longest time they are what they are until I become emotionally attached.
I depend on them. For the good times and the bad.
With time,I have cut down on expectations.Yes,I probably am a slow learner,but I adapt and account for historic evidences.
But then,like an inevitable eventuality,it happens.
One small little thing, that changes my whole perception of a being.

And I am sick of it.
Sick to my guts to see friends become strangers.
It takes me a long time to heal.
In some cases I don’t.
And I could do with fewer wounds.

Someone once told me,after I ended things,that I was emotionally unavailable.
I thank him.
My mistake was that I was not.I need to be.For some time now lest a gangrene sets in.

New Year’s resolution you ask?
Emotionally unavailable. Indefinitely.
Don’t care to knock.

Roots

There was a place I did not call home,
Where with masks on and swords drawn people did roam,
Where living was an acclivity,
A fight to preserve sanity.
And the eyes did search for the green,green grass home.

Yet this brokedown palace of sorts
Became my saviour of last resorts.
The sky was mine,the trees too,
The roads and faces I belonged to,
For I no longer needed a mirror to find myself there.

As I came back to my roots,
Yet a part of me it did uproot.
For while your roots grow deeper,
Your branches expand,
Like a banyan tree it doth stand.

Home is where the heart is,they say.
But what if your heart was in more places than one?
Would bliss be amiss,I wonder,
would you come undone?
Or would fragments of you be brought together as one?

The Dirty Picture.Literally

So,my end semester examinations got over today.After a daunting 10 days of really bad papers which make you question your faculties every time you put pen to paper,the end,was just a respite,if not a reason to rejoice.So like most exam-unfriendly-student I decided to watch a movie to get my head back into the world again.

The Dirty Picture had been creating quite a buzz for sometime now.And why not? A controversial character,a lot of skin and Vidya Balan and Naseeruddin Shah who created magic with Ishqiya.And if I were to believe the TOI review,(which I managed to read before going to take my exam),called it a "seminal work."Since Tamil is the flavour of the season,and given that it was playing at a theatre very close to my campus(Yes,I am lazy),we decided to go and be wowed for ourselves.


So well,the movie starts."Nakka mukka nakka mukka." The song gives me the splits!I foresee a fun couple of hours.Story unfolds.Small town girl.Dreams big.Runs away day before her wedding night.Comes to big city.Struggles to get into the movies.Rejected time and time again.Until she gets a break.

So she heaves her more than ample bosoms,bites her lips,rolls her tongues for the camera,dances uninhibitedly while her belly trembles like jelly in gaudy attires that leave little to the imagination.Reality,indeed.The South Indian film industry does have a fetish for all of the above.And why not?The audience demands it.Film is but a demand-supply phenomenon down south in spite of all its tall claims about being true to tradition,being stiflingly conservative and puritans.So while men in crisp white shirts and dhotis with the quintessential "tilak" affirming his piety lead a respectable life with his wife in a kanjivaram with a gajra in her well oiled hair,in the other world, he is the one who lusts over the likes of Silk Smitha and keeps his sexual desires satisfied.So society is unfair at judging something it creates and sustains by demand.This is a point Smitha makes in the movie : the hypocrisy of the "sharif" class and a point I had hoped would have been pursued in the movie along with the melancholia of her hapless existence that ultimately drove her to suicide.


But what it became was a tedious affair of cleavages,thunder thighs,Smitha gyrating,drinking,smoking,and sleeping around with men after men after men.I have nothing against any of these.I did not walk into the movie expecting the life of a nun and I'm no prude either.But then, if I wanted to see all of the above,I could have watched a Silk Smitha movie.Why a story on her life?Rather,why arrogate a story of her life?I understand the content of her work is important.But instead of Naseeruddin Shah poaching an egg on Smitha's belly(I will not be able to have a poached egg for long!),a little more light on her inner tribulations,her vulnerability,her helplessness,her misfortunes,her flaws,her follies would have given a better,if not cleaner picture.Forced innuendos galore,some shabby dialog,and cliches after,I reached a point when I wanted the movie to just end.Also with a crowd of hot blooded,horny men of Delhi, shouting disgusting remarks,whistling at every cleavage show,and especially the middle-aged men beside us moaning and well,the rest I leave to your imagination,it was a nightmare.

Naseeruddin Shah is good.Not great.Emraan Hashmi is tolerable surprisingly.But that is all.And Tushar Kapoor is disgusting as always.For the woman of the hour : Vidya Balan.Like the movie or not,she deserves an applause for her courage.To be so bereft of inhibition in a body which is no longer considered pretty in the industry(at least in places other than the South),to be bold and vulnerable,raunchy and wretched,she handles it commendably.

But Silk Smitha had a story behind the glitz and meretricious nature of her existence.She was more than a catalyst under the loins.The film sets out to do that but somehow the message gets lost in between and what we are stuck with is what a slightly modern version of Silk Smitha would have been like.Her affairs,the betrayals are treated as almost customary .While Naseeruddin's portrayal is still believable,Tushar Kapoor should just go "Gayab".His acting abilities were never great,nor were his looks.And while he comes across as a pathetic,disgusting loser as the role demands,it is irritating, for you do not feel like he has to work very hard in doing that.Emraan gets his kiss and is not too cocky,so I could bear with him.But while the oomph quotient was higher than necessary for the movie,the emotional content was measly.At the end,in spite of her tragic death,somewhere along the line,the movie fails to generate the empathy it should have.Sympathy maybe,but I doubt whether that should have been the response the director should have been looking for given Smitha herself was unabashed about her work and the last thing she wanted was pity.

The Dirty Picture might turn out to be a blockbuster.Given by my experience today,men of all ages would flock to see it.No harm in that.All Luthra manages to accomplish is making a film that justifies its title.Literally.But I feel it is dishonest to take someone's story to tell,when you narrate one part and underplay the most important part of it.Sex sells.Indeed.If you want a story with sex,make your own.Do not mask it under a tragedy.Both Silk Smitha and the audience,(leaving out the horny men who were there for a completely different reason),deserve better.

Gv Me A Brk!

Remember those glory days when getting a perfect score in your spelling dictation examination was a matter of awe from your peers ?Times when correct spellings,perfect grammar,a well constructed sentence were a necessity for being one of those bright kids.Times when words were not truncated, mutilated or just left to your interpretation.Ah!Those were times when the imperiling tentacles of the SMS-language had not strangled the sanctity of the English language.

SMS or Short Messaging Service,is in keeping with the times.It indeed is a boon in today's daily marathon.Getting yourself across,with the least number of written words.That was the agenda.But then,people stopped having time for typing out a single word.The vowels were the worst hit.People ceased to see their purpose.They became the omitted variables of this age.Some argued that this was in keeping with the spirit of SMS.It was meant to be brief and its purpose,quick response.But then,it confused me.I keep getting painfully long forwarded messages,about values of friendship,love,life and some rather sad and cliched jokes.They are in no ways, brief and certainly not belonging to,what one would call, an exigency.Yet,they are written in the SMS-language which makes it doubly tedious.

I find this situation irritating.It seems like a contagion.Think about it.If you really wanted to thank someone,would writing "Thanks" instead of "Tnx"/"Thx" OR a very generous "Thnx" delay your plans of saving the world? Would adding another "o" and a "r" to " Sry" when you wanted to apologize,make your self-esteem vanish?Can the expanse of something substantial be expressed by just a "Grt"?Do you really care enough to ask someone to "Tk Cr" when you want them to believe that you do?Seriously,whatever did vowels do to you?Do you really mean the three magical words when you do not even have the time/inclination to spell out love and think "Luv" will keep you alive?

And sometimes,in your zeal to be fast and furious,and in your ignorance of words and their connotations,you give us "puritans" heart attacks!What am I supposed to make of a "Cum fast.Cnt wet"!? Sue you for indecent proposals? Ask you whether that's the latest porn movie you got your hands on?Or pat you on your back for the new meaning you've infused into the Beatle's classic Come Together?(Or is it 2gether?)

Some other time,when asked where you are,you say,"In rum".A lovely imagery for me,but then don't get my hopes up if you cannot offer me one!

I abhor it.And I dread the fact that SMS language has now become a part of the written word too.Be it social networking sites or the new age fast(crap) novels,they are here,and seems like they are here to stay.

But seriously,is this our way of saving time?Is this our transgression to being the "new intellectual" where guessing the word is a daily exercise?Or is it just a sorry excuse for our lack of sensitivity for the language,for words,for what they mean,for whom they are meant for?The wide-spread disregard for writing words as they should be, resulting in distortions galore,might lead us to a point,someday,when we will not even have the time(or the inclination) to communicate via words.Maybe,we shall communicate via waves,colours,radio signals or some kind of weird futuristic mode from a bad sci-fi movie.A future that will resemble the remote past and we shall become like monkeys with great gizmos!

I shudder to think of the scenario.I am all for the economy of words.But when words,by itself are mangled,and English becomes a sorry specter of left-overs,it is not unreasonable for a lover of the language and the words to ask these brilliant new-age linguists in their own language to just "Gv me a brk!" and practice some precis writing!!

Part Of A Whole

It was just another Sunday.I woke up late.Looked out of my window.It had rained.The bricks were wet.The little white flowers were rain kissed.The guava tree had never looked so green.It seemed I had woken up this morning to "dust my blues".

I sat down with the daunting task of making sense of econometrics and all unexplained insanity that comes with it.My eyes kept going to the window and the little box of rain He had sent from above that transformed the view from my window.

Then it started happening.Rains make me horribly nostalgic.I miss my city more than ever.I miss my room with a view there,although this view too had somewhat started becoming my own.But rains leave me with a void.

I started listening to Hemanta Mukhopadhyay's "Ei Meghla Din e Akla"(Lonely on a cloudy day).Wrong choice.My melancholia had been awakened.I moved on to Nick Drake.I thought a move away from my mother tongue would help me get over it.Didn't seem to work.I hoped it would be "Bryter Layter",but Drake left me feeling restless.He doesn't do that to me generally.I generally listen to Drake,connect at some unseen,intangible level of intimacy and feel settled.But today was different.

I did what I hadn't done for ages.Partly unintentionally,but partly to avoid the outcome which intimidated me.I started listening to this recital of Shudh Kalyan by Pandit Bhimshen Joshi that had been buried in my laptop for ages.And it seemed that a dam had been broken.Indeed,Pandit Bhimshen Joshi always gives me the chills,but today it was different.I had heard this bandish several times before,Shudh Kalyan being one of my favourite raagas.But today,it was all about realization.It was the realization of what I had been trying very hard to keep myself away from : that somewhere within me,my music might have died.

I remember how I used to grumble everyday I had to do an extended riyaaz with the tabla.I remember cribbing to my guru about how difficult it was getting to hold it all together with studies and so much of every other thing to do.She'd just smile and ask me to stretch it only till the point I kept enjoying it.I cribbed to Ma,had huge fights with her,threatened to quit music,stopped listening to classical music in front of her(although my headphones were dedicated to it) and head banged to metal!But I never quit.At least voluntarily.

Since I left home,I haven't had a chance to sit for an extended riyaaz that would leave me drained but immensely radiant in spirits like before.And as Ustad Rashid Khan mesmerised me with his Thumri on one of my favourite raagas,Pahadi somewhere "Baaton baaton mein",I sobbed.

Not because I felt sad.Not because I felt glad.But because I connected to something I had been in love with for so very long.I had always tried to avoid the pain which I had actually felt in not being in touch with that very integral part of myself for what felt like eternity and today.As I write,I find it difficult to articulate what I felt.My hands shook as I tried rather hard to stifle my sobs.Miyan ki Malhar started playing next.I tried to collect myself.And thankfully managed to do so.

I spent the rest of the day listening to one raaga after the other.It seemed that I found a part of myself I had been looking for at the wrong places for all along.It had been with me.Only I had been to stubborn in refusing to see it.Somewhere,in my tryst with classical music,it had become my music.

It was not something I had been JUST learning for a good 14 years,but somewhere down the line,I started living it.Living together causes problems.We fight to give each other space.We take each other for granted.But pull us apart,and it is like a part of you is ripped off you and you cannot cry out,for you forgot your language.It scared me today.What if I had lost a part of myself with my music?Would I ever forgive myself?Would I ever be the same?

Again,this has been the only post I had felt a need to write but have found it rather difficult to articulate how I felt.But I believe,everyone of us has that little corner within ourselves,where we resign ourselves,to create,to destroy,to vent,to celebrate,to love,to mourn,and to live through it.Imagine yourself coming close to losing it and retrieving it just in time.A part of you,you discarded in your blinded state of ignorance,a part that made you whole.

I went through that journey and returned,with the whole,today.The day,my music did not die.

I ain't changed,but I know I ain't the same.

A lot of water has flown down the river.
Five leaves grew into thousands.
Earthquakes struck.
Great men fell.
Grass roots swayed.
And I grew up.
And this time,not by number.
But I feel a change coming.
It's the real deal now.
And I am dead scared.
Scintillating,empowering but yes,intimidating.

I grew up.
I walk on the road alert and alone.I don't wait for two friendly hands on either side dragging me.
For those that know me really well,know that deep down,and quite contrary to what comes across,I am an introvert.
I still am.
But I stuck my head out a little out of snow.
I used to be reluctant to talk to unknown people.Hell,even known ones.
And now,I live with and among strangers.
And I get by.Quite well.
It is like sticking your head out of the window of a speeding car and letting the wind kiss your face.
Dangerous but innervating.

I grew up.
Every time I land myself in a fix,I don't call up Mum,Dad,K and cry.
Don't get me wrong.I do cry.A lot.
Just not,to someone.
I,who was mortally scared of travelling alone in my own city,have now ended up going to distant parts of absolutely unknown territory,where strangers speak in a language unknown.
Courage?That is too great a word.
Compulsion would be more apt.
And maybe,supplication.

Yes,I grew up.
I made up my mind about God and all those starry things above.
I am a believer.
Religion,not so much.
But,yes,I took a decision.
To believe.

I grew up.
I found out the hard way,but yes,I now know "when to walk away,know when to run".
I know how and what to gamble.I know the odds.
I am learning to be patient.
And everyday,I surprise myself,by putting up with a bit more than I had expected.

I grew up.
I moved on.
The last string that held us together,yes,I severed it.
What now?You blame me?
Ah,it does not matter anymore my dear.
'We' don't exist anymore.But guess what,permutations do.
I found some good ones.
So I wish you luck.


I grew up.
I see a lizard.
I do not bring down the house.
I cringe,take a deep breath,and try to shoo it away from a distance.
I switch off the light and see its silhouette against the window.
I shudder.
I keep looking.
For a few minutes.
And then,with the sheet covering my face,as my only defense,I sleep.

No,I am not a self-sufficient,independent woman.
I need every single person I banked upon,I turned to at the first sign of distress.
I'd do the same now.
But only if,me and myself did not prove to be enough.


I grew up.
I had a little more faith.
In me.
In my own,weak,doubting,but resilient,self.

Drifters

Give me the distance.
The miles between,
The space that separates,
Two souls akin.
For I fear,
Proximity builds walls.

I fear I see your mind at work,
Not familiar as it once was.
Just cold and dirty.
I fear I do not see your heart,
Just a dark hollow.
I fear I hear your lies,
But that is just a four letter word.
I fear I crave your absence
For solace is what I crave.

Give me the distance,
So my vision is blurred,
My hearing imprecise,
As we drift apart.
For I know we’ve burnt our bridges,
But my frail heart still breaks to see them burning.

Spring Cleaning

Here's the deal.
I have a lot of things zooming in my head right now.
Imagine the Jetsons!The wheezing vehicles!
My mind has a traffic jam!
Sadly,neither do I have the energy nor the luxury of a few hours to communicate those with you,my dear reader.
But my mind needs to regurgitate.
So I'm simply going to randomize in brief.
One word.
One phrase.
No explanations.
No justifications.
And NOT in any order of preference.
So well.Here we go.



Home...

Green leaves...

Paash-baalish.(Side-pillow)

Pasta

Band Baaja Baraat!

Daggers

Playing footsie.

Presidency.

Tees January Marg

Trams

Moment Generating Functions

Purple shorts.

Turkey

Pablo Neruda.

Banning pink.

Boots.

Shoulders.

Raag Tilok Kamod.

Focus.

Love.

Dreams.

Minister's Son

River

Sex

Candy-floss.

Ferns.

Sepia.

Side-burns

Cello

Lace.

Gin.

Eddie Vedder

Rolling Stones

White linen

A Sinking Feeling

Sedatives.....

A Clean Slate

There’s something infinitely comforting about a blank page.
It has always given me a great sense of freedom.

There is no ‘forward linkage’.
There are no shadows.
There is no past.
There is no scar.
There is no bias.

There is space,however.Space that can contain time.
There is emptiness.An emptiness that can be made to seeth with feelings.
There is no colour,yet the possibility of a rainbow.

And that is why I keep coming back.
For the want of a new start.
Even if eventuality awaits.

(Call me a fatalist.Go on.Do it!)

What If?

What if something distant and unknown became dear and familiar to you?

What if the tiny speck that meant nothing engulfed your every sense?

What if the truth that you knew turned out to be one grand whole lie?

What if in darkness you found the light that you always sought?

What if the past that you discarded forced itself into your future?

What if songs that were dead played again and made your heart beat in a new rhythm?

What if closure brought you closer?

What if confusion and uncertainty gave you bliss?

What if your weakness became your greatest strength?

What if blue became your green?

Would you still be you?

In Search Of

Wild and free
Sea winds of my mind,
Waves of illusions.
Ripples that bind,
This world and that,
Like hands entwined.

Moist breezes,
Twilight looms,
Leaves rustle,
In a familiar tune.
But alas!The ears they lie,
The leaves were not what they used to be.

This sky is that,
Blue and one,
The mind reasons,
What the heart doth shun.
Morning dies,
In want of a sun.

Moist breezes,
Twilight looms,
Moist eyes,
Filled with gloom,
Looks through the haze,
For that world,
The eternal womb.

So I Leave My Boats Behind

One of the first concepts you learn as a student of Economics is that, of trade-off.
A seemingly innocuous word,it is fundamental to the subject in so many ways.In addition to that,it has a deeper philosophical meaning.Tricky concept,I tell you.
Ask the Rolling Stones.They hit the nail on the head.

"You can't always get what you want,
But if you try sometime,you might find,you get what you need."


But then what if my wants and needs are one and the same?

I've got what I wanted for so,so long.And Lord knows,that's what I need too!
I've dreamt of this throughout my undergraduate years.
To study in one of the best departments in India,under some of the most eminent professors,among some of the most intellectual students and in that unbelievable campus where one can break free.Leaving home was implicit to this dream and I hadn't wasted my sleep on that.

But now when I have to go,REALLY GO,the truth hits hard.
Every tiny nook and cranny of my home breaks my heart.
The sofa which I used to bump into everyday,scream out some expletives and get a scolding from Ma on how callous I was.
Those little toys on my bedstead that has borne the brunt of so many of my fits of angers.I broke them and mended them and now it's their turn.
My bed.So many lazy afternoons,rolling and tumbling with a story book in my hand;staying awake the whole night(well,almost) before exams,right from school with heaps of notes and books strewn all over;those long phone calls in the dark;crying myself to sleep;the drama every morning to wake up :it has been there,seen all of that.
My desk,which is NEVER in order,but now.My wardrobe,which made Ma faint everytime she opened it is now empty.
I just have to look around and the tears,they come.

And then there's Ma.
Dad's there too.But the man can cope better.He's gonna eat all the chocolates in the fridge,listen to music all night,be cranky,sleep and snore and give me a zillion phone calls to keep evil and boys at bay and somehow get by.
But Ma.She has always been the 'silent lucidity' type.And I know how difficult it is going to be for her.She has promised to drown herself heart and soul in research,but I know,in the heart of hearts,that's not going to be enough to keep the void away.Just as in my case,a new city,new friends,a new life can never replace her.Where else will I get my Mommycuddle,my punching bag,my greatest inspiration?

There are so many people I'll miss.Funny thing is I didn't even meet all of them on a daily basis.I'll miss Dadu and Didu,although I have a sneaky feeling Didu,as soon as she gets hold of my number,is going to drive me crazy calling me up ten times a day to make sure I haven't accepted food from strangers!!I'll miss my GuruMa,and my music classes.I'll miss riyaaz.I'll miss my hapless driver,my gardener,my neighbours,my walk-in-the-park friends,especially the Dadus.I'll miss my Xerox Aunty.I'll miss the Phuchka man.I'll miss my friends back home: PriD,the marathon phone conversations,the inane text messages,the cold wars,the drunken-library-jaunts and Sumo,the movie sessions,the talks,the questions that made me cringe,the Sumoisms that are so dear to me. I'll also miss the ones who are elsewhere : Oi,Punch,N,Ob.I'll miss my college,beautiful and ancient.The corridors,the rooms,the canteen,Paramount,College Street,Einstein-Xerox Dadu and so on.
I'll miss that particular crust of the sky I see from my window.

I could go on and on about what I'd miss and what I'm leaving behind.
But I would be lying if I said that every now and then,my heart does not give a skip and I don't shiver with excitement thinking of the unknown road ahead.
That is the classic trade-off.
I'll try dealing with it.
How well,time will tell.

I don't know when I'll be blogging again.
Or maybe I'll start a new one.
But this will be a part of me,just as all the things and persons I've mentioned in this post are.

I raise my glass to the old and the new.
With love.

"So I leave my boats behind,
Leave them on familiar shores.
Set my heart upon the deep,
Follow you again my Lord."

Silver Bubble

It is midnight and I'm here, perched on my chair.
I have just finished painting my nails with considerable degree of difficulty.
I was never very good at it and never did show much improvement either.
I'm trying to keep my toes as far away from one another to prevent further damage.
But I like looking down on my painted toe-nails, in its restrained vibrancy of mute silver.

I just finished watching Up in the Air.
It does paint with beautiful poignancy certain facts of life.
Excess baggage or no baggage, both lands you in a fix.
Career goals or no career goals, both can make you look like a living embodiment of failure.
Commitment or no commitment, both offers suboptimal solutions. The former can leave you hurt and betrayed. The latter, makes you look like a cold hearted conniving man-eater.
Freedom of choice allows you to put yourself in chains.
Existentialism. Thou art a puzzle!

Clouds are pretty, aren’t they?
They lack specificity.
Life’s pretty too.
(Not always. Like right now.)
However, I never liked the cloud imagery for life.
It’s fundamentally flawed.
Life is specific. Its cause is existence. Its result: death.
Joni Mitchell might have looked at both clouds and life from both sides and concluded that she really didn’t know either, but that doesn’t qualify clouds to be a metaphor for life.
I've come across several people interpreting Both Sides Now in that way.
You cannot say it is wrong, but it peeves me!

Every cloud might have a silver lining.
Life doesn’t.
But my toe-nails do.

Deal with it.
I do while “looking down on creation”.
Even, if it is patchy in places.

Proof Of Life

Life has been on hold for sometime now.My blog bears testimony to that.My last post was last year.Years changed,months too,but the date of the last post has been the same for almost five months.

Yes,inspirations have had a recessionary trend.But there have been a few upswings.Some big enough for me to have typed up a flurry of words,but I've kept away.Rather,been forced to keep away.There has been a lot of stress and work,let downs and time crunch,brought on by varied affairs of this great plan called life.And I have been making an effort to beat the doldrums.The uncertainty of my situation here isn't helping much.

Crossroads make for great songs.The multiple choice questions it deals you in life are quite cumbersome otherwise.

My blog has never been another social networking site for me.My first blog post clarified that.It doesn't matter whether I have millions of readers.I don't give details of my relationships,I don't carry out character dissection and social homicide of people I don't like and I'm faintly controversial.However it is comforting to know that in spite of that there are some people,and a few (pleasantly surprising) like minded ones,who are regular readers of my irregular posts.The number of followers have doubled since the last time I checked and I am moved.Some, have even been worried regarding my long sabbatical.And although my blog isn't an obligation,I think I owe all of you an explanation.And hence this post.

When you put a caller on hold for too long,chances are that you won't find him waiting when you at last manage to get back.The line goes dead on the other end.
I don't want my blog to die that way.
I don't want it to be a self-indulgent,temporary obsession that fades away into oblivion.

This post,dear reader,is your proof.

Sweet December

Winter is not my season.
It's cold.
The sun sets early.
It gets a tad depressing.

But I love December.
Especially December in Calcutta.
Yes,it's cold.
The sun sets early here too.
But there's a sense of warmth associated with this month and the city soaks it up and surrounds you with it.


December brings with it the routine trip to New Market, resplendent in its old world charm :the merry, christmas decor,the heavenly smell of freshly baked cakes and brownies from Nahoum's wafting through the air and children with the cutest head-gears.
Park Street resembles wonderland in all its Yuletide splendour.
Flurys looks like that house of goodies from the fairytale Hansel and Grethel.Only there's no wicked witch here.
It's true that the footfall increases by a dizzying amount and you need to queue up for your favourite sizzler,but you'd hardly see people complaining.
There's this infectious sense of well-being and bonhomie all around.
It maybe a far cry from the reality,but a little escapism didn't hurt anyone.
Come December,and down comes the Kashmiri Shawl-walas,winning our hearts and the bargains with their genial natures.Then again,bargaining isn't the priority of the season.The Circus,though trampled by the sands of time,rolls in and you see that big colourful tent at Park Circus Maidan.
December is,as it always was.


December brings back memories.
December for the good 14 years of my life had meant the longest vacation of the year.
It meant the Nativity Play at school;singing for the choir with hideous make-up that made my cheeks look like that of a clown rather than being rosy.
December meant writing inane holiday notes on each other's hands and arms and the thrill of keeping it hidden from Ma who didn't approve of the skin being used as a replacement for paper.
Shivering on our way to school,cursing the skirts,and then basking in the winter sunshine before classes began : that was December.
Rubbing my hand vigorously to keep them warm,letting someone see how cold it was,which later I realized was his juvenile excuse for simply holding it,for a good two hours.That was December too.
December memories, from bygone years still keeps me warm with its sepia aura.

December brings with it an eventuality.
The hope of a new beginning in a discrete time scenario.
The sigh of a huge relief for all the bad times traversed.
A promise of tomorrow,with a fond recollection of yesterday.

Yes,it's cold.
And the sun sets early.
But there's hardly any darkness in the December I see.
All we gotta do is to look for the light at the right places.
And very often,the chances are that it's within you and me.
December doesn't bestow heavenly light on you.
It simply helps you seek it for yourself.
That's my December.Sweet December.
:)

Potpourri IV

It's been sometime since I gushed out another installment of my potpourri.
There were either too many things on my mind to tackle at once or too less of it to make me bother.
Anyway, not much has changed except that I'm 21 now. I still remain uniformly random in my thoughts, with divergent lines of reasoning emanating from the single thought processor in my head. It can be disconcerting sometimes, I tell you! But how else would I have a Potpourri without my vagaries?

Oh well, Orwell : If you want the BEST jolt that reality can ever deliver, Orwell is the man. And by jolt, I do not mean he'd horrify you, nauseate you or gross you out. Unlike the path chosen by some of our modern authors, to make reality harsher and more gruesome than it really is, Orwell’s non-fiction offers them a lesson in balance and artistry. I was reading Down and Out in Paris and London. It is amazing how Orwell skillfully executes his duties both as an author and a journalist. He writes what he sees. He presents Paris through the eyes of a plongeur, devoid of all the beauty associated with the place.' Poverty is what I'm writing about' he says and he paints the great redeeming feature of poverty so well-its power to annihilate the future. You find an undercurrent of Socialist thought but Orwell, like a true journalist maintains a beautiful equilibrium between what he sees and what he feels. He points out how unemployment weathers a soul. Then again, amidst all the dreary accounts, you come across Bozo, the tramp. And when Bozo says, in spite of having the sky as his roof in the freezing cold, that "The stars are a free show; it don't cost anything to use your eyes”, I cannot help but be amazed at the resilience of the human spirit. Reality is harsh. It might not be beautiful. But Orwell shows whether one chooses to make it hopeless or hopeful, is a personal choice.

Mayer's Snare: Once you've started loving John Mayer's music, you are trapped. You cannot dislike him. Even if you don't like him as much as the last time you checked. Battle Studies proves that. My first reaction on listening to this much awaited album was disappointment.Frankly,the songs were too Pop for my taste and after a Magnum Opus like Continuum or Where The Light is, Battle Studies does fall short of expectations. But then I went back and listened to it, over and over again. And as always, it grows on you. My top picks are definitely 'Who Says?'(Basic Mayer tone, simple, quirky), 'Perfectly Lonely'(Probably the best written song in the album) and 'War of my Life '(The song that has some congruence to the name of the album, semified aggression).'Half of my Life',IN SPITE of featuring Taylor Swift is not hideous surprisingly. Now, the bad apples. Crossroads : I've always maintained when you try re-inventing a classic like this one, make sure it's better than the original or just shut up! Mayer’s rendition of Crossroads made me cringe! Hate the tone. Hate the bass work. The other bad apple is indeed Heartbreak Warfare. I mean we all know that Jen Anniston's been a lot of pain, and he needs to vent out. But the expression is clichéd and rather OTT.For the love of God,” Clouds of sulphur in the air, bombs are falling everywhere, it’s heartbreak warfare!” Lame imagery .This, being a post-break-up album, I did draw a comparison with Blood on the Tracks. But I guess I shouldn't for there's just ONE of that master-piece. However, Mayer does try to do something new in this album and I do give him credits for that. He has made a conscious effort to break away from his Blues mould. I don't know whether that's a good thing or bad, but I'm very excited about the future of Mayer's music.

The Tree Swingers: Laugh all you want to, but I've been obsessed with Orangutans lately. I’ve been watching Animal Planet and NatGeo all day and watching their antics. They are the most adorable creatures I've ever seen. From those needy-wise- eyes, to that absolutely delectable 'smooch-face' they do; from making the funniest leaf hats for shade or simply sitting there, majestically, they indeed are an amazing animal. It’s a shame so few of them remain. I wish I could have one as a pet but I guess the wilderness is where they truly belong. What amazes me about this species of primates as opposed to the others is their love for solitude, looking down on creation from up above the canopy. No wonder Sukumar Ray used them in his poem where he writes "Holde shobuj orangutan,It patkel chit-potang'. :)

The Truth Files : I've been a X-phile.Not the creepy kind but moderate one.It is the best Sci-fi series ever! Yes, the genius of Chris Carter did begin to fade towards the end,but then the beginning and what followed was magic. Mind-boggling plots, suspense you could cut with a knife and Duchovny-Anderson sure deserved the Nobel prize for chemistry! From corruption, to extra-terrestrial life; from denying information to citizens to passion-play, it was one gripping potpourri of sorts! And in the light of some recent incidents in my life, the X-Files tagline has suddenly become like a portent. The Truth Is Out There. And for those who hide it, it’s going to catch up with you soon you dastards!Sooner than you'd imagine and too late to run for cover!

I was feeling, to express in Sylvia Plath's words "very still and very empty; the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."
I don't feel the same now.
I am a part of the tornado now,living the hullabaloo.
Or will be, for a few days to come.

Elusive Neverland

It has been a bad couple of days.
The utter hopelessness of the situations and the eventuality associated with them has been torturing me.
It's like standing on the sea-shore, fighting a war with the sand and the sea.
You try hard to sink your feet into the sand to retain your balance and it just keeps slipping away from underneath your feet. You try hard to regain your balance. You almost manage to do it but just then a wave comes crashing down on you and you fall.
You hope there is something to hold on to, to break your fall. But all you have are the memories to hold on to. And it engulfs you. You try to float on the surface, holding on to it like a log of wood. Instead, it swallows you! Chokes you!
That is the eventuality.
And these few days have seen waves after waves after waves.
But these waves come, crash onto you, go back and then never return. Never.

I watched Finding Neverland the day he passed away. It gave me some solace. But finding solace in a fairytale might be a luxury for my cousin who has just lost his father. Maybe someday I will get myself to explain to him about life in Neverland.

Neverland offered momentary solace.
That is until the day, my Funny Valentine passed away.
Every Valentine's Day I'd get a Valentine's Day card from my 92 year old Valentine. Even when age caught up with him, he made sure he sent it. His hands trembled while he wrote these days. But unsteadiness had never exuded such confidence, as in him. He had trouble reading, but he devoured every new book he got his hands on. They tell me that he would have only suffered more had he lived longer. But rationalization is not helping me cope with the loss of my favourite Valentine. I’m dreading the 14th of February and I wish time would stand still!

I don't know whether I'll be able to stand, fully grounded on the seashore, at one with the sea, admiring the sunset.
But for now, death and sunsets are only painful eventualities to me.
I fail to see the beauty.
I fail to see a happy ending.
I fail to find Neverland.

Such is life. Or is it death?

When You Got Knopfler,You Sure Get Lucky.

Mark Knopfler is truly like old wine.He gets better with each passing year.
He amazes me.
You see him perform. There are no crazy, possessed-by-the-devil antics on stage .
His voice caresses you.Gruff.Tender.Deep.Intimate.His guitar : intricate, precise and gentle. There’s a certain austerity about him. However, an austerity that doesn’t isolate him from the world, but makes him one with it.He’s a Budhha with a guitar.

Get Lucky bears testimony to all that and so much more.

It’s amazing how this man continues to play what he believes in, instead of radio-friendly pop-ish music.He has a niche audience and he has stayed true to them and himself never compromising with his style and music. Thus you get something as beautiful and true as Get Lucky.

Border Reiver,with its beautiful fusion of the accordion and flute brings out a rustic Irish flavour.Hard Shoulder follows : a wonderful ballad with a definite Motown feel.The vulnerability in his voice cuts through. You Can’t Beat The House has Knopfler betting on the blues.

Before Gas just proves Knopfler’s mastery in the art of story-telling. Simple words strung together to weave such nostalgia and the appeal in his voice resounds through you.”If heaven’s like this/Well, then here’s where I’ll be/On the edge of the world/On the edge of the field/Before gas and TV”

Monteleone is one of my favourite songs in the album.It’s amazing how Knopfler takes something so personal and manages to create an universal appeal without going into details and compromising what his is very own.The string arrangement is beautiful and flows in and out like a wave.
Monteleone,in memory of the guitar-maker who made Knopfler a beautiful guitar is exquisite. " My finger plane’s working; gentle persuasion/I bend to the wood and coax it to sing.” Art for art’s sake .
Cleaning My Gun is classic Knopfler with a heavy dose of Americana. The last verse stands out for me: “You can still get gas in heaven and drink in kingdom come/In the meantime, I’m cleaning my gun.”

“The Car Was The One” inspired by racer Bobby Brown is another masterful execution of Knopfler’s treatment of his personal reflections “Remembrance Day” kind of sums up Knopfler’s search throughout the album for the days gone by and raveling in the memories. “Piper To The End” has the rich Celtic sound of Knopfler.

“So Far From The Clyde” is another of my favourites.Pathos seeps into you. It revolves around the famous shipping industry of Scotland that existed once upon a time.Knopfler said “A breaking yard in India is a long way for beautiful Clyde-built ship to go to die” and he portrays that forced desolation so beautifully in the song that it becomes more universal than specific.A brilliant composition.

And that brings me to the title track,Get Lucky , another master-piece. This song heals you. It is optimistic yet realistic :”And what about happiness for money?/Tell it to the breadline.” It’s not what he says in this song, but what he leaves unsaid :”And I might get lucky now and then, You win some, you might get lucky now and then/You win some.” Knopfler does not feel the need to complete the age-old saying.Being cliched is not his forte.The Psalms teach you about the Philosophy of Supplication. I just think Mark Knopfler did that with this song,in a far simpler way.

Get Lucky is an ethereal amalgamation of poetry, folklore and a heavy dose of nostalgia adorned with Motown blues, acoustic folk, Celtic richness and topped off with the unique component that makes it special : a generous quanta of Knopfler’s soul that pervades throughout the album. He tells his story and he sings it to you. For you.

Jonathan Livingstone,the seagull says “ Heaven is not a place and it is not a time.Heaven is being perfect.” Mark Knopfler I believe is there. And with him,I feel, you might ‘get lucky’ and have a semblance of what heaven is, on earth.

Losing You

I've known you for long,
From the day I came along.
Since childhood years,
You've gifted me moments so dear.
And now that you're gone
All I have are the memories bygone.

Memories near.
Memories far.
Memories lost.
Memories found.
Memories to which,
I shall forever be bound.

‘And up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky’,
I know that's where you will live,
Though they tell me you've died.
And when I look for you in the infinite sky,
Just shine for me, please don’t say goodbye.

Gandhi,the Father(?)

The Mahatma had never been my Father of the Nation. I don't know whether there was a consensus regarding this title bestowed on him back in his times.However,even if there was,I don't see why popular consensus should be taken for granted over the ages when the poplulace changes!

I had always been somewhat apprehensive about accepting his greatness based on my History books and the discourses about him that I managed to chance upon here and there.It seemed rather biased and unconvincing to me.

I watched Attenborough's Gandhi recently.It gave me goosebumps and showed me I had been rather immature in my judgements all the while.Yes,I agree it is a 'Bio-pic' of sorts and Kinsley's amazing portrayal worked as an enhancer and it deals with the white more than the black,(pun intended).It did not make me idolize Gandhi,put him on a pedestal and accept his philosophy overnight.What it did was to stimulate a tremendous amount of interest and awe for the man who did manage to inspire a nation and it was not merely an inspiration towards independence,but I believe it was the heralding of a new consciousness.

I don't know whether all he did was right.I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't.He was no saint.He was a great political thinker.I think it's high time we stopped either worshipping him as God incarnate or direct scalding critical invective on the man.If we think it is outrageous to see the 'Naked Fakir' on a Mont Blanc pen that ironically marks the union of Mr.India and The Father of the Nation,we should stop making him the brand ambassador of Truth,in whatever distorted form that it is envisaged!He was a politician , a mighty good one too and stretching and re-defining the truth becomes almost mandatory in the process.His life was an experience with truth in the truest sense of the term but not an embodiment of it,in my opinion.Trying to present it as the latter I believe,would be undermining his own philosophy.


I do not question the greatness of this man any longer.I would be a fool to do so.But what I seek is the nature of the greatness that is accorded to him.I want to decide for myself,independent of all the jingoism and critical tirades associated with him,whether to accept or reject him as my Father of the Nation.However to me,he shall remain my Leader of the Nation!