tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-365241412024-03-14T11:06:53.074+05:30Maybe's a nice word...because possibility makes mornings more palatable.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-86736429603798399982020-05-01T03:17:00.000+05:302020-05-01T11:28:03.825+05:30The Namesake and Irrfan: Something Precious<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Irrfan Khan passed away two days ago. He had been battling the big C for a couple of years. I had studiously been avoiding all 'news' about his health: I wasn't even aware that I was avoiding it till just now. I had the luxury of packing it away and ignoring it; so I did. Till he died, and I went into a spiral of grief that took me by surprise. I had expected to be sad, but I felt ruined. I have taken the best part of the last two days to understand why the death of someone who I didn't know, who was very occasionally a part of my life, affected me like this. My mind landed on March 2007, and <i>The Namesake.</i><br />
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In March 2007, I was in the last semester of my post-graduate degree. My mother had succumbed to cancer six months earlier, after a long and bruising battle. My father had passed away in 2001; in the span of five years, my family was changed forever. Heartsore and weary, I was trying to get used to not being someone's child anymore. University was a refuge but I wasn't dealing with things very well. I started this blog, not realising that it was probably an attempt to cope. It helped, but there was so much turmoil within me that I was sinking in a mix of emotional avoidance and sheer fatigue.<br />
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I had read the beloved novel by Jhumpa Lahiri and enjoyed it; I wanted to watch the movie with a sort of idle curiosity. The day started off with a misadventure; my friend B and I went to the theatre and realised that we had missed the show we had booked for; we went back the same evening for another show.<br />
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Over the course of the next couple of hours, the story of Ashoke and Ashima wrapped itself around my heart. As two strangers got married, went to foreign shores, fell slowly and tenderly in love, became parents, brought up two kids who grew increasingly unfamiliar to them, and finally parted from each other, death slipped away from my mind and the life before it took its place. The quiet, unobtrusive Ashoke was so similar to my father; it was like watching, beat for beat, the person I had never really seen my father as. The love of a father like mine, not the waves that thundered on the surface but the constant, powerful undercurrent that kept you stable and floating, washed over me from the screen. The barely perceptible hurt, for all children must be thoughtless, brought back the times I must have been cruel, without receiving cruelty in return.<br />
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There is a scene in the film where Ashoke explains to his son the reason behind him being nicknamed Gogol; how it represented a moment where life changed, how the name was a way to acknowledge the gift of life. My friend and I bawled through it, without blinking. Losing a parent is a selfish kind of pain; you are mourning the loss of your comfort and refuge. This moment was when I truly understood the dimensions of what was lost, when I mourned the loss of the people my parents had been.<br />
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Today, I remember a person who helped me on the long road to recovery without ever meeting me. Over the years, I enjoyed a lot more of his work, his humour and generosity, but as life moved on, I forgot about that evening when about 70 strangers and I wept together at the shared losses that shape our lives. It's personal, the sudden lack of his existence in the world. My eternal gratitude to an artist who was as rare as he was magical, for sprinkling a bit of healing dust in my life when I needed it most. Go in peace, friend.<br />
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-17064016580079958042019-02-20T21:03:00.000+05:302019-02-20T21:06:32.166+05:30Where Have You Been?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">If you had told me, back in 2006 when I first started this blog, that I would have difficulty coming up with a single post for over a year, I would have considered you slightly alarmist and dimwitted. However, I have done stranger things in the last decade than neglecting this patch of words; although there are few things I regret more.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Writing is pain; it is also a pain. This, I must clarify, is not an excuse. As I grow older, I find myself more comfortable consuming content rather than creating it. I can spend days in a haze of YouTubing, Netflixing and Instagramming, looking at the world others create, using them as proof that I am not good enough to create realms of my own. It is easy to reinforce the notion of not being good enough if you start at an early age, as I did. If you combine this with an unhealthy love of procrastination, empty blogs are born and crumble away into dust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Today, however, write I must. The words I have suppressed have oppressed me in turn, weighed me down. They need space to breathe and to be, just as I do. I have been making so many excuses, the biggest one being that nobody cares; I am sure nobody visits this place anymore. There was once a community of people who left their thoughts behind here as well; no one does that anymore. What is the point of talking to myself over the Internet? Isn’t my mind enough for that?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A few days ago, however, I got an email from a reader, R. At first I thought it was an automated mail from Blogger or from a bot. It turns out, it’s a real person who took out the time to write me an email, telling me that I haven’t blogged since 2017 and that maybe I should again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thank you, R. You may not realise the scope of the kindness you have done. Thank you for reading, visiting and caring. Thanks for making me care again. I will try once more.</span></div>
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-39667941111195506532017-10-12T12:55:00.000+05:302017-10-12T12:55:09.162+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ten<br />
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I am trying to remember the first words we ever said to each other. I think you said, 'Are you waiting for someone?' I didn't realize it at the time, but to answer your question: yes, I was.<br />
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It began right here, where you were guided by a few fortuitous clicks and chose to leave a comment. I retraced those steps and saw your heart. That was all it really took to begin. Beginnings are always glorious and we were no exception: free of heart and full of drive to spend every possible moment together. When I look back to those times, I realize with great affection how young we were, how everything around us was illumined by the love we could not contain.<br />
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They say love wanes when the first rush of excitement dies down. I have never felt a waning. Love brews, simmers and thickens. It is burnished with every day that we live together, growing into our veins and minds, taking up space that we did not know we had. Where I earlier found wonder at something new about you, I now find a gush of familiar affection at your constancy. I find it incredible that we never tire of saying the words, even if they sometimes come with a roll of the eyes.<br />
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I am grateful for many things today: life, health, friends, family, a yearning to find more that never seems to die. Yet with you, there is a part of me that knows no more want. For that and for so much more, I am grateful for you, and I will always be.<br />
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We have lived together, laughed and cried together, planned together, travelled together and shared the greatest and smallest moments of our lives. You are my road and my journey; I hope this trip never ends.<br />
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Always in love and with love,<br />
S.</div>
heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-80273618498775785852016-09-08T11:29:00.001+05:302016-09-08T11:30:12.150+05:30Let's Catch Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ten years to the day that you left. I am still here. We are still here. Not the same, maybe not as you would have wished us to be. So much has happened without you. We have sellotaped our hearts together and soldiered on, as you would have wished. We have managed to avoid unemployment, notoriety, and whatever else you feared for us in those final days.<br />
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I dreamed of you two days ago. I always dream of you whenever I am at a crossroads in my life. So too this day, which was a nice touch from you, so close to the decade mark of saying goodbye. As always, I apologized for the many ways in which I had wronged you. As always, you said 'It's okay.' But this time I think I believed it, which is why the decade-old knot in my stomach seems a little less tight. Thanks for the gift, as always generous.<br />
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What's new with me? I am finally living the married life, four years after I got married. I have left my city, my people, my cats behind. I am disoriented in a million little ways and I think everyone knows. There is a growing realization of the limits of my life and my capabilities. It seems the world is not really waiting to fulfill my dreams. Am I in crisis? Not quite, simply because I am deeply loved by those who matter to me. Including you, as I have finally come to accept.<br />
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You would have liked him. He is funny and warm, the life of the party, a secret poet and a great lover of good food. He has made me love myself, which was really hard for me to do. I think he sees the good things you put in me much more than I see them myself. We finally have our own household, which is small and lovely, but not a patch on yours, of course.<br />
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For a long time I was scared I would forget you. That the contours of your face, the booming sound of your laugh and the scent of you, the scent of home, would fade in my mind. Thanks for showing me that as long as I live, you will live in me. I wish you peace and rest. Keep visiting: I fall asleep in hopes of meeting.<br />
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All my love,<br />
S.<br />
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-61479334925704863122014-12-18T11:13:00.001+05:302014-12-18T11:13:07.803+05:30Chemistry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He used to call her Scout. She felt important because of that. He had a way about him: quiet, self-assured and somehow magnetic. It flattered her that a guy, no, a man like him found her interesting. He was intelligent and instinctive enough to be devastatingly charming when he needed to be. His attentions warmed her, made her feel like The Only One. Scout, the Only One for Him.<br />
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Their meetings were electric, secrets that she hugged close to herself. Every touch ignited a spark; every breath was an affirmation of desires granted. They lit up every time they were around each other. So this was chemistry, she thought in wonder. Each loved the hint of challenge in the other, the fact that this was no straight and simple love story which would eventually become mundane.<br />
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He disappeared one day. Given his intelligence, he did a thorough job. She knows the futility, but can't stop looking for him every once in a while. His absence is a vacuum she carries within. She misses being on fire. She misses being Scout.<br />
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-25777844647045027782014-03-17T22:36:00.002+05:302014-03-17T22:36:47.075+05:30The mountains are where I am<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All my roads have led me here. This place where the gurgle of flowing water is a constant music. Where the wildflowers run riot in imaginative ways. The snow on the mountain peaks shines silver in the moonlight. Every breath of air you draw in your lungs is more than air, more than substance.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">This is a hamlet in the mountains. Picturesque does not come close to describing it. Every way you turn, a picture </span><span class="s2">awaits</span><span class="s2">. A family’s humble kitchen garden against a backdrop of wild fir, where bears are </span><span class="s2">rumoured</span><span class="s2"> to live. An undulating bridge over a blue-green river </span><span class="s2">rushing off to its destination. </span><span class="s2">Small roads with smaller paths leading away to mysterious places.</span><span class="s2"> Apple-cheeked children with diffident smiles running past you to </span><span class="s2">more pressing</span><span class="s2">appointments.</span><a href="" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
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<span class="s2" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And yet, beauty is a very small part of the magic that this place casts. There is a waiting, a knowing that one day, you will come here. An ancient acceptance of intertwined fates, of destinies that intersect after eons of unknowing waiting. The first time the mountains set their eyes on you, they remember. You may take a while to realize why your heart seems at peace, why there are faint memories that lurk behind every corner. It’s a moment you may not even recall later, but one that will change your life. The moment when you know, without any shred of doubt, that this is your place in the world. This is where you will be happy, where you can finally stop racing. Now all that is left to do is to come home.</span></div>
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-85618362240674522892014-02-23T20:53:00.000+05:302014-02-23T20:53:16.322+05:30Why Highway is probably the most personal film I will ever see<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Spoiler alert: if you haven't watched the film, you probably shouldn't read further. Duty done.<br />
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Let me start off by saying that I haven't been Imtiaz Ali's biggest fan. I really like his filmmaking style because it is innately gentle, and somehow....decent. But I really disliked <i>Love Aaj Kal</i>, and <i>Rockstar</i>'s casting choice felt dishonest to me. Initially I dismissed Highway because I'd heard that Alia Bhatt was the female lead, and the ridiculousness of her debut film led me to believe that another Rockstaresque debacle was on its way. It was only the songs that pulled me to the film inexplicably; I've been obsessing over them for the last 2 weeks. Some instinct told me to watch it alone.<br />
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On Saturday morning I caught a morning show of the film, trying to temper my excitement with a cynical detachment. The film drew me in from the first frame. Somewhere, something wonderful happened: the line between the characters onscreen and myself became completely blurred. I was no longer watching a story, I was <i>being</i> it. It was one of the most profound, moving experiences of my life.<br />
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First, a tight slap to all the film critics who talked about the moral dilemma of liking a film about Stockholm Syndrome. A film critic is supposed to be someone learned and discerning, someone who can look beyond the surface of a film and find its internal rhythm. Stockholm Syndrome is a lazy, superficial and misinformed reading of this film; a reduction of a beautiful story to a cliche using its most obvious elements. This film is not about a woman falling in love with her abductor. The abduction is peripheral, a narrative device to explain how two very, very unlikely people came together. Even if it were about the Stockholm Syndrome, why on earth would liking the film mean that you were glorifying kidnapping? That's like saying that fans of <i>Baazigar </i>go around pushing women off skyscrapers. Ridiculous.<br />
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What I saw onscreen was a story about two people forging a tender, tremulous connection; one that need not necessarily have been romantic love. It was about the feeling of being trapped by the life you know, about the need to break away from the structure you are afraid to live without. It was about acknowledging that some hurts never go away or get easier over time, because they are not meant to. It was travelling over an emotional landscape that was brutal and dry at one moment and raw and vulnerable the next. I saw two people becoming more than the summary of their characters, becoming what the other needed in order to let go of the most private, the most brutal pain. That may be love, but not the romantic love that made the critics uncomfortable. It was a love born out of wonder that someone, somewhere <i>knows</i>, even without knowing your story. Someone understands, and will still be there tomorrow.<br />
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I doubt if people who have never had anything really bad happen to them will understand what happened to me in that movie theatre. For the first time in a long time, I wept. The intimate knowledge of how it feels to lock down pain in the most secret part of you, the amazement of someone really seeing you for the first time, the ache of a lullaby that reminds that some aches always remain, the guilt you bear, illogically, for your own trauma, and the redemptive power of being truly loved: it was like watching the most tender parts of myself come to life. My most intimate emotional locks were washed away, I was left vulnerable after a lifetime, and I was thankful. <br />
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We all meet people who hurt us; a lucky few meet our healers. I know this personally because I married mine. An even luckier minority comes across a transformative artistic experience. I count myself blessed.<br />
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P.S.: I am almost always let down by the pettiness of people. There were a few who just couldn't stomach the idea that a billionaire's daughter could hug a truck driver: it made them laugh. They couldn't understand the emotional intimacy resulting from sharing one's deepest, most traumatic secret. Would it stop you?<br />
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-13645227554545269322013-05-08T13:32:00.001+05:302013-05-08T13:55:46.176+05:30Letters to love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She sat under the tree on the hill, took out the notebook and began to write. Another letter to him, about life since the last letter. Her hand flew over the paper, struggling to keep pace with her thoughts. She paused once, wondering whether he would really be interested in reading about the shade of yellow that she had painted her bedroom walls in, or the new herbs that she had planted in the kitchen window of her tiny cottage. No, he would want to know, the voice in her head assured.<br />
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She looked down at the small valley below the hill, taking in the small, colouful roofs and the winding roads. Tiny figures walked about, going to school or work, engaged in their lives completely unaware of her observant eye. We must look like that to God, she suddenly thought. Pleased with the thought, she proceeded to pen it down.<br />
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She wondered what he was doing right at that moment. He must be in his office, with his back to the huge window, shouting at some nameless minion who had displeased him. She remembered how, at the beginning, she had never heard him raise his voice. The beginning was a wonderful place. It was where they had explored these mountains together after meeting on a hiking trail by chance. It was where they had been enchanted by wildflowers, the crisp, fresh air, and each other. The idyll was perhaps even more beautiful in her memory now. She remembered his glib talent for weaving dreams, dreams of a future with a grand house by the sea, a life where there were no empty moments. It had seemed something worth leaving behind the peace of the mountains for. After all, he had already taken her heart with him to the city.<br />
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She had tried. At the job which killed a bit of her spirit every day. At making the small, airless house that they shared a home. At being alive, even a little bit. At first he hadn't noticed her struggling. He was always busy, his eyes and heart full of the city, its noises and rhythms. The crowds, the jostling, the daily struggle for survival only energized him. Unable to return his enthusiasm, she retreated into silence. The one-sided fights and remonstrations started, and became a matter of course. He could not understand her, her unhappiness with his growing success. He didn't remember the last time she had smiled. He was sure her malady could be diagnosed and cured. His inability to do so led to another round of guilt-fuelled fights.He was becoming someone else, someone she couldn't love.<br />
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So she came back to the mountains. To where she could breathe again. Where a house could be small but still filled with sweet sunshine. Where people didn't jostle because there was nowhere to rush off to. She had feared being lonely at first, which is why she started writing to him. She realized it was easier to talk to him, to love him this way. Where he was just a memory, full of youth and hope.<br />
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She finished her letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. She got up and removed the rock in front of the small hole in the mountain's face where the other letters were kept. A lot of letters, with all the love in her heart over the last decade. After placing the newest letter there, she sealed it again with the rock before going home.<br />
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The mountains would keep her secrets, and her heart.</div>
heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-1798083666558463612013-04-10T01:03:00.004+05:302013-04-10T01:03:51.233+05:30His True Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He stirs slowly in his sleep, his body fully relaxed and entwined with hers. With the foggy vision of dream-filled eyes, he looks at her for a long time. The love of his life, lying asleep in his arms. It doesn't get much better than that.<br />
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He remembers the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had instantly recognized the soft vulnerability behind her mask of disdain. She had seemed cowed, afraid of the world. Her pride kept her back stiff, but he sensed the hurt that lay beneath. In this world that worshipped fair skin, her dark, glowing beauty had made her a target of scorn. The eyes betrayed the bewilderment that had hardened into anger; they spoke of the heart that somehow still held on to its softness.<br />
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She had been ill then, he recalled. Everyday she would have to undergo a ritual of cleaning and meditation that left her none too pleased. She knew that he watched her while all this went on; perhaps his gaze made her indignity worse. Whatever the reason, for a long time she had responded to his frank, open gaze with nothing but disinterest tinged with a faint whiff of hostility.<br />
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He cannot pinpoint the moment when he had tumbled headlong into love with her. It wasn't important anyway. He knew that she was the one he was destined for. He did not question these things anymore. He knew she was far from perfect. She would never be bound by notions like fidelity because she hadn't journeyed enough to realize that sharing bodies was also a form of worship. She would never be a good mother for their offspring: she was too wound up in her own fears, and wasn't fear another form of vanity? He realized all her flaws, but they were just a part of the pattern that made her. He remembered, very dimly, once thinking that only perfection deserved love. He recalled, too, that perhaps, many lifetimes ago he had sacrificed love because the object of his affection had not proved worthy of the pedestal he had placed her on. Many lifetimes hence had cured him of these foolish human notions. He now knows that true love has no cause simply because it isn't an effect. He watches people around him still struggling with these notions. Most of them already know in their hearts whether they love or not. But in a world that prizes cleverness over honesty, most of them have forgotten how to listen to their hearts. Thank God, he shudders, thankfully at this stage of evolution he has left these things far behind.<br />
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He now remembers with amusement the slow, almost imperceptible thaw in her eyes over time, as she plucked up the courage to return his gaze. By then he had been sure of his feelings for her for a long time, but he knew she was still too timid, too fearful to reach out to him. And he wasn't about to wait another lifetime. So one day, when her attendants had left the door open in the midst of her daily healing ritual, he calmly walked up to her, gazed briefly into her startled, beautiful eyes, and started licking her thoroughly. He cleaned her gently, washing out the sickness, the sadness and the pain. He infused her skin, her being with his deep, unchanging love. Once she was clean, he pulled her to himself and settled her into his embrace. They fell asleep together, the first time in many times to come. When he awoke to see the light in her eyes, he knew that they had found their happily ever after.<br />
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She's still sleeping. Their children are curled up nearby. He licks his paws clean, breathes in a sigh of complete contentment, and goes back to sleep.<br />
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<i>Note: Thanks to Elbee for the inspiring plot, and for the real-life protagonists, D and K.</i><br />
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heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-1736605445847042322012-12-29T15:01:00.000+05:302012-12-29T15:01:38.476+05:30I Will Protect Myself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Being a woman in India is a compromise, a compromise that we accept at birth. We are taught lessons of acceptance, of shame, of fear. We are taught to keep our heads and voices down, never to 'provoke', either with words or actions. We are taught that all men have vicious animals dormant in them, and yet that they are better than us.<br />
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We perpetrate these notions in our sisters, friends and daughters. We demean other women by saying things like 'She looks like a slut' or 'Those shoes make her look like a hooker'. We teach our sons to disrespect women by saying 'Don't cry like a girl'. No wonder they think we're weak, that we will take anything they give us. We judge a woman's right to protest against assault by asking whether she was dressed appropriately, whether she was out late, whether she was drunk, whether she was the partying type. Those who refuse to live by our rules are asking to be brutalized. Even those who play by the rules are asking for it simply by being women.<br />
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Our political class knows us too well. They know that the best way to shut up a rape victim is to imply that she is a prostitute. They know that most of us do not believe that a prostitute too has a right to deny consent for sex, that she too can be raped. They know that our anger will abate the moment we leave the protest venue and go back to earning a living.<br />
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I have no faith in this government or any other because it is made up of men and women just like us. A government which is powerless even to make sure that auto drivers do not refuse female passengers hardly inspires confidence. A political class which passes resolutions to increase its pay with supreme efficiency cannot come to an agreement that women deserve to feel safe. I know that most of those six rapists will probably be hanged, because it's easy. Because none of them belong to well-connected families with political clout. I know that ultimately I'm the only one who cares about my safety. But I will do what I can to make things better.<br />
<br />
I will not shame any woman for her clothes or her habits. Nothing gives me the right to do that.<br />
<br />
I will learn to defend myself as far as possible.<br />
<br />
I will learn to rely on myself as much as possible.<br />
<br />
I will never do anything to put another woman in danger.<br />
<br />
I will not teach my son that he is better than women.<br />
<br />
I will not teach my daughter that she is less than a man.<br />
<br />
I will not keep my voice down.<br />
<br />
I will not be ashamed to be a woman.<br />
<br />
To the girl who faced worse cruelty than anyone deserves, I'm sorry we all failed you.</div>
heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-31735551893808947012012-09-04T14:46:00.001+05:302012-09-04T14:46:12.187+05:30Dear All, Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Love is bandied around too much. The word, stupid. You don’t need to love to say the words. But I did. You remember that schmaltzy song, the one which said ‘Love was when I loved you’? I did love you, enough to know that you needed me. Even when you kept lying to my face.<br />
<br />
Stop crying now. Don’t be a whiner. She’s gone, she won’t come back. Your tears are no magic elixir of life. I sent her away for good this time. I’m always the one doing the hard things to keep us together. But it’s nice that you need me that way.<br />
<br />
No, you only thought that you loved her. How could you, when your heart was so full of me? I just had to make you see it. She kept getting in the way. Tenacious, I’ll give her that. Made me almost regret what I had to do to her. But then, I had to get you.<br />
<br />
What d’you mean by that? Of course this is love. Yes, it’s vengeance too. What makes you think the two are different? Vengeance is just love gone bad. You know how love feels when it changes? Like a light inside you that suddenly turns into an inferno. You’re always burning, keeping it from the world, but smouldering inside. Your heart turns black, but the love/vengeance keeps it alive till it consumes everything around. The weak ones let it destroy them. But you know how strong I’ve always been.<br />
<br />
Yes I know you tried telling me that you didn’t feel the same way. At first I believed you. I actually felt my heart break. Spent a few days crying, thinking nothing was going to be the same. But then I realized that it wasn’t true, couldn’t be true. And the world righted itself again. Now look what I’ve done to you. I’ve turned you into what I was for those few days for which there is no forgiveness. Your tears, I’m actually enjoying them.<br />
<br />
Let go of her hand, it’s cold already. Let’s sit here and enjoy the view. It’s the least you can do for me, after all I did for you. But then, my darling, you were totally worth it.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-56259925839454813792012-06-17T02:02:00.001+05:302012-06-17T02:02:27.825+05:30Making memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I want to remember this time. Maybe words won't be enough, but they can try. I want to remember the endless whirlpool of nerves in my stomach at the thought of getting married. I want to recall the details of the trip to Benaras for the perfect saree. I want to remember serious jewellery decision-making via Skype. I want to hold in my mind the perfection of the moment when I wore the lighter-than-air green lehnga in a small Chandni Chowk fantasy shop.<br />
<br />
There were the days we spent checking bed linen in every hotel in Shillong. The hurried decision over which colour suits whom in the extended family, while sipping cups of tea in a shop from a hundred years ago in Benaras. The moment when the sparkle in the 150th pair of shoes I was trying on suddenly seemed to work. The living room debate over curries and cakes. Every moment, every detail, every little thing was driven by one desire: to make sure that nothing was less than it could have been. No regrets.<br />
<br />
Maybe you don't get everything you thought you would. Maybe you don't need to. But you can make a lot many dreams come true with a little bit of time, a little bit of love and a lot of good people. For those who would've been very important in this whole affair in another lifetime, but can now do no more than look on from above, all I want to say is this. The very best you could do, you have done through my hands. It's time, for you and me both, to be happy now.</div>heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-37877296311606819012011-03-21T13:22:00.000+05:302011-03-21T13:22:17.990+05:30Spring AgainI love this time of the year because the air feels like silk over your skin. The wind still retains a little bite, and the nights are perfect for long-winded stories and remembrances of a softer time. This year feels better, because there's a backyard to experiment with, plants to water everyday and birds to chase away. <br />
<br />
I remember my mother being good with plants. Putting down new roots, adding here, pruning there. Organic fertilizer, and lots of love. Chrysanthemums and snowballs, forget-me-nots and dahlias, gladioli and daisies. Homegrown tomatoes and mint leaves, flat beans from the terrace garden. Fragrance in spring; sharp and piquant, mellow and soothing. Bursts of colour amidst seas of green, celebrating life in the only way that mattered.<br />
<br />
Life turned brown for so long in between that I stopped looking for spring. The seasons mattered only in as much as whether to complain about the heat or cover up against the cold. There was no space to plant a bit of me, and no will to either. And then, in the year where everything else seemed to be going wrong, spring showed up. I have a backyard, with a lemon tree, a papaya tree and a pomegranate tree. There are plants which are beginning to sprout the first flowers of the year. The guava tree is loaded with beautiful young leaves, a mixture of dew green and red. The front yard is filled with potted plants, all crowned with the most beautiful blooms. My fingers are itching to get some mud on them.<br />
<br />
In so many ways, professionally, this is the worst year I've had. Looking for the ideal job is always less interesting than it sounds. And the only people who know your awesome work ethic are those you already know. And yet, I can't seem to get too worried about it just yet. Someone will hire me to do something I love, someday soon. Till then, the world is green again, and that will do.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-66928894698155475592011-02-09T22:41:00.001+05:302011-02-09T22:43:08.655+05:30A Love Unlike Others - IIAround Seema, people bustled, busy with the million details that made weddings such a complicated affair. Her mind, however, was at another, very different wedding: one that belonged to another time and another person.<br />
<br />
Zoe's wedding was far from the lavish extravaganza that Seema had always pictured for her friend. Zoe's gloomy prognosis about Rajiv's parents had been correct. For a month after the marriage was registered, they staunchly refused to believe that their son could have taken up with 'such a girl'. It was only the prospect of social humiliation that had prodded them into organizing the world's unhappiest wedding reception for their only child and his wife. Even now, they stood on the sidelines with fixed smiles and hard, flinty eyes that watched as their daughter-in-law effortlessly charmed their extended family and legions of friends.<br />
<br />
Seema barely knew how she had managed to get through the last month. With a resolve she barely knew existed, she had called her mother and agreed to consider the colourful brochures her mother had collected, each promising more and more idyllic visions of an education overseas, far away from the pain that kept her awake at night. She had no illusions: this was an escape, a retreat and nothing more. She packed her bags, refusing to give her hostel room the honour of lingering in its memories. The month that she spent at home, she was careful to mask any sign of unhappiness from her mother. The constant strain of watching every word she spoke took its toll. She spent the first twenty hours after her arrival in the US in a deep, dreamless sleep.<br />
<br />
But maybe she was built with sterner stuff than she gave herself credit for. She did get out of bed, eventually. She refused campus accommodation and found herself a tiny apartment that was utilitarian enough to discourage any attachment. She enrolled for as many classes as would fill up the day. She barely spoke to anyone. The recluse in her was familiar, safe, a protective blanket that kept her going. Till one day, she looked up from a book she was reading on her bus, and lost her heart to Boston.<br />
<br />
It was fall, and the sky was just crisp enough, the colours of the leaves on the trees sharp enough for her to draw her breath with pleasure. She spent hours just walking up and down the streets, looking at the houses with the beautiful shrubs, feeling each crunch of every leaf under her foot, savouring the crisp autumn air as if she were breathing again after a long time. She was helpless against the smile that curved her lips upwards. She didn't even realize she was grinning till she noticed a few people smiling back at her.<br />
<br />
She went back home, drew the curtains till all light was vanquished, and got back into bed.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-48656103353185705712011-01-13T16:58:00.000+05:302011-01-13T16:58:10.203+05:30A Love Unlike OthersShe was meeting Zoe tomorrow.<br />
<br />
It seemed like they had known each other forever. But she still remembered, with crystal clarity, the day they had first met. She'd been nervous, too nervous to see the exciting side of attending college in a new city. The shyness that had seemed to recede in the last few years of school was back, pressing down on her with renewed force. Her mother had dropped her at the hostel in the morning, trusting her newly turned eighteen daughter to make her own way. She'd been in her room for five hours, putting away her things, arranging her books with extra care. Unable, so far, to pluck up courage to go and talk to any of the other girls. Suddenly, the door had banged open, and in walked a girl with a smile as bright as the sun. Zoe.<br />
<br />
She'd been the reluctant friend, at first. But one couldn't resist Zoe's charm for very long. The three years of college were when she'd truly lived, for the very first time. Zoe had blackmailed her into wearing kohl, letting her hair down once in a while, actually wearing the shocking pink jacket her mother had forced on her. They'd called each other Kamla and Bimla, secret names that made their friendship more vital somehow. Bunking classes to discover newer varieties of <i>chaat</i>, sharing the first tentative sip of alcohol on a Friday afternoon in a deserted pub, filling their brains with reams of abstruse information before the examinations... every moment had had its own thrill. Zoe had been a serial dater, stringing along an ever increasing line of boys who seemed to hang on to her every word. She'd never really been one for dating, even though Zoe had coaxed her into a fair few. Zoe's love life, though, had never flagged for an instant. The wining and dining with the endless admirers was a regularly Friday night feature.<br />
<br />
It was one such date that had changed everything. On her return, Zoe had been unusually quiet; her eyes filled with a strange new light. For the first time, she'd felt somehow excluded from a secret, somehow distant from Zoe. Soon, Rajiv became the first boy to ever get a third date. She'd been vaguely annoyed at the time, and unable to explain her mood swings. It hadn't mattered; Zoe hadn't cared, or even noticed.<br />
<br />
A month later, on one frenetic pre-exam evening, Zoe had turned to her with a sombre look on her face. <br />
<br />
"He asked me today. I knew it was coming, but I still wasn't prepared. I couldn't have been prepared for this kind of happiness, could I? We're going ahead with it, sweets.I wasn't supposed to tell, but I couldn't hold it in anymore."<br />
<br />
"Going ahead with what?" she'd asked, half willing the answer to never come. <br />
<br />
"We're getting married. His family won't approve, so we're having a civil ceremony before we tell them. Bimla, I'm getting married tomorrow! I'm so dizzy, I can barely breathe! Can you believe it?"<br />
<br />
<i>But I love you...</i><br />
<br />
Her eyes widened as the unspoken realization sank in. She masked it with a huge smile, hugging Zoe tight, whispering her congratulations. Zoe drew back, looking at her with a half smile and a strange look in her eyes. Her breath caught in her chest. She recognized pity well enough. <br />
<br />
Zoe knew.<br />
<br />
<i>(To be continued)</i>heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-58811433515066641162011-01-09T05:00:00.000+05:302011-01-09T05:00:33.298+05:30Night VisionThings have a way of getting tangled up.<br />
<br />
The rain pours outside, relentless like the thoughts in her head. The man beside her sleeps on, dreaming of God only knows what men dream of. Race cars? Supermodels? Her fingers have long since stopped seeking his out for comfort. They seek out a cigarette instead; the gesture now so practiced it barely registers anymore. The smell of the rain mingles with the tobacco scent of a thousand nights like this one. The mingled odours rise up and settle onto her chest, pressing until she can barely breathe anymore. The bed isn't hers; she rises to escape its throttling embrace.<br />
<br />
The window seems less dangerous. Leaning out, she looks at the plants by the windowsill. His wife is a herb lover, she remembers. In the early, heady days of their acquaintance, she remembers laughing at him telling her that the missus's green thumb cultivated everything except weed. Now she leans and smells thyme, basil and mint. Well grown, well loved plants, tended with the care that escaped the marriage within the walls. <br />
<br />
But then, how can she judge anymore? He's been lying to her for years now, inuring her to a life of secret meetings and covert hook ups. She may even have begun preferring it that way. God knows she couldn't be the wife, satisfied with herbs alone. She's been meaning to break it off for a long time, but habit has proved more persevering than she accounted for.<br />
<br />
How does one end up as the Other Woman? Is she predisposed towards it? Is there a separate school or university for virtuous, herb growing wives? There's been nothing out of the ordinary about her life, so why did she end up taking this fork in the road? She looks at the sleeping man, the man who somehow got her to accept sordid as exciting; who managed to erode what was inside her till she was okay with <i>this</i>. <br />
<br />
He's vain, a peacock looking for validation, from yes men and yes-to-anything women. His vanity is even more extraordinary given how meagre he is. Suddenly, it's impossible to stay used to this any longer. <br />
<br />
She goes to the dresser and opens a drawer. The scissors are exactly what she needs. She goes over to his sleeping form and gently begins what she should've done years ago. It takes a while because she wants him to stay asleep; a scene isn't something she can endure right now. <br />
<br />
When daylight breaks, the room is empty save for the gently rumbling snores of a man lying on the rumpled bed. All around his head lie bunches of hair, snipped without grace or mercy. The herbs on the windowsill look freshly watered.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-78102658515196333122010-12-29T14:41:00.000+05:302010-12-29T14:41:23.929+05:30AgainSometimes, it's the unasked questions that rankle unexpectedly. The other day, I decided to restart a knitting project I had, in my usual way, abandoned seven years ago. But my fingers no longer remembered the pattern. I'd almost picked up the phone to call and ask before I realized that it was no longer an option. Over the last nine years, there have been so many things to ask, so many conversations to have, which will never be.<br />
<br />
What was that pesky knitting pattern? How do you make your patented dry fish curry? Do you really like him, or are you just saying so 'cause I do? How do both the ends of your Mughlai paratha join so seamlessly? Can you believe I have to wear sarees to work now? Can I just drop everything and come home?<br />
<br />
Most days, I'm at peace with life, mostly because I've never expected it to be fair. But the unguarded moment seems to always be around the corner, waiting to undo me again. But you did a good job of teaching how to pick up the pieces, every time.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-33665327528778647192010-10-01T23:24:00.000+05:302010-10-01T23:24:36.104+05:30RestartSo, finally, I have something to do that I actually want to do. I've just been asked to join a collective of freelance copy editors. I have a feeling that this is probably the first time in my professional life that I will actually enjoy what I do. The last two months of submitting my CV online have just reinforced the fact that nobody gets hired by applying online. And in the process, somewhere I began to question myself, as to whether this decision to wait for the right job in the right location was going to be a great debacle. At this moment, I'm just grateful I had the courage to walk away from the comfortable. And I haven't found the perfect job yet, but I'm certain that the lords of language won't leave my great love unrequited.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's a good thing that I was so terrible at math. Or that my drawings looked like dullness itself. Maybe it is wonderful to only be good at one thing; juggling words around till they please you. Atleast when you find where your soul needs to be, there won't be other tempting paths to confuse you. <br />
<br />
So it begins.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-60372903984692672362010-08-31T06:01:00.001+05:302010-08-31T06:06:19.590+05:30My Own Lady GagaSo now I apparently only write birthday posts. <br />
<br />
Anyhoo, all my life, I've always aspired to be noticeable. Not conspicuous, but noticeable. Someone who walks into a room knowing that she belongs at the centre, right under the crystal chandelier, not unobtrusively edging near the curtains in the corner. I think the word I'm looking for is flair. So at the end of my second year in college I became friends with a person who seemed to have been endowed with the elusive F-word. <br />
<br />
Quirky, colourful, loud and sensitive. PS is usually all these things at once (her version of multitasking, I guess). She is also immensely helpful, gloriously uninhibited, and supremely talented at getting shy people to try on shocking lingerie at departmental stores. Going to shampoo workshops in Japan, getting a tattoo around another tattoo, shopping outrageously and jumping from heights in killer high heels are all in a day's work for her. <br />
<br />
But somehow, through all these years, from the time we started talking while rehearsing a Chekov play to today, I've always felt that within PS's head, there are pockets where not many are allowed. The parts of her that few people see, getting lauki juice for a friend's sick mom or realizing that outrageous Bollywood gossip is sometimes the best way to cheer someone up without giving the appearance of trying too hard.She sort of combines the advantages of being a wallflower (escaping scrutiny) and the absolute heart stopping thrill of living your life as the belle of the ball. So PS, you lucky @#@#$#@, you've been blessed with moonshine. Not sunshine, unvaried and ordinary, but moonshine, bright and reserved, electric and subdued, all at once. <br />
<br />
I'm glad for your generous heart that is as open as your laughter. I love the fact that you bring fashion and colour into our drab, drab lives. I'm sick of the fact that I cannot still think of you with short hair, so grow it back at once! I love going through your bag because it's like Toiletry Disneyland. And I'm very proud at how beautifully you embrace every part of yourself.<br />
<br />
Happy twenty six, Ranevsky. Be fabulous.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-57784807004081660702010-08-27T09:43:00.001+05:302010-08-27T20:36:23.530+05:30All I Can DoAs it turns out, I can't stand unemployment for too long. It makes me feel dissipated, like I'm becoming invisible and conversely growing fatter at the same time. I know one's self esteem shouldn't be tied to a paycheque, but there are so many other things tied to it. Things to eat, things to buy, things to see. If I had a vegetable garden and I were any good at gardening, maybe I wouldn't be so bored. As it is, my only project is compiling family recipes and feeling sorry for myself and my poverty. <br />
<br />
After getting half my soul sucked to hell in advertising, I figured that I'd give the publishing industry a try. God knows that I can't love grammar and punctuation enough. God, and the many people over the years whom I've offended by correcting them (and I'm not sorry, never will be). And I do love to write. Just as long as making it a profession doesn't turn it into drudgery as well. The publishing industry is unbelievably insular though. No ads, no links, nothing unless you're the editor's niece or secret college hook-up. But I will keep at it nonetheless.<br />
<br />
After all, I haven't much else to do. Till I become a gardener.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-86749095811179526422010-05-07T16:22:00.002+05:302010-05-07T17:01:07.309+05:30Why I Believe In MagicIn early 2002, I was flipping through a magazine when I came across an article on the changing face of children's literature. The piece was mostly a gushing account of how the Harry Potter series had brought in enormous profits, and therefore, renewed interest in a hitherto 'niche' genre. I had heard of Harry Potter, of course, as I wasn't living under a rock. But I didn't bother to read one of the books because my snob of a mind had already classified it unworthy. My younger sister wasn't so circumspect. In the summer of the following year, I read the first Harry Potter book that she had borrowed from a friend, while I was home on vacation.<br />
<br />
Within five minutes of reading, I was hooked. And the fact that there were more waiting to be read was like a constant, unwelcome itch on the most inaccessible part of the back that I just couldn't wait to scratch. But these were my college years, and 'shoestring' was too grand a term for my finances. Spending four hundred bucks on a book wasn't just indulgent, it was impossible. So I yearned and waited and longed. Till suddenly I remembered <a href="http://thefoolsnewblog.blogspot.com">the girl in my class</a> who had a reputation for having charmed the gnarled old librarian into an easy friendship in our first year itself. She was a quiet girl who seemed to be joined at the hip with another girl who reminded me vaguely of an industrious sparrow. Quiet Girl was always looking at people intently for short periods of time with a patient half smile on her face. All the professors loved her and she knew all the answers, even though she never seemed to seek out the Dork Limelight. And it was rumoured that she Had All The Books. Ever. <br />
<br />
So I decided to ask her for the second Harry Potter book. It was a big step for me; I was still as inhibited and self conscious as a timid dormouse. And I had my small town complex - my two friends in college both came from Shillong and Delhi women intimidated me effortlessly. But then, Quiet Girl always smiled. So I asked her, and she said sure, she'd get me the book. And she got me that one, and the third one, and zillions of other ones (the rumours were true). She gifted me the Lord Of The Rings series, and introduced me to Samit Basu's work, and showed me a new world of fiction where misfits like myself seemed to rule the roost. She also bought me breakfast everyday (a chocolate brownie and masala tea) and gave me new pride in my handwriting. When another girl in class asked me for my copy of the fifth Harry Potter book, our triumvirate was complete. <br />
<br />
The two years we spent in college sharing food, books and laughs are still easy to conjure up, and heartbreakingly difficult to relive. Quiet Girl is still busy patiently taking care of those she loves in a million ways. She's still ready to listen to any rubbish you want to spew or to comfort you when you cry about a stolen wallet. She will still bake you a cake when you have a cold, and get you macaroni and cheese because it feels like that kind of Tuesday.<br />
<br />
And that's why I believe in magic; because a story about a wizard boy led me to two of the most wonderful women and the most prized friends I've ever had. On Quiet Girl's birthday, I wish that she finds all the love and care she has spread so freely returned a thousandfold. I hope that this year, she can find some time to discover why we all love her so, and that it brightens the patient half smile into something more radiant. <br />
<br />
Quiet Girl, you are one of kind. Happy Birthday, and I love you.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-1996743209108177732010-04-26T14:44:00.000+05:302010-04-26T14:44:08.401+05:30I Watched An Emu PoopOn the old Mumbai-Pune road, in an establishment called Toni Daa Dhaba (as spelled by Toni). Apart from its culinary delights, the place also houses several bewildered guinea fowls and emus that you can choose to eat, if you be of a gruesome nature. One of the birds was obviously a poet who recognized a kindred soul and marked the moment with defecation.<br />
<br />
In between talking about bird droppings and kindred souls, I do have something to say. For the last three years, I've been a working girl. Well, sort of. I've felt supremely useless and smugly superior, sometimes at the same time. I've bitched and whined and complained while cultivating and air of productivity to cover up my deep desire to do nothing. Most of the time, it worked. It worked so well, in fact, that it started to make me sick. <br />
<br />
So I quit. Because life can't be a trapeze act between one job and another. And sometimes it pays to just jump. Sometimes the bird just has to poop. I'm spending June and July on a detox diet, where I hope to forever be rid of jargon like creative strategy and brand visibility and so forth, things that mean very little in the larger scheme of things. And now I'm going to create the larger scheme of things. Like a wise woman in a movie once said, "You have to be the leading lady of your own life."<br />
<br />
I'm taking my life back.<br />
<br />
P.S.: How offensive is the Tanishq wedding jewellery ad? Throw some diamonds at your recalcitrant daughter and watch how fast she sprints down the aisle? And would you believe that this weekend, the Times carried a feature about Indian women being essentially dour and humourless. Evidence? Sonia Gandhi doesn't smile and neither does Mayawati. I mean, I know the Times is a cesspool of endless crap, but this was truly a new nadir even for them.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-63551989450732098962010-03-22T17:33:00.001+05:302010-03-22T18:04:26.411+05:30Old LoveWhy do I love Delhi? A is still unable to fathom the depths of my infatuation. He truly believes that Mumbai is the city of dreams. But only a certain kind of dream can take root in the grit of the city that smells of fish. We have a very uneasy relationship, Mumbai and I. I don't like her; she senses it and reciprocates. We have history of the bad kind. The future doesn't hold much promise of reconciliation.<br />
<br />
I try to explain it to A. I tell him that I love Delhi because our souls are similar, and entwined. We are old, and reserved, and open and gaudy. I read a book which says that you can't help giving, or withholding, your heart. Mine was given without restraint or struggle, to a city with forts and bungalows and <i>aloo tikki</i> on the streets and cheating auto drivers and some horrifically dumb people, mostly boys.<br />
<br />
Summer days where all you can do is use your breaths to bridge the gap from one moment to another. Autumn laced with the acrid smell of the ten thousand rupee endless firecracker that your neighbour uses on Diwali to show he's arrived. Winter arriving with a blaze of fiery carnations that take your chilled breath away. The Tibetan lady in Lajpat Nagar whose momos never hit a false note. The lime soda guy in North Campus whose crooked smile is still summoned up in an instant by your mind. The sublime finesse of LSR Cafe's very own stuffed <i>parantha</i> and <i>boondi raita</i>. The feel of 100% cotton in your quintessentially Delhi garb, heavy on the <i>kajal</i> please. The friend whose mom makes the best rajma ever, and the one who taught you that Ctrl X equals Cut. Girlhood. Womanhood. Heartbreak and elation, never the same twice. <br />
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It's the one thing that still has the power to make my hands fly over the keyboard with impassioned, fevered words, even while writing rubbish for a living has choked whatever writer was left in me. That is why I love her still.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-63565747126310615902010-02-25T21:56:00.000+05:302010-02-25T21:56:50.362+05:30Pop Culture and IWe spend a lot of time in each other's company, so a few thoughts get formed and stick around till I have to blog about them.<br />
1. Hariharan is white wine, Rekha Bhardwaj is red.<br />
2. How Gulzar knows exactly what to say to make the whirling in my head stop is beyond me. I mean, the man just <i>gets it</i>, everytime.<br />
3. I love how A.R. Rahman brings reality to celebrity. He knows he's good, but he isn't eaten up by it. Maybe everytime his fame threatens to swell his head, he remembers how bad he is at changing lightbulbs or something. AND the guy told Hollywood's greatest that <i>uske paas ma hai</i>.<br />
4. I don't know of any woman who thinks that hair gelled to look like a honeycomb is sexy.<br />
5. Phenomena I fail to understand include Katrina Kaif and Himesh Reshammiya, apart from economics and the Bermuda Triangle.<br />
6. Dev Anand's raven black hair actually suits him. I don't know how he pulls it off, but he does. Innate awesomeness, I suppose.<br />
7. Bones is hilarious. I've never laughed so much while watching a murder centric series.<br />
8. 'Dil sa koi kameena nahi' is now my mantra to explain every fickle turn that my mind takes. Thank you, Bollywood, for hitting the nail on the head.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36524141.post-17162519861278072632010-01-29T02:40:00.000+05:302010-01-29T02:40:41.371+05:30Two a.m.Long time. The drought has been particularly severe this time. But apparently being sick as a dog makes me want to blog again. Thank you, dust allergy.<br />
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You know how they say that if your wife asks you if she's looking fat, always say 'No'? It's always portrayed like a way to stop the wrath of the female from descending on you. But my problem is, don't the men understand why she needs to hear that 'No' from them? Look, she has a mirror. She is probably so critical of herself that it took her a tremendous amount of gumption to buy that slinky dress while the snooty salespeople made her feel frumpy. And if even a single microparticle of excess weight shows, she probably won't wear the dress outside the bedroom. People who love themselves enough to do so are pretty rare. Why does she need you to say 'No' then? Maybe it's because she wants to feel that you're the one person who can never find her fat. Maybe she wants to feel the way she did when you first started looking at her in that special 'you're the one I want to cook my meals and do my laundry forever' way. She's asking you to see her through the eyes of love. Just say 'No'. Just to give her a momentary happy thrill. She'll probably look at the mirror again and change to something else anyway. So step up and lie, not because you're scared of her, but because the woman you love could probably be spared the extra fretting should you happen to say 'Yes'. She may just love you more because she knows you'll always lie to her for her. She's probably not too thrilled about your midlife crisis inspired Backstreet's Back T-shirt, but she's not telling, is she?<br />
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Do not say, "I wouldn't really say 'fat', honey. Maybe a little umm... er... snug?'<br />
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On other topics, has anyone ever seen a Charagh Din ad that did not suck? I think that is advertising's last undiscovered world.<br />
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After watching 'Three Idiots' I wondered why Chetan Bhagat even wants the credit. I mean, a baby coming to life because Aamir Khan's tagline is actually the secret Freemason hymn that invokes life itself? Really?<br />
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As an Indian, I am outraged at 'Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara'. Isn't it ironic that on Republic Day, we get to see the most shameless self congratulatory eulogy to dynasty? Dis-gus-ting, and sixteen minutes long, to boot. <br />
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If they ever try 'modernizing' 'Ek Chidiya, Anek Chidiya', I'm going to get violent.heh? okhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07311186089739264170noreply@blogger.com11