phenomenon

Malayalam Cinema

2011-08-19T09:27:00.040+05:30

Someone just told me that Johnson died yesterday.

On a different day, I would've probably spent a few minutes mourning for his loss, called an old friend and reminisced about watching movies like Namukku Parkkan Munthiri Thoppukal and Njan Gandharvan on the VCR on rainy or just plain lazy Sunday afternoons, and left it at that. I would've probably looked up some of my all-time favorite songs on YouTube and listened to it on 'Repeat' mode. But unfortunately, I'm in a time zone where it's morning when most of my friends are either sleeping, or caught in rush hour. I'm also in a country that blocks every single website that plays a big role in my daily existence. So I've decided to write.

Those of you who are familiar with Malayalam cinema, will know that the best movies in it's history were made in the late 80's or early 90's. Almost all the movies in that period belonged to it's own cult and transformed the life of the average Malayalee. Padmarajan, the genius that he was, and Mohanlal, easily the best actor that has ever existed, together made the greatest movies with simple, straightforward story lines that the common man could relate to. The gems that were made by Srinivasan are definitely worthy of equal mention. We also had a whole community of brilliant actors who brought these stories to life. Nedumudi Venu and Oduvil Unnikrishnan. Shobhana, Parvathy, K.P.A.C Lalitha and Sukumari. The forever-maternal Kaviyoor Ponnamma. The best thing is that some of these actors played supporting roles for decades, but there was no such thing as a small role. It was always about the kind of character you play. Depending on how well you play it, it's etched in the minds of millions of people across the world. Almost every Malayalee remembers Kuthiravattom Pappu's character in Manichitrathazhu, where he had about 10 minutes on screen, but the way he played the seemingly regular character of a man who lost his sanity, was so different and hilarious, that people still remember the character and crack up to the dialogues.

Aaram Thamburan, Sarvakalashala, Vietnam Colony, Kalapani, His Highness Abdullah, No. 20 Madras Mail, Thalayana Manthram, Odaruthammava Aalariyum, Kakkothikavile Appuppanthadikal, Thingalazhcha Nalla Divasam. Sigh. There are way too many movies, each distinctly different from the other, and ones that you can never get tired of watching over and over again. Movies way ahead of their time, movies that would make you think, ones that would surprise you or even make you uncomfortable, movies that would make you laugh uncontrollably and ones that get you emotional. When Akashadooth was released, it was rumored that theater corridors were packed with handkerchief vendors! Some of the lines from Ramjirao Speaking are so funny, that just talking about the scene would have you laughing hard until your sides ached. Moonam Pakkam was a late discovery for me. So was Sandesham. I watched it only a few years back, and they are both easily two of my all time favorites. Talking about all the great movies and the moviemakers of this period would require a different post. Maybe a series of posts. But that's for later.

Watching movies at home was always a grand event. The weekend guarantees that most people are at home, and if you lived in a joint family like mine, it's a lot of people! It's a widely known and accepted fact that if you don't watch the movie when everyone else in the house is watching it, thinking that it's on VCD and you can always watch it later, it's never going to happen. There will always be something or the other to do, and what with daily rent on VCDs being 7 rupees and a late fee of 2 rupees a day being charged, you'll never get a chance to keep it for a while longer. Besides, the majority always decided these things. Renting the same movie again is almost impossible, unless of course it's a popular favorite, because these decisions are often made by whoever has enough money to pay the rental fee. Anyway, in those days, movies weren't mass-produced and bad ones were hard to come by. So, it was just a matter of time until the group/family agreed on what you wanted to watch.

Once the VCD is rented on Saturday evening, it's announced that everyone will watch the movie in the night. But then, there will be 7 O' clock news and other chores, and inevitably we'll end up watching it on Sunday afternoon, when most of the housework is done, and the few elders who are not interested in movies, are indulging in their precious afternoon slumber. One of the kids would insert the cassette into the player, fast forward through the Vanamala detergent or the more popular Vicco Vajrathanthi ad, sometimes even the title song (depending on how relevant or irrelevant it is) and would wait for everyone to come and take their places on the sofa/floor/windowsill/someone’s lap so we could start watching the movie. The person in charge of the remote, a relatively new device in the household, would hold it high (it may not work if not directly pointed at the sensor on the VCP/VCR) and threaten of hitting the 'Play' button if everyone didn't show up soon. A good 30 minutes later, we settle down to watch the movie.

Very similar to the lives of people on screen, our perfect evening too, would be interrupted by random things like a neighbor’s visit or crying infant or frequent nature calls. Then there would be a couple of irritating 16 year olds, who’d insist on watching the romantic number again. Gosh. But we always enjoyed watching movies in this fashion. There may have been an occasional fight that got serious, but mostly we would adjust to the dynamics of the group and watch the movie.

Soon after the movie was over, everyone in the house would linger around the kitchen, sipping tea or coffee and talking about the movie at length. People of different ages and genders would talk about their perspective and sometimes we'd all just sit together in silence, baffled by how profound the characters were, and yet how simple the story was. Slowly, the weight of Monday would settle in and the group would disperse, and the youngsters would just gather around in the hall or verandah to talk about the romantic/horror/violent scenes – the three things that were of utmost interest to most of us those days. The teenagers in the group who had the money to buy or record English audiocassettes would point out the clever undertones and references that Padmarajan's movies had to 70’s pop music. Those were the days when having a Pink Floyd album’s recording would give you the status of an Emperor. I didn't really start listening to English music (apart from Backstreet Boys and Michael Jackson, that was difficult to ignore) until a few years later, and didn't really understand why they were so excited about a 30 second background tune. Years later, I saw those movies again and celebrated many a Eureka moment of discovery.

There were outright funny movies too. It wasn't always about depth and meaning. But I don't think I've ever seen and related to movies that have such a fine blend of humor, story, good acting, well etched out characters, with the perfect accompaniment of lyrics and music. Music. My God, it was something else. You should really listen to tracks like Devadoothar paadi, Vaishakha Sandhye, Swargatilo Nammal Swapnathilo, and the likes to experience how brilliant these are; lyrics and composition feeding off each other, and fitting seamlessly into the mood and feel of the movie its part of. One of my favorite songs composed by Johnson is the less popular Ethojanmakalpanayil from Palangal. It always gives me this feeling of things being calm and under control from the outside, but a total wreck in reality -- pretty much in line with the movie's storyline.

I remember how we once talked into the wee hours of the morning after watching Thoovanathumbikal. It was during summer holidays and I was probably 11-12 years old. We had watched Season, another epic movie just a week back, and the kind of ideas that it had sparked in our young minds were astounding. I probably didn't realize it back then, but I owe a lot to the forces that made me watch these movies and talk about the ideas that it brought out -- to so many different kinds of people -- for making me the kind of person I am today. It also helped forge many friendships that are still very strong, even though we now probably meet once a year or less, for just a few hours.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it totally sucks to be here in China right now, without anyone to talk to about this. People are dying and times are constantly changing. It's not like I didn't know about it; it's just that in times likes these, the truth just becomes more obvious and I feel the need to talk/vent out. The only thing I've been able to easily communicate to anyone in the past 3 weeks is 'Coca-cola' and my staple diet has been steamed Chinese cabbage with chilly sauce. I haven't found an Indian on the streets, and it's probably the first time during my travels that I haven't met a Malayalee in three weeks. Seriously, is there no Nair Sahodara Samajam in Beijing?

Anyway, it's not like I'm not enjoying my trip. On the contrary, it's been quite exciting and eventful. More on that later. For now, I'm going to listen to some old songs I do have on iTunes, drink Ginseng tea, raise a toast to great cinema, and get through the rest of the day.

Peace.

In retrospect

2010-12-06T12:43:00.010+05:30

There is something ominous about the way the clock is ticking. He looks at it hanging on the wall. It reminds him of the day she followed the architect's assistant around the house like a shadow, getting pictures hung, wallpapers pasted at right angles and little stars painted on the ceiling in glow-in-the-dark paint. He remembers the warmth that engulfed him, just watching her. It was one of the things he always liked about her -- a delicious mix of passion and patience. Was it this quality of hers that made him fall in love with her? Or was it the way she could connect with almost anyone? However random or distant the people, she could engage them in conversation within minutes. Or maybe it was the way she always used a thorthu to dry her wet hair, and never let a plush Turkey towel take it's place. He tries hard to remember, hoping it would help him weave some sense into the mess their relationship has now become, but cannot.

He doesn't remember when they'd first met. Neither does she. That's the kind of lovers they were; the kind who didn't need to declare milestones in their relationship through dates, events or other people. He did not remember the day when he first kissed her, and she didn't save their first rose between the pages of her Random House dictionary. There were no grand celebrations on Valentines' Day, but they gave each other quaint little gifts on ordinary days, when something as commonplace as a kid's laughter tugged at heartstrings. They weren't each other’s better halves. They were two lost souls who shared their incompleteness.

They would listen to the silly fights their friends have with their husbands/wives, and wonder why every other couple out there weren't like them. They gave each other space, and sometimes they were each other’s space. They were inseparable, in an almost cosmic way. This made it all the more difficult for him to make peace with the current state of affairs.

When did that occasional, harmless lie creep in? What made him stay longer at work, even when he wasn't really busy? When did the eagerness with which he would check his phone for unread messages get replaced by disgust and paranoia? When did the seemingly joyous task of fixing him a cup of filter coffee turn out be a chore for her? How did they grow so far apart that togetherness seemed to look absurd?

Answers are hard to come by.

There is a knock at the door. It’s the lady from the rice mill, with the month’s supply of fresh, home ground masalas and powders, custom-made per his wife’s instructions. He pays her and walks back in with the jute bag, which is overflowing with a multitude of smells. What’s the use of customized flavors, if they leave such a bad aftertaste in the mouth?

An ode to my friend

2010-06-27T13:03:00.002+05:30

The title to this post refers to a poem a friend at work wrote about me a few years back. It was the second time someone wrote me a poem (the first was when I was in Kindergarten, which I'll blog about some other day) and I was really happy. In excitement to share it with the rest of my team (since it has references to work specific details that only colleagues can appreciate), instead of sending it to my team's alias (20 subscribers) I accidentally forwarded it to a global mailing list (~1000 subscribers). Less than a year old in the company then, I realized the extent of my spam only when a colleague from Dublin pinged me, with emoticons flooding the chat transcript.

Things didn't turn out to be as bad as I thought it would. In fact, no one got angry/irritated, but accepted my follow-up email profusely apologizing for the spam, instantly. I also got hundreds of responses from across the globe (maximum responses any of my emails have ever elicited), all sent in laughter and good spirit.

The person who wrote this has written so many other poems (way more hilarious!) that have ticked many a bored bone at work. Although we lost in touch (like I always seem to do) once she quit her job, she's one of those people I can start a conversation with instantly, even if we've had years of silence between us; because our friendship goes way beyond social networking norms.

Soum, this post is a cyber nudge I'm sending your way, asking you to publish those funny poems/short rhymes that used to get Priya, Sana, Amu and me ROFL.

Here's the poem that Soum wrote about me, in under 5 mins:

A limp she continues to work with and drinks when time permits
If she continues working like this, she will have the aura of a hermit
She lives in office and visits home occasionally
Guess ATM and the Help Center is what she wants to do best sensationally
Whiskey woman and workaholic of mine you remain an inspiration
One more week I'm giving you to get over this concept of overtime--and its fascination

My love turned out to be a Vulcan

2010-04-25T00:44:00.005+05:30

I thought I met the perfect man
Who was nice n subtle n smart; with elan
who read n wrote n had nice, big hands

We held n touched n kissed n sang
We named n dreamt n had big plans
Then one day he left, in Jan

Nothing was said, much less written
In an email penned in brazen fashion
That it's over; this is it
I've a "bad feeling", so let's just split

I was hurt, surprised n in shock I cried,
I gave it thought n then replied
Reasons and detail in plenty supplied
But it wasn't for me to decide

Then one day I had a dream
Of posiedons, deep valleys and a stream
I woke up with a wand, mighty n supreme
that was left for me, it seems
to find ANY answer; a power beseem!

As conditioned, I waved the wand
and thought of memories fond
wondering how the magic would respond;
and then suddenly in me, it dawned --

It's neither my fault nor his
that our relationship lost all fizz
You see, he wasn't a regular human
My love turned out to be a Vulcan

Note:
This is the result of an age old poetry exercise -- pick 5/7/9 random words and write a poem in 10/15/20 minutes. My 7 random words were:

hands, stream, vulcan, magic, fizz, January, brazen

I know parts of it are pretty weak and there is no real structure or form, but I doubt if I'll ever get back to it in 'drafts'; so I decided to post it anyway. Keep them comments/emails coming. Better still, try it out and share your creative outburst :)

PS: Some kind of bulk comment spam for backlinking seemed to have got through my comments moderation section in the past weeks. I got it sorted out with Blogger support. Sorry about the adult hyperlinks the comments had left (in case you noticed). It's gone now and shouldn't happen again.

Conversation with a stranger

2010-02-15T15:46:00.009+05:30

She died when I was 15. I distinctly remember the day when the doctor came in, checked her pulse, and pronounced her dead. In a normal world (if there is such a thing) it would be easy for anyone to accept the death of someone like my grandmother -- an 87 year old woman, with arthritis and other such 'acceptable' illness that comes with age. But not to me. She was the only person whom I knew at such proximity to always fight the odds and do good. She was a wife at 13 and mothered 12 children in a span of 25 years. She was in school only till the 4th standard, but spoke English with such flourish that she always left my foren friends astound. Shakespeare, Keats and Chaucer was no stranger to her either. Anyway, the purpose of this post is not to tell you how great a woman my grandmother was; That would be attempting to do the impossible.

A week before my grandmother's death, she told me something. She told me that there are some things one never learns but always knows, and some things one can never unlearn. It sounded like a warning/advice and I was a little surprised because she wasn't the kind to give advice (Yeah, she was nothing like others of her generation). A confused teenager that I was then, I never understood the depth, beauty and relevance of what she told me. It's safe to say that I almost forgot about it after a few days.

A few days back I met this woman at the theater. We were both waiting backstage for the lead characters to step out of the changing room. After a fabulous performance that commanded a 3 minute standing ovation, it was strange that there were just the two of us waiting backstage. Then again, I digress.

The woman was wearing black trousers and a royal blue, cowl-necked top. With some trendy silver beads thrown around her neck, and her hair (most of it) held together by a plain clutch clip, she was stylish, but not 'jhantak' (If you don't know what that means, say it aloud. You'll get it). We were waiting for a good fifteen minutes or so, and still no sign of the cast. I was scratching at the scab of a week old wound on my left elbow when she tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around.

"Hi"

"Hey"

"What's the time like?" (What a fine Brit accent. Hugh Grant. Yes. So cool.)

"Oh.. Uhm.. Just a minute" I grabbed my BB out and realized that I hadn't included Eastern Time to be displayed on my widget. I took note of the Singapore local time, quickly did the math and said "I think it's between 8:00 and 9:30 pm. I couldn't be sure" Now I don't know why I didn't just say that I'm not carrying a watch, or that I don't know or just proximated and said "around 8:30".

She smiled, and said "Now thats a first!"

A nice conversation ensued. She turned out to be quite a talker and told me almost everything about her. But not in a creepy way; it was like reading her FB profile -- job, where she stays, hobbies, relationship status, book she is reading currently, global warming, Dylan, The Beatles, favorite movies, and so on -- except her name. She seemed to know a lot about English literature, talked about her childhood, how Thames was the reason why she got interested in poetry, and so on. I mumbled something now and then as well. The cast finally came out, and spent about 20 minutes talking to us, but turned down my new friend's request to pose for a picture. Someone came in a few minutes later and told the male lead that his cell phone was ringing off the hook* and that he better answer it. We bid goodbye to both of them and started walking down the flight of stairs towards the exit. There was silence between us until we reached the main gate, and then she held out her hand and said,

"It was nice talking to you. I'm Paro, by the way. What's your good name?" There was a moment of surprise and I'm sure it showed on my face. Here I was, thinking she is a pukka Brit, and now we share the same Indian name? (Paro is also a Japanese robot)

"Oh. Heh. My name is Parvathi, but my friends call me Paro"

Laughter

"Have you been to India?" I didn't want to sound rude by asking her if she was of Indian origin.

"No. But my mother is from India. She ..." Turns out her mother was from a small southern state called Cairla (Kerala) and had immigrated to Britain to live with her extended family after the death of her mother's parents. She met her father there, fell in love and got married. Her real name was Parvathi too, named after her mother who died at childbirth.

"I don't think I've a single Indian bone in me. I wasn't brought up to believe in Indian gods, was never in the company of Indians or anything of that sort"

"Hmm. I see."

Hiatus.

A taxi pulled up next to us and asked if we wanted a ride. She said she lived a few blocks away so she'd prefer to walk. We said goodbye and parted. I kept thinking how one's surroundings and upbringing plays such an important role in building character. I always thought that a lot of things that are characteristic to Indians was passed on because it was in their blood. This woman here was the first one I ever met who was the absolute opposite.

As the car drove into the lane and waited for the signal to clear, I watched Paro walk away. She was texting, didn't see an old woman walking towards her, and bumped into her. The old lady was holding on to her leg with a pained expression. Paro swiftly turned around, apologized and then did something that I took great interest in. She touched the old woman's hand and then touched her chest. This is a classic Indian gesture of showing respect when asking for forgiveness. I laughed out loud. I felt a sense of pride and happiness. I suddenly remembered what my grandmother told me, and had this strange feeling; like I had eaten a good meal, or filled a glass up to the brim with water or finished cracking a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

She could be a Brit in every sense, but she asks for forgiveness in Malayalam.

Back home

2010-02-13T10:00:00.000+05:30

Every time I return from a trip abroad, I appreciate my mother's food more. The warmth and comfort that comes from watching soft-soft idli sucking in hot-hot sambar is nonpareil. As the idli melts in my mouth with the sambar, I feel happy; so peaceful and complete that it's almost orgasmic.

Thank you Amma, for the gift of good food, for so many years.

The Two

2010-02-11T16:17:00.004+05:30

The two people with whom I usually spend all my non-working hours. My adorable nephews -- Govind and Achyuth. Can't wait to get back home :)

Reflections at Midnight

2010-02-10T19:00:00.001+05:30

losing

is inevitable

time heals

only

wounds but

scars are here

to stay

change is

a way of life

so is

hope

Black and White

2010-02-10T09:05:00.000+05:30

the view from

the top

is fleeting

every day

is a new

chance

inaction is

also a choice

lying is not

a recluse/excuse

Over and Out

2010-02-09T09:31:00.001+05:30

you feel it

say it

the warmth is

not forever

good

cannot exist

withot evil

it will make

sense

in retrospect

always

Writings on the wall

2010-02-08T08:47:00.002+05:30

First

impressions

are the most

lasting

what you see

is what you

get

the clothes

make the man

the leopard

does not

change its

spots

------------------

if the shoe fits
wear it
don't go near
the water
unless you
know how to
swim
there are
more than one
side to every
question
nine tailors
make a man

Found these as part of an exhibition at MoMA. The work was a collection of charcoal drawings of wigs, with taglines that reflected the color divide in America in the 1950's and suppression of women, both black and white.

Asking questions into the void - 3

2010-01-11T20:00:00.000+05:30

I'm really tired of these mind games. Solving the many mysteries of my life in the last few months has put me in touch with a part of myself I never knew existed. I'm looking for something to trigger memory loss. Help ?

Later.

2009-09-15T00:19:00.002+05:30

When people cry, why is it that the only thing others do is to say 'It's okay'. They don't have a clue of whats wrong or right, and they don't even care. Still, if anyone's crying 'Don't worry. Everything's okay.' That's all they have to say.

Don't pet or pity me. Don't tell me it's okay. Ignore me, if nothing else. Don't rack your closed, pea-sized brain to think of the perfect thing to say. People who matter don't care anyway. They are busy with their own petty lives. So what's with you? Why do you care a flying fuck about me? Disappear.

Things have been pretty bad lately. And misery seems to have company. Lots.

I'm going to be away for a bit. No. Not traveling or going places. I am not endowed with the luxury of coping with my grief watching a gondola of green scented fruits, drifting along the dark canals of Venice. But am going to be away. In my own terms. Call/email me and my machine will pop, crackle, and return your smiles.

Until later, when the fog has cleared.

Songs stumbled on

2009-01-06T16:03:00.005+05:30

A friend of mine got this cool feature on his phone which allows him to tune-in to a lot of regional radio stations that is otherwise unavailable. I somehow decided to tune-in to a malayalam station and turns out they were playing an old, forgotten tune, followed by yet another. And then I suddenly remembered this one while aimlessly humming in the loo (it's a Hindi one this time, so go ahead and click on the link (in case you belong to the unfortunate group of i-can't-understand-malayalam-and-i-am-not-bothered)).

My heart suddenly warmed up to the so called old-fashioned, courtly love. Maybe it's because of these people at work who are already getting worked up thinking of Valentine's day. I am sick of love so loud; love predictably marked by a million red roses and expensive clothes and chocolate. I am tired of everyone sleeping around with everyone else and then bitching endlessly about hypocrites. I don't want to see another movie where love is all hearts outpouring and melodramatic.

How about just a little weakness in the knees, a sudden warmth inside, the faintest trembling of the heart, or something less?

This is really strange

2008-12-26T08:04:00.002+05:30

Me having trouble getting sleep at night or being woken up by weird nightmares is no new story. But last night things decided to take a different turn. I usually don't remember what my nightmares were, let alone what they mean. My mind is blank once I wake up. But last night, I remember the last bit of my nightmare; the part just before I woke up in a cold sweat.

The nightmare/what I remember of it:
It was the usual things - violent, with blood squirting, people screaming and all that. Towards the end of the nightmare I remember telling myself to write down what just happened. Turns out that in some sub-conscious level I knew what exactly was happening. And suddenly the scenes change. I am back in my room, writing down what had just happened. I then fold the paper over and put it inside my cupboard before going to bed. After this, I wake up with a start.

Now am actually awake and feeling all weird. The clock showed that it was half past 2. I remember seeing several familiar faces being smashed and throats being slit in differnet scenes, so I decided to call up one of them and check if everything was OK. (Yes, I know it sounds silly now, but I was in a different frame of mind then) Turned out he was fast asleep, assured me nothing is wrong and asked me to try and catch some sleep. Which I eventually did.

I woke up again around 6, went through my ablutions and was about to get ready to go to work. I opened my cupboard, and strangely enough, I see a paper folded over and placed on top of my clothes.

I opened it, read it and flipped out. This is what was written, in my shabby handwriting, describing something very similar to the nightmare I had:

So, you think you have me all figured out
My choice of whiskey, the shape of my nose
When I like to shout, and when am at repose
The smell of my armpits and curve of my back
My favorite colors -- blue and lilac
You think you know me inside out,
without the least shadow of doubt

But you've missed the warning sign on my head
Telling you stories of men who are dead
Who did not listen to what was said
As they willingly came for the warmth of bed

So, you think you have me all figured out
Name, middle name, surname, nickname
bank accounts, friends, previous flames
You have it all, you proclaim
Typed out and saved under one filename
To gather, sort, file and route
After all, that's exactly for what you were cutout

I won't stop as you try in earnest
to coo and swoon me in your inflamed lust
For this is my sport, my only joy
As I watch one by one, man after boy
Walk willingly towards my burgeoning breasts
Not knowing it's their life's final sunset

Another one bites the dust
But there are still too many left
I am waiting; weaving my web of lust
Until I stumble upon the next

Now what do I make of that?

Merry Christmas to me

2008-12-25T19:15:00.003+05:30

It's Christmas and everyone I know are with family or friends. My plans for a quiet holiday in Shimla being canceled, I'm stuck in Hyderabad.

Thank you for all for calling me and letting me know of the absolutely great time you're having -- the oh so perfect meals and thoughtful presents, the chance memory of the old childhood joke and uncontrolled laughter till your eyes watered, the million other perfect moments that you are totally enjoying -- with family and friends.

I am just finishing up on work, writing a second post on the same day and eating cup noodles alone for dinner.

Merry Christmas to me.

Asking questions into the void - 2

2008-12-25T06:31:00.003+05:30

Happiness is real only when you can share it with someone. Grief can usually manage on it's own. What about loneliness; at such a large scale that you don't know what to call it?

Asking questions into the void - 1

2008-12-22T13:22:00.003+05:30

Lately, I feel so alone. I seem to be talking to myself a lot. That said, if I find someone who'll listen to me, I'd probably like to be left alone.

Sigh.

On a winter morning

2008-11-10T21:17:00.004+05:30

Wake up to numb fingers and toes.
Stare at the ceiling for a bit
Reach out and rub your lover's back
Roll over and cuddle
Kiss.

Have the first cup of coffee together
before brushing teeth
Go back to bed.
Wake up and make love. Again.

Take an afternoon walk. Hold hands
Drop a coin for the old man by the tea shop
Smile at the little kid peeping out from the pram
Talk.

Stop by the river. Take off shoes.
Dip left toe into ice cold water
Step back. Fall into your lovers arms
Breathe.

Buy the red, heart shaped balloon.
Just like that.
Write a message and tie it to the lampost.

Stop by the corner street
Eat hot pakoras from the old lady
Slurp and lick fingers. All five.

Spend the evening cooking together
Make something new, from the recipe book
"Pressure cook for 15 minutes"
Make love before the timer goes off

Play some good music.
Read a book. Talk.
Effortlessly fall asleep.

Be wild and free,
on cold winter mornings.

Wish list

2008-10-05T23:10:00.003+05:30

Let me have the crook of your arm
Also your fingers
Give me your haunting smell and deep eyes
I want the small of your back
And the marvelous expanse of your broad chest
Your sexy ass as well
Allow me to have a few strands of your long, wavy hair
Let me keep the taste from your inner thighs
And I must absolutely have your long, patient tongue
Give me your left toe and your right elbow
The back of your neck is required as well
I'd like to have the memory of your touch,
together with your tiny bellybutton
I don't ask for too much
Just these, and whatever is left.

Polygamy is the key to a long life

2008-08-26T22:01:00.004+05:30

Read the article

I wonder what exactly they mean by 'polygamy'. Would casual relationships count, or does it have to end up in marriage?

Cynical me

2008-08-26T18:24:00.001+05:30

All the blessings you had counted as a child will uncover their hidden tragedies, slowly
You will continue to be alone on random rainy nights, eating without company
You will have more than your share of mourning, and no one's going to clean the mess in the morning.
your best friend too will bid adieu
your deepest fears -- they'll all come true
You won't be loved, you won't be missed
Your life will pass by, unnoticed
That's just how things will always be
And you will never be able to end this with a rhyme.

This slipped out of one of my diaries this morning, when I was frantically searching for a phone number scribbled down somewhere. It's dated 3rd August, 1998. All you who kept asking me when I turned into such a cynic --here's documental evidence for it. It's definitely been a long time.

A moment, a glimpse, or something less

2008-07-19T18:03:00.006+05:30

The vast nameless mountains seem to echo an old tune,
along with nature's delicately sprinkled artwork of trees and rivers.
The blinding wind is blowing hard against your face, that you think
the insides of your nose are sticking together.
The rain seems to be falling with a sense of complete abandon --
the way you are smiling right now;
The sea suddenly appears, and takes your breath away
The wind, water and earth seem to be playing a symphony just for you
And just when you think everything is perfect,
the moon decides to sashay down
and brings a set of different hues along with her.
The music continues to ring in your ears,
and you decide to linger for a while longer

How easy it is to forget everything else at this moment --
numb feet, shooting back pain, overflowing inbox and fast approaching deadlines...
How wonderful it is to suddenly realize
that this is where you belong, this is for real;
That this is all there is to it,
This is you.

Here. This. Now.

2008-06-28T00:17:00.005+05:30

I like this moment. I like this time of the day when it's neither morning nor night. I like the song my player has randomly selected to play. I like the taste of coffee in my mouth. I like this moment when I can accept the fact that I'm madly in love with you. I like the effortless comfort of this moment. I like this warm feeling in my heart. I like it that all worries about family, deadlines and heartbreaks are on the other side of this moment. I won't have to live them if I could just hang in here forever. No, you don't have to wait for me. You always have such good reasons to keep going. I won't hold you back. I wish you all the best as you continue on your journey. It's just that I am really tired. Besides, I really do like this moment. Could someone turn off that clock ticking away somewhere and let my life just stay in this moment?

2008-05-06T10:09:00.002+05:30

After two weeks of partial starvation, I got back home this morning to find yummy dal, rice and mango pickle in the kitchen.

Little things matter so much.

You are the best, T :)

on mothers

2008-04-07T18:38:00.004+05:30

she welcomes me with a warm embrace,
and a big clear smile on her face,
a sumptuous meal follows
and with each mouthful, the comfort grows.
after an hour's simple conversation
you know there's a rare connection.

Funny, how mothers all around the world are the same; capable of
such open, unconditional love.

(PS: The lady in the poem is Soumya's mother)

insomnia

2008-04-04T16:32:00.005+05:30

you wake up to darkness
the clock shows its an ungodly hour.
you shuffle around. lift the empty water jug
feel the need for a warm hug.

you get up and
think of the TV remote for the briefest moment;
realize that's not the solution,
and totter your way to the kitchen

the lizard on the wall is staring at you with gleaming eyes.
was it insomnia or misery that loves company - your mind tries
to remember.

In the fridge you find rice
and sambar, on heating gives a heavenly smell
there's some curd and pickle as well
'this is going to be a good meal'-
you can hear your tummy tell.

you sit back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling
it's 3 am, and you have to get to work in five hours.
you should be cursing yourself for drinking so much coffee
but you suddenly feel very content;
you feel like you have come to the end of a journey.
there is a strange beauty in everything -
the rhythmic flapping of of curtains,
the soft whirring sound of the ceiling fan,
the random sounds that come from the depths of the night.

you measure the night between mouthfuls of rice
and watch the changing hues of the sky.
slowly the sun rises and the world wakes up,
and you feel like God witnessing it all
you come out of the naked darkness that had engulfed you,
and welcome the warm sunshine from your balcony.

radiant mornings

2008-04-02T12:16:00.004+05:30

waking up without the aid of any alarm,
to a soft rhythmic breathing
a delicious warmth where our skins are pressed together
clothes strewn around on the floor
sun shining through empty wine bottles
traces of your smell on my skin
the gentle heaviness of limbs

it's the perfect moment of my day
when everything is just right.

the day tumbles after that,
imperfect, dissatisfying hours of existence
lost between deadlines, newspapers and electricity bills;
but I find the meaning of life condensed in these moments of naked beauty.

Words I like

2008-03-29T19:03:00.003+05:30

bizarre
kerfuffle
sigh
super
hypergolic
rigmarole
nevertheless
schnook
depth
velvet
refreshing
tantra
jabberwocky
alcove
brigadoon
kibitz
schmuck
radiance
wallow
pulp
Quidditch

These are the first 21 that I thought of. Some of them are words I recently learned about, thanks to wordsmith. The idea to pen this down came from here.

there is always a possibility

2008-03-18T00:06:00.003+05:30

The possibility of a fresh new start, in a new city,
of losing weight in the next two weeks,
of catching the next train to Chennai and being with him,
of the milk curdling even as its boiling promisingly,
of sudden, breathtaking rain on a hot day,
of him calling back right after hanging up the phone call,
of one more quick hug after bidding goodbye for two hours.

The possibility of sitting down tomorrow and getting that story in your head penned down,
of staying back for another day,
of being forgiven one more time,
of getting over another heart break,
of one more dumb acquaintance at the party than you had expected,
of learning 12 different languages someday.

The possibility of waking up tomorrow, and doing something wild,
of saving up enough to travel around the world,
of mastering the art of repartee,
of dying young,
of fitting into that pretty dress one of these days,
of making her the proudest mother on earth.

The possibility of going into that dream world on the other side of the mirror,
of rebuilding the sand castle over and over again,
of someone walking into the room, finding the damn remote, and changing the boring channel,
of being a millionaire someday,
of meeting that one man who would make love to my mind as well,
of marrying my best friend if I end up being 40 and single,
of speaking my mind, without holding back words, ideas or emotions,
of living two different, parallel lives in a lifetime.

There is hope to live, plenty
And an urge to enjoy bits of beauty;
In the possibility of yet another possibility-
Filled with uncertainty

my moonstone ring

2008-03-14T13:56:00.009+05:30

7 years. I had that moonstone ring for seven years, and then I go and lose it.
I don't even know where or how I lost it; just realized that the stone had fallen out when I casually looked at my hands during rehearsals.

People say I can just get another stone fixed on to it, 'cos only the stone was lost. Technically, I still have the ring. Throw all technicality out of the window. I have lost the ring. Forever. Damn.

If I had to lose it, wish I had lost it totally. I could have watched it slip out of my finger and fall into a pit, or maybe my six year old nephew could have thrown it into the river, the way he threw my cellphone. But no, I am left with the metal caricature of the once fine and shining ring, and I don't even have the memory of my loss to mull on. Sigh.

There's a poem we had selected for a poetry reading last year. It just makes perfect sense all of a sudden; not that I ever doubted what Elizabeth Bishop had to say.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

bits of beauty

2008-03-02T11:20:00.002+05:30

A little feather drifting in from the car window
Someone’s clear smile on the road
Chink of wine glasses
Drawer full of new stationary
Mug of hot coffee on an early winter morn
A great photo that follows a bad shot
Short, monosyllabic conversations
The sudden discovery of a ten rupee note in my old jeans pocket
Yellow flowers blooming outside the window
The evening sun shining from between tall dirty buildings
The smell of wet earth
Twinkle of a distant star
Calling your name out for no reason
Bits of poetry slipping out from old textbooks
The smell of spicy sambar from Aanchi’s adukkala
A forgotten old tune suddenly on the lips
An old couple holding hands in the park
Colored glass bangles that always break the silence
Sudden squally rain in summer
Routine dialogue that ends up in rhyme
A smile on a sleeping baby’s face

In these moments I am most content,
When nothing is said and nothing is pent
‘Cos in these bits of beauty
You jog my memory.

Soorchi

2008-02-23T08:57:00.007+05:30

I wish we didn't fight so often
wish i could take back all the mean words spoken
To me, you are the only important person
and I love you more, than you can ever imagine

Coloured bangles and bargaining at bazaars
Long nights staring at painted little stars
Fighting for the remote and jumping down amma's throat
Being one another's scapegoat
Writing notes and schoolgirl gossips in gangs
Raiding the fridge on midnight hunger pangs
Early morning chores and evening bike rides
Reading together and taking sides
Confessions of first crushes and perverted joshes
Bits of poetry and evenings splashes
by the riverside.

You have taken me from ponytails to perfumes,
from fights with pillows to stilettos
You taught me there is no right and wrong
You gave me hope, that things would get better erelong
You took care of me, made me strong

When I'm in trouble, or feel like running away
The thought of you just a phone call away makes me stay
The thought of living without you makes me shudder
I'd rather be six feet under

You may not even come across this little poem
but i had to pen it down
to tell the world you're the best; no one's on par
You are my sister superstar!

Life's like that, i say

2008-02-20T21:45:00.004+05:30

Today I went to the passport office again, to FINALLY submit all the documents and get one of the most coveted documents in the world. After being denied the chance to even apply for it on different grounds, I had almost given up hope. US is the last country I wanted to visit, and I can assure you that I'm the one who is least kicked about flying to yankee land at the company's expense. But then again, protocol, a pesky insistent manager, an even more insistent mom, travel plans to France later this year, etc made me keep at it.

It was quite a sight to see people beg, kneel, cringe and cry in front of the officers, security guards, numerous agents, fellow applicants and whoever else was there. The mothers are ready to lick every toe and grease every palm to get their children what seems to be the most coveted document in the world. There were people everywhere, sitting on benches and broken benches, on the ground, under trees, in the shade of parked vehicles; all eagerly clutching on and squinting at the papers, muttering under their breaths, counting and recounting the shabby bunch of notes inside the envelope - as if that random person on the other side of the counter would decide their future. He would decide if their dreams would come true, if their children would find well paying jobs, if they would build their own house. This was indeed their passport to a better and promising life. If passports are so hard to get, I wonder how they go about getting visas. Sigh.

I felt sick standing there in that queue. I felt as if I was turning into someone I had never wanted to be. The system and the pointlessness of it all is choking me. Back in office, while I was looking at the mirror, something inside me just snapped. I felt like I was looking at a stranger, gone further in years than in age. I felt like a tired old woman who had missed the last bus to somewhere.

I tried to make peace with thoughts and get back to work. But parallel, yet conflicting thoughts continue to play with my sanity.

Chennai Undiluted

2008-02-09T21:34:00.000+05:30

Filter kappi. Vengaya chutney. Beach. Nidhi. Occassional showers. Vast blue sky. Photographs. Sundal. Saravana bhavan. Ghee Dosa. College. Draping saree. People. Hostel. Birthdays. MLC. Mittu’s house. Sleeping on the floor. Beach. Sunrise. Long drives. Starlit nights. Friend. College Play. Memories. Chennai.

If only I could live all my life between the warm, cosy spaces of these words.

Five days in Chennai has done good to my cynical soul. All that this wretched city had drained out of me, Chennai generously proffered again. I was staying at a good friend’s place, and it was almost like going home to Kerala. Her mother fed me well, and always insisted on one more dosa, or another helping of thayirusadam. Best of all, I got filter kappi the moment I was out of bed.

The minute I entered college, I was greeted by friends and juniors as if I was a sister, long lost at a Kumbhmela. Although it was just a few months since I had met them last, we had so much to talk about. Lunch, candid pictures, and several hours later, we all assembled at the college grounds for our Convocation function, which turned out to be the most solemn occasion of my life.

The sun was just setting, and the sky was a brilliant orange. The wind was blowing in that cool, careless way that it does only in colleges or schools with large open grounds and big, old trees. The excited chitter-chatter slowly died away, and the combs and Kohl pencils were artfully tucked away. The speeches begin, and although you had planeed to doze off as you always did during the morning assembly, something makes you sit up and listen to the Principal’s speech. After a few minutes, you realize you are getting goosebumps. Although the chief guest’s address was really long and made no sense, the message had gone home. We were all grown up women now, with a lot of responsibility towards our family, college and country.

Later at night when I was sitting by the window and looking at the sky, I suddenly felt very grown up; very mature and old. It was like I missed out on adulthood and slipped right into middle age. Maybe it’s the monotonous work I do, or maybe it’s because I stopped writing. So I promised myself that I’m going to write more from now on. All those ideas for short shorts have been long pending. I have been sticking to my New Year’s resolution to read two books a week, and this one is going to be a slightly late addition to the list.

Watching sunrise at the beach is one of the most satisfying sights ever. Chennai wakes up at 5 in the morning (or maybe even earlier). During the auto ride to the beach, the sudden whiff of fresh coffee from a road-side shop puts a smile on your face. The beach is dotted with people who are exercising or just walking around, vendors selling this and that, the laughter club guffawing away, occasional romances and holding of sweaty palms, eve-teasers, policemen, and the list can go on. Everything is alive and there’s a joy all around.

There isn’t much to see in Hyderabad in the mornings. The cab ride to my office is quite uneventful (maybe this is because I live in the city. They say there’s a lot of local flavor if you travel away from the city. but it's no fun to go hunting for it. the beauty lies in seeing it when you're not looking for it.) All the same, I like to go to office early. I like those ten-fifteen minutes to myself before the day begins, and before the others come in, carrying the entire outside world on their shoulders. It prepares me to face all the small talk and fake conversations that punctuates my days here; it helps me spend the day per the schedule; moving from room to desk and back to room, from meeting to meals and back to the computer screen. One monotonous day that follows another identical monotonous day. Sigh.

Tara and I plan to go to Chennai every month, so that we can come back refreshed to face this depressing city. Looking at things that have happened to me in the past few weeks, it feels like a year in Hyderabad is preparing me for the rest of my life.

This is by far my most explicitly personal post, and I'm writing this between sending polite emails to dumb customers, getting documents ready for my passport, phone calls from the advocate, my mom’s phone calls @ 2 calls every hour, monosyllabic chats with a dear friend, and so on. Work beckons, and this is it for now.

(PS: No, I am not going to remove comments moderation. I enjoy reading what you all have to say from my inbox, and prefer not to share it with the world :)

For Sale

2008-01-17T12:36:00.000+05:30

There is a sadness in me, not of grief
A haunting emptiness, with no relief
Kerfuffled thoughts, messy baggage
Not clear, regular problems that's easier to manage .
Don't want to talk and make it a conversational piece
It won't help make peace
I could cry my worries away
but still find no reason, to wake up day after dismal day.

I don't matter to that man sitting on the chair
Or that woman, combing her long, silky hair.
If I snatched her comb away, and poured my heart out
I know she wouldn't care.

The once brightly lit spaces of my heart
have reduced to dark, sullen corners.
It's up for sale, but has no takers.

Tata Nano

2008-01-14T17:16:00.000+05:30

According to the World Health Organization, New Delhi, where the incidence of respiratory diseases due to air pollution is about 12 times the national average, is one of the top ten most polluted cities in the world. While our GDP has increased 2.5 times over the past two decades, vehicular pollution has increased 8 times. The level of coarse suspended particulate matter (SPM) in air is also on the rise. And to top it all – the launch of Tata Nano, the one lakh car – realizing the dream of every Indian to own a car (so what if it’s without a/c?) Of course, it comes with promises of reduced pollution, super efficiency and all that crap.

Time to bid good-bye to that secret parking spot of yours – it will be taken. Get used to the feeling that the roads are getting narrower by the day. Start to notice that profound deterioration in air quality. Say hello to longer traffic congestions, deteriorated olfactory sensations, and the like.

At the global level, care to know what the availability of cheap cell phones resulted in? Read this. At the rate we're going, we'll get there soon, and I've a feeling that air pollution and waste management won't be our only worries.

My humble offering

2007-12-28T18:24:00.001+05:30

Wish I could love you; give more to this affair
But my heart has been torn apart; beyond repair.
It doesn’t have any feelings to spare
You give yourself to me in totality,
Without doubt or fear, you love me unconditionally.
It’s more than romantic evenings whispering sweet nothings,
We stare at stars, and take walks in the mornings,
We share dreams and give them wings.
You love me truly, without effort, without pretense
Unable to return it, I offer you my battered soul’s shavings.

poetry in prose

2007-12-27T20:49:00.000+05:30

All theoreticians of eroticism know when there’s no distance, there’s
no border; when there’s no border, there’s no taboo; when there’s no
taboo, there’s no transgression; and when there’s no transgression,
there’s no desire.

- Bernard-Henri Levy

How easily he has put forward the idea; without pretense or melodrama.

I am drinking in the words.

ode to the deceiving male

2007-12-19T20:46:00.000+05:30

Kiss her on the lips
Take me around the world in ships
With her be locked at the hips
But know, she’s a momentary eclipse

With me read, write, rhyme and pun
Go to her for all the fun
Tell her she's the one
But come home to me, 'cos I mothered your son

Relive your passions within those walls
And getaway from all domestic bawls
Ignore my phone calls
As you hold her in thralls

But my love, if you’re two-faced
Don’t think I’m chaste
I'll make you happy,
and let you have your way with me.
But what happens when am alone;
You’ll never know, honey!

Dus Kahaniyan

2007-12-12T11:14:00.000+05:30

Take any Hollywood movie, translate all the dialogues, and introduce a few item numbers in between. Of course, a lot of melodrama has to be thrown in as well, and lo and behold – you have the present day Bollywood movie. The Indian film industry (evident from its name) has become a badly cloned version of it’s more popular western counterpart. Now these directors have gone a step further, by attempting to adapt famous novels and stories. If you want to know what that resulted in, watch Ram Gopal Varma’s ‘Nishabd’, which is a classic example of such literary sacrilege (Nabokov would have surely turned in his grave).

I watched a movie called ‘Dus Kahaniyan’ a couple of days back. It’s an anthology, by a host of six directors, comprising of ten short films telling ten different original stories, and starring close to 25 different Bollywood stars. The idea seemed nice, and I was looking forward to watching it. Then again, originality is perhaps the last thing one could expect of the mongrelized and recycled world of Indian cinema. The first story itself turned out to be a horrible adaptation of one of Roald Dahl’s short stories. Needless to say, six out of the ten short films were sleazy versions of different short stories. To expect to get away with their claims of originality after stealing the entire plot and characters from famous stories, the film makers must really think their audience to be an ignorant lot. I would have let it pass if they had just drawn inspiration from some stories/ideas. They not only took the gem, but went ahead and stole the whole crown! Badly written script caused loose ends in the story to stand out, and bad direction made matters worse. On a slightly positive note, two of the stories – Rice Plate and Gubbare - were good, as the story had some substance, and the acting was also quite commendable. They were probably the only stories where it did not seem like random scenes were put together to fill in a fifteen minute slot. Half an hour into the movie, and the audience knew what to expect – all stories would have a totally unexpected and tragic ending. The script writers wanted the stories to be different, and got carried away in bringing out a twisted end at the cost of ruining the plot. On the whole, it was quite a disappointment.

The idea of putting together short stories reminds me of my theater group back in Chennai, where we used to work on a similar idea. It was so much fun, and I miss it all terribly. Anyway, if you are planning to watch the movie sometime this week, take my advice and grab a good book instead.

Love

2007-12-09T13:38:00.001+05:30

Your eyes are the color of rain cloud,
there’s thunder in your lips;
Mischief in your gait,
and magic, at your fingertips.
The need to touch becomes stronger –
A delicious urgency
together, we move in undulant motion,
And doors of a different world open up for us.

‘I love you’, you tell me
I nod, as I bask in the cool candor of your words.
Yes, I love you, my dear
But do we mean the same when we say that?
We know it’s more than a mere primordial urge
You are special to me,
I'll give myself to you all over again, if I could.
You excite my mind, indulge my body and illumine my spirit
Evenings of poetry sipping beer, walks by the sea,
Perfect conversations without uttering a single word,
Long drives on moonstruck nights;
you permeate my life; you're a part of my soul
am haunted by the memory of your touch
most content in your arms, am enraptured as we make – that tricky word – love.

Being together forever is an illusion,
it can never survive realism
Don’t try to hold on to these moments, and lose them at that
Love me in the fierce, honest way you do
And I will love you in return.
Let not the shadows of the outside world fall on us
And darken the brightly lit recesses of our hearts.
Let not the practicality of everyday lives eat into our togetherness,
but the uncertainty of tomorrow weave us closer today.

Home

2007-11-28T10:32:00.001+05:30

A whole week in Kerala turned out to be exactly what my depressed soul needed. The place seems to be more beautiful every time I see it. Usually I am a bundle of nerves when am heading home, because I have to deal with an army of uncles, aunts, cousins, their children, and maybe even their in-laws. But this time around, I was heading for my hometown - Chengannur - the beautiful city along the river Pampa. It's a very special place, and I could deal with anything, even my extended frenetic family, to be there.

Although the journey is quite long, I took the train home. The inquisitive co-passengers, stinking toilets, squabbling beggars - the journey is worth every sacrifice. One gets to know when the train enters Kerala, from the greenery around. Everything will be colored in a glowing green, which I have never seen anywhere else. It's like the colors are singing out to you. I sit on the steps holding the cold steel rails, while the wind blows against my face. I let all my worries slip away, and wave at the kid bathing under a street tap. As the sun sets along the horizon, small huts suddenly come into sight, with a 40 watt bulb glowing outside every house. Its like seeing the sky lit up with yellow stars along with the sun. The women of the house are busy preparing the evening meal, which is evident from the smoking chimneys, sending fumes into the huge overturned bowl of the sky. I can never take a comfortable flight home, and lose out on all these pretty sights. The bus ride home seems to be the longest, as I cannot wait to see my mother. It's funny that the closer we get to the end of our journey, the lesser is our patience to wait.

I reach home, and am greeted with such a flurry of excited banter and hugs, I feel like a homecoming warrior. After three rounds of hugging from everyone I manage to get in, and almost instantly, I get the heavenly smell of home-cooked food in coconut oil. My aunt refuses to let us eat until we become shudham (clean), so my cousins and I go to take a dip in the river. The sun has set, but the sky is not dark as yet. It's like the sun is hiding somewhere behind the coconut trees, and lighting up the sky for my sake. I plunge into the river, and swim to my heart's content.

I come back home, famished. After a quick change of clothes, I sit down with the rest of my family for dinner. The banana leaf is a light green, which shows that it's a fresh leaf, and has been skillfully cut from the backyard, at my aunt's instructions. There is an array of preparations served in a traditional way - pickle , salt, chips and banana at the extreme left, followed by kichadi (a dish made out of sour curd), thoran (an assortment of vegetables fried along with grated coconut and spices), olan (pulses and onions cooked in mild spices), avial (drumsticks and vegetables cooked in coconut milk), and pappadam (a flat, round cake made out of powdered rice, fried in oil) - and everything is steaming hot. There's rice right at the middle, and hot sambar is poured into it as well. After the food that I eat at office, which my mother would readily label as culinary blasphemy, this was a perfect treat to my gustatory and olfactory senses. I have looked for such a meal across cities, but found only hurried meals, cheap take aways, or fake attempts at reliving tradition; never the facile leisure of sitting down on the floor and enjoying a well cooked meal, and drinking hot jeerakavellam (water boiled with jeera).

A week is too short when you get to spent it in such a happy, carefree fashion. Early mornings, lazy afternoons, and excited nights punctuated by long swims in the river, late evenings of long conversations under trees, and food fit for the gods. The evenings are the best. Imagine: River side, sitting on rocks, eating upperi (chips) and watching touch-me-not(s) fold and droop at the most gentle contact, the occasional spray as someone takes a plunge, the smell of wet earth, distant sound of a conch being blown, lackadaisical swims in the river, dancing with cousins to the tunes of old super hit numbers playing on the radio, and after a good meal, peacefully slip into slumber listening to my mother sing lullabies to put my young nephew to bed. I could ask for nothing more; life was at it's lazy, indolent best.

Solitary company

2007-11-11T17:22:00.000+05:30

I don't know how I came into this world
My life has been a mere blear
loneliness has always been inhere;
a strange, comfortable solitude.

I was cut off,
Right from the moment the umbilical cord snapped
and I was left in the hospital, in fresh white sheets, wrapped.
I am told that I was crying out loud,
as my mother was covered in a shroud.
I must have cried my heart out that night, for I cried no more.

Emotions fail me,
Relations don't exist.
I live, breathe, eat, sleep.
I don't let memories seep,
and I don't have promises to keep.

I lived here and there.
I live somewhere, in this crowded place.
People keep coming here-
always-
out of desperation, boredom, lust or need
For joy, for money;
and some fools, for love.
They know when they sleep here, all is asunder.
Devoid of nightmares of the day that make them shudder.
Night after night, lost in runaway pleasures,
followed by panicked, mechanical mornings.
They are men of the world,
a part of the never-ending race (or maybe chase) of life,
bravely fighting lost battles.

I watch them all come and go,
I hear their screams echo.
I see them win, I see them lose.
Until they cease to amuse-
themselves.

I am cut off, from it all.
Lone observer.
I come with no strings attached,
preferring to stay in the sidelines,
following the beelines.

An unnoticed, bleak existence.

Diwali

2007-11-10T14:29:00.001+05:30

Friends, lights, Glitter
Excited chitter chatter
Street kids' banter.
Starlit sky, bulb lit streets
Happy faces and mouthful of sweets.
And then comes, the crackers...
Hiss, burst, explode, shimmer
creating hues, spectacular
Days of anticipation,
so much preparation,
and in a moment - up in flames!
Joy supramundane.

Caught in a time warp

2007-11-05T14:30:00.000+05:30

The coffee has gone cold.

You should have been here by now.

It’s been so many years, I have lost count.

It’s snowing here.

I can see it fall outside the window.

Some flakes attach themselves to the glass. Just the way you like it.

Your wooden arm chair is by the window,

At such an angle, so you can see a bit of the snow, the sky and the woods beyond.

Your old and worn out copy of The Godfather is on the teapoy.

And Sam is lying on the carpet, all curled up and warm between your walking boots.

I am not pretty anymore. My long black hair is all gone.

And I don’t paint my nails.

But if you come, I will let you dress me up.

You can play with my salt and pepper hair for as long as you wish

I won’t complain or get irritated.

We will go on long walks whenever you want to, by the sea.

I won’t fuss about the dirty beach or salty air.

We can be in each other’s arms all night,

swaying with the gentle summer breeze;

And you could write poetry on me, with your fingertips.

The coffee has almost frozen. Doesn’t matter.

I’ll make you a fresh cup. I’ll make it bitter and frothy; the way you like it.

You know where the keys are, under the potted plant

Open the door and come home, sweetheart.

I am tired.

House Hunting

2007-10-21T15:27:00.001+05:30

Five months in Hyderabad and we are house hunting again. I can't believe it. My flat mate (thats technically not correct as we live in an independent house and not a flat. But house mate sounds way too corny) Amandeep has decided to quit her job and move to Bangalore, to be with her boy friend. She has to go through a lot of protocol in office and the whole deal turns out to be really expensive, but I don't blame her. This city really is depressing. Garima (the other flat mate) has decided to take up the free accomodation available at The Taj, where she works. So that leaves just Tara and myself. The house we live in currently is way too big for us and we have been having a lot of water, rodent and plumbing issues lately. So we decided to move.

We set out yesterday to see some houses. The first one was pretty good. It's a one bedroom place, but Tara and I don't mind sharing a room. The house is big enough for the two of us, has a small balcony, is quite airy and clean as well. The whole deal works out pretty cheap too. But Tara is not quite happy with it as it's a little inside. As in, we won't be living close to the main road. But there are shops and auto stands close by. So I don't think there should be a problem. But we decided to see some more places and not decide on anything in a hurry.

It was a long, tiring day and we were roaming around Banjara Hills, Jubilee Hills and Sri Nagar Colony the whole day until evening. Flats, houses, rooms, shared rooms - we saw it all. I think we really looked lost and homeless, because we were asked by some strangers on the road if we were looking for some place to rent out; and this happened twice. We were desperate enough to take the second stranger's number, who turned out to be a broker and considered some of the options he gave.

We tried raising our budget, although I would find it difficult to shell out so much money. Still no luck. None of the decent apartments are available for two single working women as they assume that we have ulterior intentions of starting a brothel. The brokers tell us that straight on our face with such attitude, as if it's a crime to even consider that as an option. So houses or rooms are our best bet.

Seven hours, four brokers and ten houses later, we are still homeless.

Maybe we should just move into that first house we saw and liked. So what if it's a little far from the main road? There are so many people from both Tara's and my office living close by. There are shops too. The area is safe as well.

Sigh.

We are going to see some more places today. Hope something works out soon.

The Conversation

2007-10-18T19:05:00.000+05:30

My computer screen blinks for a microsecond and the display is back. The page has been refreshed.

I see a red envelope on the top left corner and beside it, in parenthesis, the magic number - (1).

I've got mail!

I can't wait. I just have to check my mail. Maybe it's him.
Maybe he has written a poem for me.
Maybe he has finally decided to tell me how he feels about me, things that have been left unsaid.
Maybe he just wants to drop a line, share a moment together through this technological interface, challenging the miles that separate us geographically.
Maybe it's one of those horrible pointless 'Please forward me or you will rot in hell' mails. Sigh.
I decide that I will check anyway.

I hold my breath as I click on the tab. . .

'Dear Citibank Customer, your account balance is ..." I do not care to read any further.

Disappointed, I return to the technological tomfoolery that I do for a living.

[minutes later]

I sign into G talk and search for his name. I stare at the round green blob for a second. I read his status message. I read it again. and again. Once again I stare at the green blob that is shining beside his name. I imagine him at work, staring at some paper as he rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, deep in thought. He shakes his head and combs his hair with his hand. I can almost smell him now. I continue to stare at the green blob. Occasionally I read his name.

Suddenly I hear the sound of a gong. No. That can't be Air Supply playing.

A small box pops up and I see his name on it. He has pinged me. We talk.

:)

Love Letters

2007-10-16T18:28:00.000+05:30

Finally I got to see some good theatre in Hyderabad. Rage Productions' 'Love letters' was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant performances ever. It's very rarely that all works well in theatre. That very uncertainty is its challenge and beauty. But what I witnessed last Friday was something close to a miracle. The story, told through a series of letters written by two people - Andy and Melissa - was beautifully portrayed by veteran actors Rajit Kapur and Shernaz Patel. It was delightful to watch them bring out their nameless relationship, that grows from juvenile delinquents, to adulthood discovery, to middle aged dependence, and somewhere down the line into an innocent love that conquers the deepest depths and attains the highest heights.

I wonder if such love exists in reality. Are we capable of a love that is so unconditional and real? My grandparents were married to each other for 70 years. Does that mean they were truly in love? Now, I don't want to judge their lives or label their relationship; but I know they were inseparable in a very ethereal, delicate way that I cannot put in words. They continued to care for each other long after youth, passion, romance and all else left them. Maybe it comes out of habit, of having lived together for so many years.

I wonder if I will ever find such effortless comfort in anyone's company; if I'll ever want to spend a lifetime with someone.

I'm way too cynical to even hope for it.

Cynically Yours

2007-10-05T09:28:00.001+05:30

Monday morning blues. No. Morning blues. No. Just Blues.

Life has been just plain depressing these days.

What is worse than a depressing book? A depressing book that you cannot put down. Well, what’s worse? A depressing book that you can’t put down, because every word of it is true. A series of events in the past, coupled with all else has sucked all zing out of me. Tara and I have been feeling so low, that our chins touch the ground all the time. There’s nothing to do in this city, and we miss Chennai terribly. This place, the people, work and all else is just dead; and reading The Inheritance of Loss just reassured all my cynical beliefs.

Grief is forever. There's no escape. Things will go wrong, and what you feared the most will happen. Do not try to fight it or change it. You can try to be brave, and attempt to make a life out of mere existence. But that's gratuitous. All you need to do, is to watch helplessly as your dreams go up in smoke, and your life's fantastic imagery becomes incongruously juxtaposed against reality.

monotonous rants

2007-10-04T14:41:00.000+05:30

I am sick of life.

I need the sea.

I want to sit on a wooden armchair and stretch my legs on the stone floor on a rainy evening, with a steaming hot cup of coffee on the table beside me.

I want to smell the earth; that profound olfactory sensation, of wet earth.

I want to love and be loved.

I want to slowly drift into deep, peaceful slumber and dream endlessly into the night.

Chennai

2007-09-18T16:24:00.000+05:30

I have always loved rain for some reason. The sky looks so fine and I love the smells that rain brings. It’s like rain has the power to penetrate into almost anything and then bring out its best. If you have ever been to the sea when it’s raining, then maybe you’ll understand. You can close your eyes and let the magic of all your other senses work; and it’ll reveal to you a lot of things that vision can never capture.

So it’s raining outside right now and instead of being out there enjoying it, I am sitting here and working. Sigh. Rain always brings back a lot of memories. I have always been a very water person; at least ever since my uncle threw me into the water (I was 6 yrs old I think) and made me learn swimming. My house in Kerala is only a 10 minute walk away from the sea and so you can imagine what kind of a childhood I would have had. Thanks to my maternal Uncle, we (referring to sister, cousins, friends and other extended family members, as we used to live in a joint family) used to go to the beach almost every other day and would play all evening, until we were exhausted and returned with tired limbs and sore throats owing to the continuous screaming, cheering and shouting. My uncle would then take us all to the Indian Coffee House close by and get us hot ethakka bajji and kappi. Then the noisy bunch of us would walk or take the bus home; all the while providing endless amusement to passers by. Now things have changed and the inevitable has happened: we all grew up. Studies, careers and marriages have thrown us around the globe and those who are together back home also find themselves lost in monotonous routine. Although I moved to Chennai to do my graduation, I did not really miss home as Chennai was a lot like home. In fact, over the years it has become a place I would consider home, like Kerala. And in Chennai, too, there were two beaches; beautiful ones. I really miss Chennai; the genuine people, the vast sea, the brilliant sky… Most of all, I miss the beautiful city itself, where there’s so much to see, do, discover.

Hyderabad, without a shadow of doubt, is perhaps the worst city to live in if you are someone like me, with a soul that’s hungry for beauty, excitement and zing. Hyderabad in the early mornings is as dead as a place can get. There is no friendly hustle bustle, chirping birds or anything of the sort. Nothing is alive; everything just exists. There is no celebration of art, culture and theatre. The days are quite uneventful and all that people here like to do is to party; Party all night and week long. And even the language lacks the beautiful rhythm that Malayalam and Tamil has. The words sound like there are no vowels and people communicate through sounds. I saw a boy selling bubbles the other day, beside the lake. There was a surge of joy as I bought a bottle from him and sat down to blow my worries away. And then. No bubbles. The solution was too watery or there was something wrong with the straw. But I'll blame it on the city that seems to have a fierce aversion to happiness. Life is just plain depressing. To make things worse, the city is culturally dead. (Did I mention that before?)

This post is to declare my love for Chennai and all the hidden poetry that the city contains between its folds. Chennai – a brigadoon of sorts with the most wonderful coffee, fine theatre, real people, deep blue sea, perfect full moon nights, vast radiant sky, lovely rains, delicate yellow flowers, language charged with music, perpetually alive streets – the city that gave me so much, where I found and lost love (or something close to it), where I learned and unlearned, where I have seen the prettiest of sights, where the sky never fails to smile and the moon continues to shine.

All I ask for

2007-08-30T20:10:00.000+05:30

I know there's no future for us
so let our relationship be nameless
no need to try and give it a shape
cos its best when there are no rules; when its formless
no need to expect anything and then later, weep
no need for any promises that we cant keep

forget all the warnings and advice, throw them out of the window
let's listen to our hearts and ask for no more.
make love to me the way you want to
let me explore you like a virtu
lets sing and dance and enjoy the night
cos the night is young and the moon full 'n shining bright

don't curb the passions; let them swallow
and set our souls aglow
no need to share all my joys and sorrow
just love me today, like there's no tomorrow

2007-08-22T11:51:00.000+05:30

too much of Google,
thoughts fizzle,
pen & paper wrestle,
blocks to tackle.

Coffee off the kettle,
down the throat trickle,
muses tickle,
ideas sparkle !

an old dream

2007-08-21T18:51:00.000+05:30

Cleaning cupboards can be a lot of fun. Especially when you come across some of your belongings that you never knew existed. Amidst a broken voodoo doll (ahem, my idea of play as a child was quite different), a couple of rough sketches, some stones and sticks, I found this essay that I had written when I was 13 yrs old. It was for some competition held at school and I had won a cash award of Rs.1000. The copy is hand written with a Hero pen, in blue ink.

Read on . . .

India of my Dreams

India, my country, also called Bharat, has a long history – political, cultural and spiritual – of at least ten thousand years. While other parts of this known and unknown world were steeped in the misty depths of darkness, the glow of wisdom, the light of glory, was shining here, shimmering here, like a beacon.

Coming to modern times, my country was politically cut up into three pieces, the western and eastern planks forming the theocratic state of Pakistan, and the middle piece forming secular India in 1947. The demand for dividing India into two regions on religious basis sprang from religious passion, fanatical intolerance and political skullduggery. Now, India is the cradle of Hinduism, and tenets of this religion spread even in the ancient times to other countries, notably the eastern Asiatic countries like Cambodia, Indonesia, etc. Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism sprang from it. All religions were welcome here. The early Christians arrived here in 48 AD. St. Thomas, the Apostle of Jesus Christ was welcome here and was allowed to settle down and spread his religion. The Jews were equally welcome. So were the Zoroastrians. Muslims alone came with the sword, but they too settled here. Finally they demanded partition of the family and had their say under a willing British mastermind. But history, that forbidden teacher, taught them a lesson. Their house was once again partitioned in 1971 and the Eastern flank, peopled by the dark Bengali Muslims, walked away with Bangladesh. Baluchistan and Sind are of dissent and further partitions cannot be ruled out. My dream of India is that all these three pieces should come together and once again form that great India, recapturing the glory that was Ind.

Moving on, even modern India lives in villages. There are 5,50,000 of them, which people 70% of the population. There are umpteen villages among these, where drinking water and primary education are still luxuries, even after 53 years of independence. In the India of my dreams, all these villages will have enough drinking water and all the boys and girls will have had at least primary education.

In the India of my dreams, all the great rivers of the country like the motherly Ganga, Yamuna, Kaveri, Krishna, Godavari, Narmada, Brahmaputra, Sone, etc will be interlinked by an intelligent system of canals and there shall be neither floods, nor famines.

In the India of my dreams, parents will be a very reasonable community of people, unlike now. They will not beget in such thoughtless fashion of passion as of now to become a teeming billion! They will not force their children to be doctors or engineers. Instead, only those who are naturally inclined will seek medical and engineering education. In that way we will have dedicated doctors and enterprising engineers who are there owing to their natural inclination.

In the India of my dreams, followers of other religions will, in their own mature reflection and thinking, come to realize that all paths lead to one goal and just as a 100 is received by adding 10 ten times, 20 five times, 50 two times, or in such endless ways, God – the Ultimate Reality - could also be reached through any number of methods and not necessarily one or two as some of the arrived faiths in this country have the cheek to believe and tell the aborigines of this country.

In the India of my dreams, Science & Technology will flourish as much as Art & Music. While we have our own thriving culture in the arts, we have to make headway in the technological front.

In the India of my dreams, every house will have a computer and an internet connection to make life more meaningful, interesting, instructive and enjoyable. In the India of my dreams, there will be no poverty, no waste of food, no spitting and littering as of now.

In the India of my dreams, dogs and stray animals will not be allowed to become the menace that they are now.

In the India of my dreams, vegetarianism and Ayurveda will flourish and the dead will continue to be cremated and those who do not cremate the dead will also realize the spiritual meaning and social good of such customs.

In the India of my dreams, the smoker will not offend the non-smoker into passive smoking as of now.

In the India of my dreams, God will still be a realizable agenda of daily existence.

And in my heart, I believe that all such dreams of every Indian will come true and that India will shine in all respects. For that matter, has anyone spread a thought as to why the Upanishads were born in India and not in Uganda; Why the Mahabharata, encompassing the Great Bhagavad-Gita, was conceived and written in India and not in ‘Maha’ Britain; Why Valmiki was born in India and wrote in Sanskrit, and not in the Virgin Islands and wrote in Arabic; Why Adi Shankaracharya was born in Kaladi in Kerala and not in Aden; Why Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa was born in Bengal and not in Belgium; Why Swami Vivekananda settled in India and not in America, amidst the lust and luxury; Why a Mohandas – suited, coated and educated in England to become a Barrister-at-law – returned to India, changed his robes and become a half naked fakir; to lead this country into Freedom and Light; Why Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru should describe river Ganga in such ecstatic prosperity when writing up such a mundane thing as his will?

In spite of all the negative, disappointing, disconcerting and dehumanizing factors that are discernible in every sphere of endeavor in the country at the moment, I have a deeply held; almost spiritual conviction, that one day this country will rise again to the great levels of consciousness, both spiritual and material, that it had reached years ago.

The Photograph

2007-08-21T12:58:00.000+05:30

You are on my desk, caught in a photograph

You watch me work, write, yawn, laugh

I look at you often

And it’s like the best conversation

You sit there all day, twixt the tissue box and potted plant

Giving me the undivided attention I want

I wonder if you think of me, when I think of you.

Is there a picture of me on your desk too?

I care for you in my own strange way

Maybe you’ll never know; maybe I’ll never show.

Life is Fleeting

2007-08-21T12:56:00.000+05:30

Gauri is in the kitchen making coffee. Aman enters, puts his files and bag down, goes into the kitchen and hugs Gauri. He slowly traces kisses from her ear down to her neck.

"Stop!", she shouts and pushes him away and continues to make coffee.

"Why, whats wrong with you?", asks Aman and he grabs her by the waist and starts kissing her face again.

Gauri pushes him away again and walks towards the door.

Aman gets there before her and stops her.

"What is it? Tell me. You hate me, don't you? You don't think I'm good enough, huh?" he shouts.

He tries to force himself on her.

Trring.. trring.. the telephone rings.

He shoves her away and picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

No reply from the other end.

"Hello…. Speak, you bastard!"

No response. He slams the receiver down and looks at her.

"That must have been for you, right? You think I don't know? You think I am a fool?" he strides towards her and pulls her close to him. He starts ripping her clothes off and does not stop in spite of her constant screaming.

Trrring… trring.. the telephone rings again.

He throws her on the ground, picks up the receiver and shouts "Stop calling her you bastard. You want to know what is happening here right now? She is with me. She is mine and there is nothing you can do about it. Listen. Hear her scream, beg, plead." He guffaws.

He turns around and finds that Gauri is sipping coffee from her mug.

"Come here, you filthy whore!" He screams and walks towards her.

Gauri puts her mug on the table and turns towards him, trying to protest and stop him. He throws her against the wall, presses himself against her and starts to pull her hair and bite her.

Suddenly the big marble jar, placed on the top shelf moves back and forth dangerously. The meretricious ornamentation falls on Aman with a loud bang.

Its all over in a moment. No more shouting or screaming. He did not let out a single sound.

An undignified, helpless death.

Gauri picks up her mug from the table, walks towards the window and continues to drink her coffee.

Ordinary Ordeal

2007-07-13T15:41:00.000+05:30

Sometimes the most insignificant of things leave a fleeting impression in your life; a moment's contact with someone or a snippet from some strange conversation or a line from some old song. The feeling comes to you in a flash, but its something that you have always known and lived with. I love such moments.
I fancy calling myself a very simple person. I do not believe in wearing jazzy clothes or decking myself up everyday. I would happily wear my floaters wherever i go and would rather be at the beach than a busy mall, shopping. I find great joy in simple things like the sea, glass bangles, coffee mugs, books and so on. Now the purpose of this post is to tell you about my encounter with a certain someone.
I met her at office today. She cleans the toilets on my floor and I see her almost everyday. She is short, not very fat and has a beautiful smile. She has a small gold stud on her pierced nose. Her hair is usually plaited or tied up in a bun and there is always a general air of rush around her as she moves around with her mop and bucket from one toilet into another, refilling tissue holders, emptying dustbins and spraying room fresheners.We occasionally exchange a smile (once when i felt like putting my language skills to test, I spoke to her in Telugu. She burst into fits of laughter and since then i stick to my smiling or nodding.) As i have been experiencing insomnia for the past couple of weeks, I feel the need to refresh myself quite often. A generous splash of water every hour or so usually gives amazing results. So on one such trip to the restroom this afternoon, I met her there. Blue mop in one hand and a white bucket on the other, she was proceeding to do her routine cleaning business. I had brought my kajal with me so as to apply it once I was done with splashing. I left next to the basin, under the tissue dispenser so that i could get on with the splashing, when she took a fancy for my kajal and picked it up. "Leepshtik?", she asked me, with the same innocence of my five-year old nephew. "No, i replied. That's my kajal." She knew what kajal meant and it saved me from a struggle with the local language. "Oh! mine small and round. red colour.", she said. "I smiled and nodded in agreement. "Rupee kada ?", she asked. She was rubbing the thumb and index finger of her right hand in constant motion which further assured me that she wanted to know how much it costs. "100 rupees.", I told her. She was shocked and stunned; and the next moment she started laughing; a hand- over-mouth unbelievable sort of laugh. In between fits of laughter she told me "mine 5 rupees." More laughter. "Madam style." Laughter. Her eyes were telling me that she thought i was some rich freak who works for a big company and uses all branded and expensive things. Someone used to extravagance; who has always been pampered and maybe born with a silver spoon in her mouth. At that instant I felt as if the friendly connection that was there between us through occasional smiles and nods just vanished and we were separated by a grotesque mask and there was immeasurable distance between us. I wanted to tell her that it was not true. That's not the case. I am not one of those women whom she meets everyday, who may not even think of returning the warmth in her smile. But language and words failed me. I went into the loo and on my way out I looked at her as she was busily cleaning the basin. I was searching for the usual smile and "ta ta madam!" I walked out unnoticed.

Poem, of sorts...

2007-06-11T17:37:00.000+05:30

I like . . .

the way you hold my hand and rub between my fingers
the way you kiss me deep and how your taste lingers

the way you massage my back and press down my spine
Rub the sides of my breast and kiss me from behind

the way you kiss and make my lips swell
the way our toes meet and the stories they tell

I like . . .

like to run my fingers through your hair,
as your lips explore me everywhere

like your smell, the smell of you
No, not cigarette, deo or mint you chew

its you and the way your body smells
I cannot compare it to anything else

I like the way you whisper into my ears
urging me to talk; about all my fears

And I like it when you listen with undivided attention,
The way you put your arms around me in a busy street, for protection

I like . . .

like it when you hold me close, like am in your safe keeping
And then watch me, when am sleeping

like it when you hug me tight
wish you could keep me warm night after night

like it when you draw the curtains and ruffle through my hair,
And in little ways you show me, how much you care.

I like to listen to your breathing, lying close against your chest,
To feel the rhythm that keeps you going as beside me you rest

I want to dream and dance with you
I want to talk
and on moonlit nights, I want to go on long walks

I want to take care of you, make you feel loved
and with all else dissolved,
I want to hold eternity in every hug.

2007-05-07T20:50:00.000+05:30

Sometimes you are shocked to see
how things in life turn out to be
bad luck seems to love your company
and you are constantly trying to break free
then suddenly there's a trace of light
and everything changes overnight.
no more odds are left to fight
and you smile again, in pure delight.
the sudden clear sky after storm and thunder
really makes me wonder
how the whole scheme of things work.

God gives every man his own measure
of joy, sorrow, madness, work and leisure
and its good
that two and two don't always make a four;
For, if things were perfect all the time
paradise would be such a bore!

2007-04-27T14:05:00.000+05:30

my big whopping paunch
does'nt move, shift, slide or sway
how i miss my toes

haiku

2007-04-26T16:26:00.000+05:30

This is much much more fun. must try!

#1
Like paint on paper
you, my most precious one have
left imprints on me . .

#2
In deep peaceful sleep,
hues from an unseen palette
colour all my dreams .

#3
Dew drops fall only
to crackle, split , disappear
never to be held . .

#4
I miss you my love
Feel lifeless. Like the sky when
Moon is in hiding .

#5
Pure milk chocolate
Provides continued delight
Endless appetite .

#6
Outstretched arms ignored
Last rain drop falls on the ground
Another dream is lost.

#7
Pain killers don’t help
This shooting piercing back pain
Am slowly dying.

#8
We made love all night
Then woke up and said goodbye
Reality bites.

#9
Bubbles on night sky
Burst or float to distant lands
Never to return. .

Limericks

2007-04-26T15:52:00.001+05:30

my first shot at limericks.
great fun. enjoy!

#1
A limerick will have you rolling with laughter
And compared to a poem, its definitely better
Cos it takes less space
And narrates things at great pace
On any topic, often with humour.

#2
Romantic me told my boyfriend,
“Darling, our love will never end”.
A ‘dreamer’ he called me
With no sense of reality
God! Why such fuckwits as men do you send ?!

2007-02-27T16:23:00.000+05:30

Everyone is a different person when they are with someone else and we all lives different lives all the time. sometimes i wonder how one would be if no one else existed.
what if there was no world at all? no thoughts, no perceptions, no existence.
sigh. maybe i have been staring at the ceiling for too long. will count sheep and go to sleep.

2007-02-14T18:32:00.002+05:30

Valentine’s day is around the corner and almost every company is trying to endorse it’s product by making it the ‘one special gift for your valentine.’ Chocolates, jewellery, clothes, cars, diamonds, books, even tyre manufacturers call their new modal specially synthesized fine grip tyres to be that one dream gift your valentine is waiting for. And the advertisements also portray that if you do not turn up on this special day in your finest attire and with THE gift, you’re in for trouble.
Seriously, this is so ridiculous. And what is worse is when your good friends who totally agree with you on how pointless the whole thing is, run helter-skelter a week before the d day in search of THE gift for their valentine.
If you ask me, the best thing a man can give a woman is his undivided attention. Nothing like spending a whole day together with no family, friends, work and phone calls to interfere. Forget gifts and surprises. Just quality time spent together.

2007-02-14T18:32:00.001+05:30

Sometimes in life you meet someone and then everything changes. You start seeing everything from a whole new perspective, like never before, and there is excitement in the air – always.
What you feel for him is so different and he is really special. What you have for him is a love that comes out of nothing but love itself. He’s not the most handsome man you’ve ever met, he’s not the life of every party, and he’s not your knight in shining armor. He has always been a part of you and you have known him for so long. There is an effortless comfort when he's around. You can sit with him for a whole evening, not say a single word, but still end up feeling that it’s the best conversation you’ve ever had. He does not make you complete; but you can share your incompleteness with him.
When you’re with him everything seems so right and the world seems to be like the perfect place to live in. Words become redundant and you start speaking through eyes, touch, feel, music. Reality becomes an illusion and he becomes a part of everything you do. He is the music in every song you listen to, the inspiration of every picture you paint, the subject of every poem you write.
You can speak about almost any insignificant thing and still feel the absolute need to tell each other about it, no matter how trivial it is – and you feel like you are living life together even though you actually live in two corners of the world.
He is perfect. Not flawless, but perfect – for you, because every morning you want to wake up and see his sleepy face beside you, you want to drink the first cup of coffee with him and get through the day knowing that he’s around. It’s like you are witnessing each other’s lives. It’s to him that you want to reveal all your silly thoughts and ideas, it’s to him that you always go for reassurance and encouragement, it’s him that you want to marry and make babies with. You want to live everyday of your life with him. Even forever doesn’t seem long enough to be with him. And it’s not because he’s the perfect someone you can live with; he’s someone you cannot live without.
You take away the passion, the thrill, the romance, the excitement, to find that after all that you still care. The relationship is on a totally different – almost spiritual – plane.
You start living life the way you wanted to, doing all the things that you always wanted to, and you find that you can’t stop smiling, just can’t hide the feeling, your feet keep tapping and you want to keep dancing; all the time. And very often you end up talking in rhyme!

2007-02-14T18:31:00.000+05:30

Sometimes I wonder, when you think of someone, do they think of you? I have always felt that there is more to everything than what I know of. There is always a part of the picture that I cannot see. Maybe because of the way I look at things or maybe because some things are just beyond me. Is it true that no two people think alike? Very unlikely, because if there is no unity in thought, or at least similarity, nothing can ever happen or exist. But most of the time I feel disconnected from the people around me and their thoughts. Its like all the world thinks one way and I, another. I have always wanted to know what other people felt, the whole thought process that goes on inside their head; so that I too could partake and get involved in life instead of just watching it from the sidelines.

2007-01-10T11:39:00.000+05:30

I have always lived my life the way I want to. I have done things that interest me; I try my best to pursue my dreams and live life the way I want to. Of course, that does'nt mean that I don't have to make adjustments and considerations. But i have always managed to have my way.
Sometimes, you are really sure about some things. Even if you know that given the present circumstances it is almost impossible to achieve it, you still don't give up. You keep trying. Maybe you will put it aside for the moment so that you can attend to more important things at hand. But it's always there at the back of your mind. Knowingly or unknowingly you are always trying to achieve that; all means are directly or indirectly focussed on that end.
And then you find that things have become a lot easier. The desire to achieve That gives you the energy to face all else. They say that we must all find what our basic interest is, what is it that we have a passion for and must then make a life out of it. But thats not possible all the time. We may have to live a mechanical or not so happy life before we get the freedom to do what we want. Just because we let that happen does'nt mean we are cowards. It takes a lot of courage to do that and a whole lot of passion to keep the dream alive.

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

2006-12-25T19:13:00.000+05:30

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow,if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty, every day.And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

it's a feel good thing

2006-12-02T10:54:00.000+05:30

Sometimes some things happen to you that makes you feel so nice. You don’t even know why. All you know is that the feeling is true. You feel so good from deep down inside that makes you feel exhilarated, liberated and so extremely happy; Joy of the highest possible degree. People might call you weird and stupid. But that doesn’t matter, because you’re as happy as can be. It’s the feeling and also the freedom to enjoy the feeling that makes you feel so great. And don’t try to find the reason, because there is no one reason. Maybe there is no reason at all. Maybe it’s not possible to reason it out because the joy is in the feeling as a whole. Don’t try to analyze it or explain it – that will only spoil the effect. The emotion is so strong and you are so sure of it that even though the moment has passed, the feeling still lingers, and you can always come back to it and feel it all over again with the same power and intensity.

But it’s a happy feeling and so, you cannot keep it to yourself. Grief can manage on its own, but when you’re happy, you need someone to share it with, because that is when you can feel it best. The feeling is so much more big and the joy so much more great when you can find someone who can relate to it and understand it. It then goes into a different level altogether. And once you have found someone with whom you can share such a feeling, then its like you’ve come to the end of a journey. Once the feeling is there and its felt, then words become redundant. You can sit with him all day long, not say a single word and still feel that it’s the best conversation you’ve ever had. But it’s important that you share the feeling, because talking about it or knowing what it is, is different from actually feeling it. It’s like the difference between watching a porn movie and actually making love.

They talk a lot about soul mates these days - the perfect match, your other half. But the way I see it you don’t always look for someone to complete you; at least I don’t. Maybe all you need is someone wit whom you can share your incompleteness. A perfect match is not when the perfect couple come together; It’s when an imperfect couple learn to enjoy their differences.

21 Nov, 2006

ANTIGONE (by Jean Anouilh, translated by Lewis Galantiere : an excerpt)

2006-06-03T17:42:00.000+05:30

The spring is wound up tight. It will uncoil of itself. That is what is so convenient in tragedy. The least little turn of the wrist will do the job. Anything will set it going: a glance at a girl who happens to be lifting her arms to her hair as you go by; a feeling when you wake up on a fine morning that you’d like a little respect paid to you today, as if it were as easy to order as a second cup of coffee; one question too many, idly thrown out over a friendly drink – and the tragedy is on.
The rest is automatic. You don’t need to lift a finger. The machine is in perfect order, it has been oiled ever since time began, and it runs without friction. Death, treason and sorrow are on the march; and they move in the wake of storm, of tears, of stillness. Every kind of stillness. The hush when the executioner’s axe goes up at the end of the last act. The unbreathable silence when, at the beginning of the play, the lovers, their hearts bared, their bodies naked, stand for the first time face to face in the darkened room, afraid to stir. The silence inside you when the roaring crowd acclaims the winner – so that you think of a film without a soundtrack, mouths agape and no sound coming out of them, a clamour that is no more than a picture; and you, the victor, already vanquished, alone in the desert of your silence. That is tragedy.
Tragedy is clean. It is restful, it is flawless. It has nothing to do with melodrama – with wicked villains, persecuted maidens, avengers, sudden revelations and eleventh hour repentances. Death, in a melodrama is really horrible because it is never inevitable. The dear old father might so easily have been saved; the honest young man might so easily have brought in the police five minutes earlier.
In a tragedy, nothing is in doubt and everybody’s destiny is known. That makes for tranquility. There is a sort of fellow-feeling among the characters in a tragedy: he who kills is as innocent as he who gets killed: it’s all a matter of what part you are playing. Tragedy is restful; and the reason is that hoe, that foul deceitful thing, has no part in it. There isn’t any hope. You’re trapped. The whole sky has fallen on you, and all you can do about it is to shout. Don’t mistake me: I said “shout”: I did not say groan, whimper, complain. That, you cannot do. But you can shout aloud; you can get all those things said that you never thought you’d be able to say – or even knew you had it in you to say. And you don’t say these things because it will do you any good to say them: you know better than that. You say them for their own sake; you say them because you learn a lot from them.
In melodrama, you argue and struggle in the hope of escape. That is vulgar; it’s practical. But in tragedy, where there is no temptation to try to escape, argument is gratuitous: it’s kingly.

2006-05-25T00:28:00.000+05:30

All of us live, breathe, eat, work- all with the same hope; hope for a better tomorrow. We want to grab all the opportunities, make all the money, get all the fame. Everyone wants a piece of the cake. But then at the end of the day, is that what we really want? We should react and reach out to the actual calling within us. The real dream, the real purpose for which we are all here. Now don get me wrong. I’m not bein spiritual. If you have climbed the highest mountain, earned the last dollar, have been to the moon and back, but you still don feel quite right inside, its just not worth it. Just because half the world (or maybe even more) wants the same things from life, its okay if you don want to be in the spotlight. Some people, if left alone, would be really happy being mediocre. What do celebrities do anyway? Work hard all their life to be famous and then wear dark glasses to avoid being recognized! Life is to be lived and enjoyed. Do what you want with it. If you want to be the richest man in the world, then go ahead and work towards your dream with perseverance and confidence. But then, if you really just want to lie back and take life as it comes, that’s okay too. Wait for the right calling in your life to happen. Be sure of what you do. Whatever it is.

everyone is a hero

2006-05-21T03:06:00.000+05:30

they talk a lot about heroes these days. make them idols, give them titles, name streets, perfumes, houses, pets and even children after them. they write pages and punchlines about a hero's life. everybody loves a hero. so who is a hero anyway? someone who can do things that no one else can? someone who can speak, dance or sing well? someone who hails from a popular family? why is it that we are able to celebrate the lives of those heroes whom we have'nt met or known in person, but fail to recogonize the hero inside each and everyone of us? there are heroes who rise to the occasion and then quietly slip away. a man who jumps into a building on fire to save an eight year old, a man who satnds up against the odds in his life, a man who lives his life the way he wants to withouit worrying about pleasing others; they are all heroes. in most movies and plays its always the hero who says the best dialouge, its he who fights for what is right, its the hero who is all powerful and intelligent. its always the hero whom we all like to relate with. but we must learn to appreciate the everyday heroes like you and me. you dont always have to climb the highest mountain or win the toughest election or write the best book to be a hero. any man who lives his life with a purpopse and brings out the best in him is a hero. we all are.

2006-05-21T02:58:00.000+05:30

Living life the way I want to. Without thinking about anything else. To get up and dance without being bothered about what others are going to think; to eat all the chocolates that I want to without worrying about the extra layer of flesh adding on to my stomach; to be able to hear the incredible noise that perfect silence makes; to be able to shout when I want to instead of bringing out a forced whisper; to have the courage to cry when I feel broken instead of putting on a fake brave face; to be able to get wet in the rain and roll in the sand without worrying about the grass stains on my skirt; to laugh with complete abandon; to be able to use all that fine silver that I have been saving up for the ideal occasion failing to realize that every moment in life is special; to let my heart speak when it wants to; to love and be loved for no reason, but love itself; to have worked hard all my life and then when everything that I had so carefully built over the years shatter right in front of my eyes , to still have the strength to pick up the broken pieces and start all over again in all humility; to believe in God and feel Him within me; to live, breathe and sleep every night with no burdens of yesterday, but with new hope for tomorrow; to grow old gracefully and to be proud of my greys; and when death comes and knocks at the door, to be able to slip away with no regrets, leaving a mark for what I have been, that is how I want to live .