Sunday 26 December 2010
Friday 3 December 2010
Friday 26 November 2010
Monday 22 November 2010
Friday 19 November 2010
Thursday 18 November 2010
Friday 1 October 2010
Sunday 12 September 2010
Feeling so restless...
But in the midst of these waves crashing against the shore, the sight of this vast city glimmering in front of me is so calming. Knowing that there could be a murder, a robbery right behind this peaceful visage doesn't unnerve the ebbing waves...yet there is an unease. Why? How long will it last? Where is this life supposed to lead me?
But in the midst of these waves crashing against the shore, the sight of this vast city glimmering in front of me is so calming. Knowing that there could be a murder, a robbery right behind this peaceful visage doesn't unnerve the ebbing waves...yet there is an unease. Why? How long will it last? Where is this life supposed to lead me?
Friday 10 September 2010
Thursday 9 September 2010
The problem is not in thinking differently but in failing to explain different thoughts to different people...
The problem is not in being stronger or faster than people we love, but in failing to convince them that we don't want to leave them behind...
The problem is not in weaving a dream of a shared future, but in failing to share that dream with the people in it...
The problem is not in making mistakes, no matter how irreversible, but in failing to learn from them and preventing such mistakes again...
The problem is not in being stronger or faster than people we love, but in failing to convince them that we don't want to leave them behind...
The problem is not in weaving a dream of a shared future, but in failing to share that dream with the people in it...
The problem is not in making mistakes, no matter how irreversible, but in failing to learn from them and preventing such mistakes again...
Monday 6 September 2010
Sunday 15 August 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
Thoughts of an extremely claustrophobic person
Voices, probing voices.
Voices seeking to change my moods,
My life, my fate.
Voices thinking they are omnipotent
Having dreams for me,
Dreams that supercede my reality
That refuse to acknowledge the boundaries I draw for everything that is not of my creation
I have paved my path
And I shall stick to it or pave new ones.
In the process, worlds shall shatter,
New worlds shall evolve.
And with each step, the world will be my creation.
You can dream for me, hope for me, guide me
But you CANNOT live my life.
It is my own and I shall live it my way.
Respect me for the choices I have made.
Respect me for the person I have become.
Don't try to make me somebody I am not.
For then, I lose what little I am existing for.
Respect my spaces. They are very private.
Respect my boundaries. At times, they are very rigid
Respect my existence. At times, it may seem non-existent.
But if you offer to hold me each time I fall,
My growth will be stunted, my individuality abused and my life a failure.
Voices seeking to change my moods,
My life, my fate.
Voices thinking they are omnipotent
Having dreams for me,
Dreams that supercede my reality
That refuse to acknowledge the boundaries I draw for everything that is not of my creation
I have paved my path
And I shall stick to it or pave new ones.
In the process, worlds shall shatter,
New worlds shall evolve.
And with each step, the world will be my creation.
You can dream for me, hope for me, guide me
But you CANNOT live my life.
It is my own and I shall live it my way.
Respect me for the choices I have made.
Respect me for the person I have become.
Don't try to make me somebody I am not.
For then, I lose what little I am existing for.
Respect my spaces. They are very private.
Respect my boundaries. At times, they are very rigid
Respect my existence. At times, it may seem non-existent.
But if you offer to hold me each time I fall,
My growth will be stunted, my individuality abused and my life a failure.
Sunday 11 July 2010
The SMS — a short story
Sheetal heard the familiar beep and chose to ignore it. It must be one of those property dealers building houses in Noida who were desperately trying to sell the stuffy, unaffordable homes by sending bulk messages to everyone who had a cell phone. Or it could also be the Sathya Sai Foundation hoping she would convert to the baba’s ways and offer them a huge donation in return for spiritual solace.
Sheetal wouldn’t have minded parting with some money if only she was confident the solace would follow. Things hadn’t been going her way for some time now and she was looking for some divine sign on where to head next.
Mrinal had not responded to her mails, had changed his phone number and quit his job. Common friends told her he had left the city. She refused to believe them. Every time they said something of the kind, her thoughts would go back to the long walks through slices of Delhi. They both fell in love with each other and the city at around the same time.
Of course, she could not say with certainty which came first, but in the muddled recesses of her over-stressed brain, all of it happened around the same time.
Beep! There it went again. Another annoying message. She stopped herself from uttering an involuntary expletive and ignored the beep.
Nobody she knew messaged her any more. Yes, once in a while her mother would send in a confused, garbled message, typed, mistyped and sent in a hurry. How she wished her mother’s phone came with a spell-check. And then there was this young recruit in her team who had the hots for her. She didn’t mind his occasional forwards and once-in-a-while impromptu compliments.
But, like Sheetal told herself, it was really once-in-a-while. And there went a third beep. Now this, was too much to ignore.
She reached out for the phone, balancing her laptop and her diary between the table and her stomach.
Three messages, the phone said. And two of them messages from the same unknown number.
A frown marked her brow as she checked it.
“Sorry,” said the first.
“Well, first tell me what you did,” Sheetal thought.
“Please come back? Waiting where I left you.”
She leapt out of the bed, pulled on her jeans, changed into a presentable top and rushed out. Slamming the door behind her, she ran into the old woman living on the same floor. Sheetal stopped for a split second to steady the woman, adjust her sandal and mutter an expletive under her breath.
‘Shit! I’ve left the key behind,” she said a bit louder for the confused neighbour to understand. But there was no time to explain or fire-fight. That would have to wait.
Luck was favouring her today. There was an autorickshaw right outside the building. She jumped in and told the driver to race to India Gate.
It was just past five and traffic was thin. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Please don’t leave, please,” she prayed.
Holding her breath, the last seven years of her life whizzed past in a haze. Things she’d carefully consciously refused to think about, surfaced in a jumble. The first time she’d met Mrinal, their first date at Regal, their first kiss caught in a fit of passion on a bus ride to Mussourie. The fights, calling each other names, misunderstandings, the pain of not being able to know why love came with so much heartache. The distances growing between them, life slowly taking them their separate ways.
She closed her eyes and felt his warm embrace, taking her away from the present, with the memories she had painstakingly buried in a corner of her heart. Eyes shut, she could feel the tears push their way past the barricade, slipping down her cheek.
Lips pursed, she repeated over and over. “We can do it. We can. We will.”
“Madam, India Gate.” The auto driver sounded almost apologetic at having to interrupt the flood that had just broken. She looked at him with an unrecognising stare, picked out the first note that came into her hands and gave it to him.
And she walked, tripping over her own feet in a hurry. She was no more worried about seeming to be desperate to meet Mrinal. She didn’t think she would be making him feel too important. She just wanted him to know how hopeless life had been without him.
She did not pause to think about all the differences that had arisen between them, about his lack of seriousness about his career, his seeming insincere approach to life, his self-imposed silence, his refusal to meet her friends or family because of some self-imposed complex. She did not stop to think how she would tame her temper, change her overbearing attitude or curb her social life that he so detested.
All that mattered in that moment was that fountain in the middle of the pool at India Gate. The huge mango tree on the edge of the pool, with its motherly branches, still leaned over lovers catching a peck in the setting sun.
All that mattered was getting to that fountain. She remembered sitting on its carved arches and wondering how it would be when the pool would be full. She recalled thinking about how dry the fountain was even as he ranted about how she was too stuck up for him.
Sheetal stepped into the pool and fell flat on her face. A couple of urchins rushed to her side.
One taunted her, “Madam, yahan suicide karne aye ho kya (have you come here to commit suicide)?” Another nudged him and said, “Kapde gandhe ho gaye, ab kya hoga (Her clothes are wet. Now what)? ”
The pain in her ankle started nagging her. Tears streamed down her face, as she tried to clamber on to the bank with the help of the boys.
Another fished out her bag and turned out its contents to examine how much had been damaged. He pulled out her cloth wallet and a small pouch that went beep in his hand.
She snatched her cell phone from the child and saw another message from the same unknown number.
“C’mon Shruti, we’ll miss the train if you don’t come right back.”
Sheetal kept staring as the phone began to sing a familiar tune from a distant past she shared with Mrinal. A by-now-familiar number flashed and she knew she had to take the call and clear a grave misunderstanding. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Someone continued waiting at some station for some beloved who did not know they were missed. And in some other part of the city, a phone continued singing ‘Kya Yahi Pyaar Hai...’
(Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any person or incident is just coincidence)
Sheetal wouldn’t have minded parting with some money if only she was confident the solace would follow. Things hadn’t been going her way for some time now and she was looking for some divine sign on where to head next.
Mrinal had not responded to her mails, had changed his phone number and quit his job. Common friends told her he had left the city. She refused to believe them. Every time they said something of the kind, her thoughts would go back to the long walks through slices of Delhi. They both fell in love with each other and the city at around the same time.
Of course, she could not say with certainty which came first, but in the muddled recesses of her over-stressed brain, all of it happened around the same time.
Beep! There it went again. Another annoying message. She stopped herself from uttering an involuntary expletive and ignored the beep.
Nobody she knew messaged her any more. Yes, once in a while her mother would send in a confused, garbled message, typed, mistyped and sent in a hurry. How she wished her mother’s phone came with a spell-check. And then there was this young recruit in her team who had the hots for her. She didn’t mind his occasional forwards and once-in-a-while impromptu compliments.
But, like Sheetal told herself, it was really once-in-a-while. And there went a third beep. Now this, was too much to ignore.
She reached out for the phone, balancing her laptop and her diary between the table and her stomach.
Three messages, the phone said. And two of them messages from the same unknown number.
A frown marked her brow as she checked it.
“Sorry,” said the first.
“Well, first tell me what you did,” Sheetal thought.
“Please come back? Waiting where I left you.”
She leapt out of the bed, pulled on her jeans, changed into a presentable top and rushed out. Slamming the door behind her, she ran into the old woman living on the same floor. Sheetal stopped for a split second to steady the woman, adjust her sandal and mutter an expletive under her breath.
‘Shit! I’ve left the key behind,” she said a bit louder for the confused neighbour to understand. But there was no time to explain or fire-fight. That would have to wait.
Luck was favouring her today. There was an autorickshaw right outside the building. She jumped in and told the driver to race to India Gate.
It was just past five and traffic was thin. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Please don’t leave, please,” she prayed.
Holding her breath, the last seven years of her life whizzed past in a haze. Things she’d carefully consciously refused to think about, surfaced in a jumble. The first time she’d met Mrinal, their first date at Regal, their first kiss caught in a fit of passion on a bus ride to Mussourie. The fights, calling each other names, misunderstandings, the pain of not being able to know why love came with so much heartache. The distances growing between them, life slowly taking them their separate ways.
She closed her eyes and felt his warm embrace, taking her away from the present, with the memories she had painstakingly buried in a corner of her heart. Eyes shut, she could feel the tears push their way past the barricade, slipping down her cheek.
Lips pursed, she repeated over and over. “We can do it. We can. We will.”
“Madam, India Gate.” The auto driver sounded almost apologetic at having to interrupt the flood that had just broken. She looked at him with an unrecognising stare, picked out the first note that came into her hands and gave it to him.
And she walked, tripping over her own feet in a hurry. She was no more worried about seeming to be desperate to meet Mrinal. She didn’t think she would be making him feel too important. She just wanted him to know how hopeless life had been without him.
She did not pause to think about all the differences that had arisen between them, about his lack of seriousness about his career, his seeming insincere approach to life, his self-imposed silence, his refusal to meet her friends or family because of some self-imposed complex. She did not stop to think how she would tame her temper, change her overbearing attitude or curb her social life that he so detested.
All that mattered in that moment was that fountain in the middle of the pool at India Gate. The huge mango tree on the edge of the pool, with its motherly branches, still leaned over lovers catching a peck in the setting sun.
All that mattered was getting to that fountain. She remembered sitting on its carved arches and wondering how it would be when the pool would be full. She recalled thinking about how dry the fountain was even as he ranted about how she was too stuck up for him.
Sheetal stepped into the pool and fell flat on her face. A couple of urchins rushed to her side.
One taunted her, “Madam, yahan suicide karne aye ho kya (have you come here to commit suicide)?” Another nudged him and said, “Kapde gandhe ho gaye, ab kya hoga (Her clothes are wet. Now what)? ”
The pain in her ankle started nagging her. Tears streamed down her face, as she tried to clamber on to the bank with the help of the boys.
Another fished out her bag and turned out its contents to examine how much had been damaged. He pulled out her cloth wallet and a small pouch that went beep in his hand.
She snatched her cell phone from the child and saw another message from the same unknown number.
“C’mon Shruti, we’ll miss the train if you don’t come right back.”
Sheetal kept staring as the phone began to sing a familiar tune from a distant past she shared with Mrinal. A by-now-familiar number flashed and she knew she had to take the call and clear a grave misunderstanding. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Someone continued waiting at some station for some beloved who did not know they were missed. And in some other part of the city, a phone continued singing ‘Kya Yahi Pyaar Hai...’
(Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any person or incident is just coincidence)
Wednesday 7 July 2010
Sunday 4 July 2010
A breezy, pre-monsoon morning
With wind in the hair, sleep in the soul and dreams in the eyes
A river, a non-existent river
With muck clogging its path, choking its flow, stifling our breath
Friends, from shared pasts
With memories, newfound thoughts, unborn futures and dying beliefs
Bonds, tugging at the rising sun
Spirits breaking free, unfettered, direction-less, with hesitation
With wind in the hair, sleep in the soul and dreams in the eyes
A river, a non-existent river
With muck clogging its path, choking its flow, stifling our breath
Friends, from shared pasts
With memories, newfound thoughts, unborn futures and dying beliefs
Bonds, tugging at the rising sun
Spirits breaking free, unfettered, direction-less, with hesitation
Monday 28 June 2010
Nature — And Me
My early morning friends... Common mynahs, Brahmini mynahs, sparrows, crows, tree pies, koels, little brown doves, babblers or seven sisters, parakeets and plenty of squirrels. Once in a while, a woodpecker tries to cheer me while at others there's a sunbird here and there. Oh! And I forgot the ubiquitous pigeons.
There are also three dogs that seem particularly pleased to greet me. Reminds of that line in the Sound Of Music song
Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me
Edelweiss, edelweiss, you look happy to meet me.
Of the two dogs, there is a brown street dog, a brown street dog and a white lab. This white lab pup just wouldn't stop wagging its tail at me, and well, from where I stood, and the narcissus in my eye saw him (yes, it's a him) flapping it's ears and enticing me :D
Will try and get pics some day.
Rest of the day friends... Parakeets, red-vented bulbuls, crows, sparrows, purple sunbirds, pigeons, common mynahs and the occasional LBD... All aiming for the best mango and warring with spunky squirrels for the booty on this mango tree outside my house.
My evening friends... Common mynahs again, crows and many more sparrows — male as well as female — magpie robins, babblers a plenty, red-vented bulbuls (I haven't spotted too many of these during my morning sojourns), pigeons once in a while, hawks and an imaginary duck.
Friends of the night... dark skies and at times the moon, but most often my pillow and sleep.
And yesterday, a white dove made a fleeting appearance and created a lasting impression on my mind. The symbol of peace, in flight.
There are also three dogs that seem particularly pleased to greet me. Reminds of that line in the Sound Of Music song
Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me
Edelweiss, edelweiss, you look happy to meet me.
Of the two dogs, there is a brown street dog, a brown street dog and a white lab. This white lab pup just wouldn't stop wagging its tail at me, and well, from where I stood, and the narcissus in my eye saw him (yes, it's a him) flapping it's ears and enticing me :D
Will try and get pics some day.
Rest of the day friends... Parakeets, red-vented bulbuls, crows, sparrows, purple sunbirds, pigeons, common mynahs and the occasional LBD... All aiming for the best mango and warring with spunky squirrels for the booty on this mango tree outside my house.
My evening friends... Common mynahs again, crows and many more sparrows — male as well as female — magpie robins, babblers a plenty, red-vented bulbuls (I haven't spotted too many of these during my morning sojourns), pigeons once in a while, hawks and an imaginary duck.
Friends of the night... dark skies and at times the moon, but most often my pillow and sleep.
And yesterday, a white dove made a fleeting appearance and created a lasting impression on my mind. The symbol of peace, in flight.
Friday 25 June 2010
One message and a thousand wasted tears.
Two pieces of broken hearts went their different ways five years ago.
Splinters from both entered my eye together all these years later
The tears were bound to flow when the memories surged ahead.
Washing my soul of all the efforts I had put in to steady my own broken heart
Weakening me for a moment, bringing up all the old doubts again
Why had I parted ways with my loved one. Will I regret it five years later?
Then I realised that both my friends have surrounded them with new people and lives
And that old pain of a lost soul mate surfaces now and then, only to subside
Time will heal, a decision will be made, and we’ll again be left with the same choices
To accept or not accept, and to accept with grace or resignation, faith or frustration.
Splinters from both entered my eye together all these years later
The tears were bound to flow when the memories surged ahead.
Washing my soul of all the efforts I had put in to steady my own broken heart
Weakening me for a moment, bringing up all the old doubts again
Why had I parted ways with my loved one. Will I regret it five years later?
Then I realised that both my friends have surrounded them with new people and lives
And that old pain of a lost soul mate surfaces now and then, only to subside
Time will heal, a decision will be made, and we’ll again be left with the same choices
To accept or not accept, and to accept with grace or resignation, faith or frustration.
Thursday 24 June 2010
Watched Raavanan again. Loved it again. Loved Vikram all over again. It's been a while since I indulged in such madness...watching the same film twice in a single week... :D feeling young again.
I remember watching Life is Beautiful in Calcutta twice in the theatres on two consecutive days. I loved that movie. I guess I went to watch it with Tenzing on Day One and my brother Srinath on Day Two.
I remember watching Life is Beautiful in Calcutta twice in the theatres on two consecutive days. I loved that movie. I guess I went to watch it with Tenzing on Day One and my brother Srinath on Day Two.
Wednesday 23 June 2010
Memories...
I had a pen pal named Prameela VinayKrishnan. Actually, Prameela aunty was my mother's classmate and she had left her address in one of those autograph books that were so popular in school days. I found her entry interesting, then I found her. We kept in touch for quite a few years and even met once in Chennai. But then that relationship fizzled out. She moved to Malaysia, I out of my starry-eyed admiration for such quaint relationships and we moved on.
What comes to mind today is a greeting card she had sent me. I think it was after my Class X board examinations, in which I had performed quite well.
The card said 'Good things come to Good people'...
Am not sure how far this holds true, but yes...sometimes it does happen. And thank God for such reaffirmations for faith.
It is necessary to have faith to have it reaffirmed.
Amen
I had a pen pal named Prameela VinayKrishnan. Actually, Prameela aunty was my mother's classmate and she had left her address in one of those autograph books that were so popular in school days. I found her entry interesting, then I found her. We kept in touch for quite a few years and even met once in Chennai. But then that relationship fizzled out. She moved to Malaysia, I out of my starry-eyed admiration for such quaint relationships and we moved on.
What comes to mind today is a greeting card she had sent me. I think it was after my Class X board examinations, in which I had performed quite well.
The card said 'Good things come to Good people'...
Am not sure how far this holds true, but yes...sometimes it does happen. And thank God for such reaffirmations for faith.
It is necessary to have faith to have it reaffirmed.
Amen
Friday 18 June 2010
Raavanan — Veera Veera Veera...
Raavanan — an overall visual feast.
After watching a movie that claimed to take off from the Mahabharata and found it apt to go back to the epic whenever it suited the script, Raavanan was much better.
Set in the rainforests of Kerala, with glorious waterfalls to keep company, and Vikram sizzling the screen with his performance, what more can you ask for. It was a two-and-a-half hour visual delight.
I'm a Vikram fan, so don't blame me if you watch the movie and fail to get impressed. I loved it. And I lapped it up. And I intend to watch it again in Hindi tomorrow to compare the performances of the Tamil and Hindi cast. Ok, I know Abhishek does not stand a chance in front of Vikram and the trailers have proved that amply. But the rest of the Tamil cast was good and a revelation.
The miserable wet blanket was Prithviraj, who played Dev, the policeman whose wife Ragini (Aishwary) gets abducted by Veera (Vikram).
Veera is a tribal chief, who takes on the power-that-be to become a demi-god for his people. The policemen, corrupt and ruthless, face the brunt of his wrath until Dev comes to terminate him. The two take on each other and in the course of events, Veera kidnaps Dev's Sita and takes her to his forest abode. The 14 days that follow set the background for the story.
Aishwarya, though predictably plastic in the first few scenes, makes up in the rest. Prabhu in the role of Vikram's elder brother and dear old Karthik, whom I'm watching in a movie after ages, and who plays the Hanuman-like forest guard, did a good job. A commendable performance was of Vikram's sister, played by award-winning actress Priyamani. I heard she is repeated in the Hindi version too and has done equally well.
What I loved best, besides Vikram of course, was the beginning. Mani Ratnam got right down to the story without creating a long-winding prelude. The story unfolds gradually.
Though the movie seemed jumpy in parts and some scenes seemed to be added after a later consideration, for instance the treatment of Lakshman-like cop Hemanth who was Dev's right-hand man and the Hanuman-meets-Sita-under-the-Ashoka-tree scene.
The abduction of Ragini, with the underwater shot of a boat crashing, the shot where she jumps into the waterfall and the misty mountains and waterfalls are a must-watch.
Not just Raavan's, Ram's grey shades are also brought out beautifully in the film. And now I'm running out of time.
Please watch it. And please, please, please....if you MUST watch it in Hindi, don't judge the movie before watching it in Tamil.
After watching a movie that claimed to take off from the Mahabharata and found it apt to go back to the epic whenever it suited the script, Raavanan was much better.
Set in the rainforests of Kerala, with glorious waterfalls to keep company, and Vikram sizzling the screen with his performance, what more can you ask for. It was a two-and-a-half hour visual delight.
I'm a Vikram fan, so don't blame me if you watch the movie and fail to get impressed. I loved it. And I lapped it up. And I intend to watch it again in Hindi tomorrow to compare the performances of the Tamil and Hindi cast. Ok, I know Abhishek does not stand a chance in front of Vikram and the trailers have proved that amply. But the rest of the Tamil cast was good and a revelation.
The miserable wet blanket was Prithviraj, who played Dev, the policeman whose wife Ragini (Aishwary) gets abducted by Veera (Vikram).
Veera is a tribal chief, who takes on the power-that-be to become a demi-god for his people. The policemen, corrupt and ruthless, face the brunt of his wrath until Dev comes to terminate him. The two take on each other and in the course of events, Veera kidnaps Dev's Sita and takes her to his forest abode. The 14 days that follow set the background for the story.
Aishwarya, though predictably plastic in the first few scenes, makes up in the rest. Prabhu in the role of Vikram's elder brother and dear old Karthik, whom I'm watching in a movie after ages, and who plays the Hanuman-like forest guard, did a good job. A commendable performance was of Vikram's sister, played by award-winning actress Priyamani. I heard she is repeated in the Hindi version too and has done equally well.
What I loved best, besides Vikram of course, was the beginning. Mani Ratnam got right down to the story without creating a long-winding prelude. The story unfolds gradually.
Though the movie seemed jumpy in parts and some scenes seemed to be added after a later consideration, for instance the treatment of Lakshman-like cop Hemanth who was Dev's right-hand man and the Hanuman-meets-Sita-under-the-Ashoka-tree scene.
The abduction of Ragini, with the underwater shot of a boat crashing, the shot where she jumps into the waterfall and the misty mountains and waterfalls are a must-watch.
Not just Raavan's, Ram's grey shades are also brought out beautifully in the film. And now I'm running out of time.
Please watch it. And please, please, please....if you MUST watch it in Hindi, don't judge the movie before watching it in Tamil.
Tuesday 15 June 2010
Sunday 13 June 2010
A dust storm broke out over Delhi a few hours ago. Within a matter of a few minutes, the oppressive heat and haze of the past few days made way for a glorious summer evening. The heat is still there. But there is more clarity. I can see the beautiful sun spreading its rays over the city. The green looks green instead of a muggy grey. The winter-like mist is gone. There is some clarity, at least for now. But the fog will return and catch us unawares if we are not too careful.
How much care can one take to keep the fog away?
How much care can one take to keep the fog away?
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Bhopal verdict — a disappointment?
The Bhopal verdict came and went.
Many people were disappointed. But seriously, what were they expecting?
We lost the Bhopal battle long ago, again and again. Yesterday, it was just once again that we lost it.
December 3, 1984: People dying like flies after inhaling the Methyl Isocyanate emanating from the Union Carbide factory. Doctors helplessly watching them die as they did not know what the poison was and what drug to administer.
Warren Anderson CAME to India. You cannot fault him on that. Then we just helped him leave, made all the arrangements and wished him Godspeed... Am not surprised he never came back.
We said it was criminal negligence when it was culpable homicide. If people working at a pesticide plant did not know switching off a refigeration unit would have affected the safety standards at the factory and proved devastating, as they did in 1983, what were they doing there? Why were they allowed to be there? And if they did something so inane, should it be negligence or homicide? It could be negligence if they did not know...but there is evidence that they were informed about the act and the dangers it posed.
Why did we let them off?
We asked for more than 3 billion dollars in compensation. Forget the 15,000 and counting lives lost. That sum, disbursed well, could have helped those who survived live a life of dignity with better medical facilities and probably research that could prevent the disastrous effect the fumes had on generations to come.
We settled for a pittance. $470 million...We sold ourselves and our people for that sum. Whom were we trying to appease?
We let a case that involved the immediate death of 3,000 people and the subsequent deaths of thousands others drag for more than two decades. We never made the attempt to make the man who headed the Union Carbide accountable for the disaster the company caused.
We forged new ties with the company in its myriad forms. We accepted funds from it in other ways. We told the people they were hallucinating when they claimed the water in the area was poisoned.
We allowed the generations that followed forget the Bhopal Gas Tragedy so much so that in Bhopal today there are people who did not what happened on a cold winter night of 1984.
We clamour for justice. We want those men to be sent to the gallows. And we are disappointed when seven of them get two years in prison. Why?
The people who are struggling everyday for pure drinking water, adequate compensation and more may be agitating because they believe in justice. I am sure they will appeal the trial court's verdict.
But I am a cynic. Or have I become one? I know the same politicans who allowed Anderson to get away, who claim the water from the area surrounding Union Carbide's skeletal factory is drinkable, will be voted back to power. And they will continue to spend millions on building a memorial for the gas victims even as they cite paucity of funds when it comes to spending on research into the ongoing effects of the dance of death.
And the same politicians will set up more memorials when another such industrial disaster, god forbid, occurs in some other unsuspecting factory in some other part of the country.
For God's sake, there's more to worry about right now. And public memory is short-lived. We will wait for the next anniversary before raking the same old facts again. Meanwhile, life will go on in the ghettoes of old Bhopal, and in a sunny villa somewhere in the US.
Many people were disappointed. But seriously, what were they expecting?
We lost the Bhopal battle long ago, again and again. Yesterday, it was just once again that we lost it.
December 3, 1984: People dying like flies after inhaling the Methyl Isocyanate emanating from the Union Carbide factory. Doctors helplessly watching them die as they did not know what the poison was and what drug to administer.
Warren Anderson CAME to India. You cannot fault him on that. Then we just helped him leave, made all the arrangements and wished him Godspeed... Am not surprised he never came back.
We said it was criminal negligence when it was culpable homicide. If people working at a pesticide plant did not know switching off a refigeration unit would have affected the safety standards at the factory and proved devastating, as they did in 1983, what were they doing there? Why were they allowed to be there? And if they did something so inane, should it be negligence or homicide? It could be negligence if they did not know...but there is evidence that they were informed about the act and the dangers it posed.
Why did we let them off?
We asked for more than 3 billion dollars in compensation. Forget the 15,000 and counting lives lost. That sum, disbursed well, could have helped those who survived live a life of dignity with better medical facilities and probably research that could prevent the disastrous effect the fumes had on generations to come.
We settled for a pittance. $470 million...We sold ourselves and our people for that sum. Whom were we trying to appease?
We let a case that involved the immediate death of 3,000 people and the subsequent deaths of thousands others drag for more than two decades. We never made the attempt to make the man who headed the Union Carbide accountable for the disaster the company caused.
We forged new ties with the company in its myriad forms. We accepted funds from it in other ways. We told the people they were hallucinating when they claimed the water in the area was poisoned.
We allowed the generations that followed forget the Bhopal Gas Tragedy so much so that in Bhopal today there are people who did not what happened on a cold winter night of 1984.
We clamour for justice. We want those men to be sent to the gallows. And we are disappointed when seven of them get two years in prison. Why?
The people who are struggling everyday for pure drinking water, adequate compensation and more may be agitating because they believe in justice. I am sure they will appeal the trial court's verdict.
But I am a cynic. Or have I become one? I know the same politicans who allowed Anderson to get away, who claim the water from the area surrounding Union Carbide's skeletal factory is drinkable, will be voted back to power. And they will continue to spend millions on building a memorial for the gas victims even as they cite paucity of funds when it comes to spending on research into the ongoing effects of the dance of death.
And the same politicians will set up more memorials when another such industrial disaster, god forbid, occurs in some other unsuspecting factory in some other part of the country.
For God's sake, there's more to worry about right now. And public memory is short-lived. We will wait for the next anniversary before raking the same old facts again. Meanwhile, life will go on in the ghettoes of old Bhopal, and in a sunny villa somewhere in the US.
Rain, memories and more
Waking up to the rains always takes me back in time to a city I loved a lot and some wet pages from diary of life.
Monsoon mornings used to be dark, yet cheerful in Calcutta. If the rains had just begun the night before, a trudge to school through flooded roads would be in order, followed by empty classrooms, socks handing from chairs, special tiffin to be shared with special friends and a lot of free periods. If the rain had been on for a few days at a stretch, it could also mean no school, hot pakoras at home, games with the family and television.
It was the same this morning too. In distant Delhi, distant geographically from the place called home in my childhood and further still from the home I go back to today, and distant too from the person I was then to the person I am now, the morning showers bring back the same scenes. A two-room flat on a first floor house, a bigger house a few years later, with a beautiful garden outside my window....the smell of the wet earth was the same throughout and is the same today.
I reach out to pull my favourite blanket from my childhood over my face and laze a while longer when the raindrops on the window in front of me create a haze. I can smell my mom's cooking, hot coffee brewing in the kitchen, nauseating me, even as lovely hot breakfast gnaws at my hungry stomach. I open one eye to call out for my brother sleeping next to me and realise the gas stove in my kitchen hasn't been switched on in the past few weeks. And my brother is probably handling a shift at his workplace miles away. The only smell is of the trash I have forgotten to turn out for the third day in succession fighting with the fresh air struggling to coeme in through the barred window and from under the door.
I wake up, let the air in, let the morning in, let my present in, and stand watching the trees sway in the breeze. I loved that morning long ago, I love this morning too and no matter where tomorrow dawns, it shall also be mine and I shall love it too.
Monsoon mornings used to be dark, yet cheerful in Calcutta. If the rains had just begun the night before, a trudge to school through flooded roads would be in order, followed by empty classrooms, socks handing from chairs, special tiffin to be shared with special friends and a lot of free periods. If the rain had been on for a few days at a stretch, it could also mean no school, hot pakoras at home, games with the family and television.
It was the same this morning too. In distant Delhi, distant geographically from the place called home in my childhood and further still from the home I go back to today, and distant too from the person I was then to the person I am now, the morning showers bring back the same scenes. A two-room flat on a first floor house, a bigger house a few years later, with a beautiful garden outside my window....the smell of the wet earth was the same throughout and is the same today.
I reach out to pull my favourite blanket from my childhood over my face and laze a while longer when the raindrops on the window in front of me create a haze. I can smell my mom's cooking, hot coffee brewing in the kitchen, nauseating me, even as lovely hot breakfast gnaws at my hungry stomach. I open one eye to call out for my brother sleeping next to me and realise the gas stove in my kitchen hasn't been switched on in the past few weeks. And my brother is probably handling a shift at his workplace miles away. The only smell is of the trash I have forgotten to turn out for the third day in succession fighting with the fresh air struggling to coeme in through the barred window and from under the door.
I wake up, let the air in, let the morning in, let my present in, and stand watching the trees sway in the breeze. I loved that morning long ago, I love this morning too and no matter where tomorrow dawns, it shall also be mine and I shall love it too.
Saturday 22 May 2010
Wednesday 12 May 2010
Storytellers from beyond
It is such a pleasure to visit new places. Some of them you visit in real life, while others you visit through other people. I have loved to hear about such places... where I would then take myself and rediscover it thorugh my own understanding. These are places in the geographical sense of the term. Others are there in history, in culture.
Listening to tales, allowing their magic to wrap itself around you, growing in a different childhood, making friends with people you would never have met nor can ever happen to meet.
Stories that never end. Stories that go on into dark winter nights. Stories that carry over into misty sunrises. Some that take you back in another person's memories. Others that take you into someone else's life, childhood and more.
I wish these stories continue. There should never be an end to what can be shared. There should never be an end to the desire to share.
Share stories, share lifetimes and share lives.
Listening to tales, allowing their magic to wrap itself around you, growing in a different childhood, making friends with people you would never have met nor can ever happen to meet.
Stories that never end. Stories that go on into dark winter nights. Stories that carry over into misty sunrises. Some that take you back in another person's memories. Others that take you into someone else's life, childhood and more.
I wish these stories continue. There should never be an end to what can be shared. There should never be an end to the desire to share.
Share stories, share lifetimes and share lives.
Monday 10 May 2010
This is a criticism I have been facing for a long time and from many people. About not being strong enough to stand up for what I believe in. And I heard it once again today.
That I did not stand up for someone I should have stood up for. I know I failed, and I don't know what I should have done.
The fear is I don't know if I shall pass the test the next time.
That I did not stand up for someone I should have stood up for. I know I failed, and I don't know what I should have done.
The fear is I don't know if I shall pass the test the next time.
Friday 30 April 2010
Plumbing delight!
Living alone has its pros and cons, moments of extreme frustration and others that make you feel liberated. And, there can be nothing more liberating than solving your plumbing problems on your own.
The last time I called the plumber, he took 700 bucks and left me with a cistern that worked for two days and then started giving me problems again. He dismantled the whole thing, spent two precious hours on it and still didn't do enough for me to want to summon him the next time there was a problem.
So this time around when my flush stopped working, I set the piston right, bought a lever (for rs 53) and also learnt about the float valve (thanx to an enterprising friend) and now am sorted :D
Raring to solve the next plumbing problem :D
The last time I called the plumber, he took 700 bucks and left me with a cistern that worked for two days and then started giving me problems again. He dismantled the whole thing, spent two precious hours on it and still didn't do enough for me to want to summon him the next time there was a problem.
So this time around when my flush stopped working, I set the piston right, bought a lever (for rs 53) and also learnt about the float valve (thanx to an enterprising friend) and now am sorted :D
Raring to solve the next plumbing problem :D
Thursday 29 April 2010
God is in heaven and all's right with the world.
And I'm not gonna let some poor increments, disillusionments at the workplace, with people around me, the weather and so much more change that.
Yes, there are times to give vent to your frustrations and sometimes to take stock. Have given vent to frustrations. Now, is the time to take stock.
And I'm not gonna let some poor increments, disillusionments at the workplace, with people around me, the weather and so much more change that.
Yes, there are times to give vent to your frustrations and sometimes to take stock. Have given vent to frustrations. Now, is the time to take stock.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
From my past
A thought is rushing into my hands. I used to have a friend who had a problem for the first few years of his life. His tongue was attached to the base of his mouth...it used to affect his speech. Later, it was surgically separated a bit...But it still bothered him. Not just in speech but in thought too. He used to tell me God probably didn't want him to talk...he was a very silent person you know. Dunno why I am writing about this. As I said, the thought is rushing to my fingers.
Another story, or was it an incident I heard about, comes to my mind. I think I read about it in the Readers' Digest. Something to do with a man, who got a call...picked up the phone (am talking about landlines, which were the only kinds of phones in those days) and said wrong number. Haha!!
What weird stories are coming to mind.
Just jotting em down. Will analyse them later.
When I was much younger and used to live at home, on the fourth day of the menstrual cycle, one was supposed to take an oil bath after applying turmeric all over the body. I remember my mother used to tell me not to sleep in the afternoon on those particular days. I think she used to say the dreams one had then would come true or something to the effect. What I do remember is the headaches that would follow if I slept without drying my hair properly. But I would still find an excuse to nod off on those hot summer afternoons on the cold polished floors of my house, pretending to read. Just so I could have some dreams that could be fulfilled.
Funny, I don't remember those dreams, nor if they ever got fulfilled.
Another story, or was it an incident I heard about, comes to my mind. I think I read about it in the Readers' Digest. Something to do with a man, who got a call...picked up the phone (am talking about landlines, which were the only kinds of phones in those days) and said wrong number. Haha!!
What weird stories are coming to mind.
Just jotting em down. Will analyse them later.
When I was much younger and used to live at home, on the fourth day of the menstrual cycle, one was supposed to take an oil bath after applying turmeric all over the body. I remember my mother used to tell me not to sleep in the afternoon on those particular days. I think she used to say the dreams one had then would come true or something to the effect. What I do remember is the headaches that would follow if I slept without drying my hair properly. But I would still find an excuse to nod off on those hot summer afternoons on the cold polished floors of my house, pretending to read. Just so I could have some dreams that could be fulfilled.
Funny, I don't remember those dreams, nor if they ever got fulfilled.
To silence...
You entered my soul like a gust of wind
Determined to blow a fresh breath of life into me
I opened the window unto you,
To make space for something new to me
You became a part of my being, a friend
Who stuck by me when everyone else was too busy
I leaned on your shoulder
And I felt myself like a climber wrapping around you
Slowly, you became a permanent guest
One I could no longer turn away at will or wont
You became a wall in my house
Only to become the roof over my head and hearth
Then you spread your roots within my spirit
Wrenching it from its foundations, alienating me
From who I thought I used to be
I initially embraced you, then submitted, then succumbed
Until I became a prisoner of your domineering affections
I lost my freedom to think and speak or speak and think
I forgot I used to have a voice at all
And you wrapped me in you arms, like a shroud and buried me.
Determined to blow a fresh breath of life into me
I opened the window unto you,
To make space for something new to me
You became a part of my being, a friend
Who stuck by me when everyone else was too busy
I leaned on your shoulder
And I felt myself like a climber wrapping around you
Slowly, you became a permanent guest
One I could no longer turn away at will or wont
You became a wall in my house
Only to become the roof over my head and hearth
Then you spread your roots within my spirit
Wrenching it from its foundations, alienating me
From who I thought I used to be
I initially embraced you, then submitted, then succumbed
Until I became a prisoner of your domineering affections
I lost my freedom to think and speak or speak and think
I forgot I used to have a voice at all
And you wrapped me in you arms, like a shroud and buried me.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi
Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi...
Some people will be very hurt if I say I was disappointed after all I had heard about it. At many layers, the movie seemed to be superficial...The story was written and everything had to be fit in. Characters interchanging, ideals wishy-washy, resting on 'revolution'. Was it my current state of mind that contributes to the disappointment?
What was not there? It was jumpy...Am still working on it...trying to figure out what is was that was bugging me through the film.
Maybe it was the convenience of it all. Everybody making 'convenient' choices to suit the narrative. Am not talking about the choices made by the characters, but the swinging nature of the characters...Something didn't fit in.
Siddharth being so passionate about one thing that he chooses his ideology over his love more than once. Siddharth, who has put his life on the line for the 'revolution' abandoning it once he's given up for dead, letting go of the same people who saved his life. At least he's constant about saying 'Sorry Geeta' for abandoning her at every corner.
Geeta Rao, educated abroad, who joins the movement to be with Sidharth, to please him and impress him, ends up working in remote villages. She gives up a husband who loves her, a lover who comes to her resuce every time and goes back to the villages leaving behind the man for whom she took up the cause in the first place.
Vikram Malhotra, a 'fixer' who also tries fixing his Lady Love's life until his own life is rendered lifeless. Who makes fun of the revolution throughout...
Am I just too sleepy or not drunk enough or watching it alone...what is contributing to the disillusionment?
Imagine, the only shot repeatedly coming to mind is the one where the camera moves through the grass to a bleeding and badly beaten up Vikram lying in the fields. And I remember this for such a silly reason too...Not too long ago, someone I know shot a similar scene with my cell phone. Memories - how they tease me at times and elude me at others.
How I wish I could share the passion others share for this film...But then I guess, as Chacha said ages ago and people have repeated ever since,
'Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi...'
Some people will be very hurt if I say I was disappointed after all I had heard about it. At many layers, the movie seemed to be superficial...The story was written and everything had to be fit in. Characters interchanging, ideals wishy-washy, resting on 'revolution'. Was it my current state of mind that contributes to the disappointment?
What was not there? It was jumpy...Am still working on it...trying to figure out what is was that was bugging me through the film.
Maybe it was the convenience of it all. Everybody making 'convenient' choices to suit the narrative. Am not talking about the choices made by the characters, but the swinging nature of the characters...Something didn't fit in.
Siddharth being so passionate about one thing that he chooses his ideology over his love more than once. Siddharth, who has put his life on the line for the 'revolution' abandoning it once he's given up for dead, letting go of the same people who saved his life. At least he's constant about saying 'Sorry Geeta' for abandoning her at every corner.
Geeta Rao, educated abroad, who joins the movement to be with Sidharth, to please him and impress him, ends up working in remote villages. She gives up a husband who loves her, a lover who comes to her resuce every time and goes back to the villages leaving behind the man for whom she took up the cause in the first place.
Vikram Malhotra, a 'fixer' who also tries fixing his Lady Love's life until his own life is rendered lifeless. Who makes fun of the revolution throughout...
Am I just too sleepy or not drunk enough or watching it alone...what is contributing to the disillusionment?
Imagine, the only shot repeatedly coming to mind is the one where the camera moves through the grass to a bleeding and badly beaten up Vikram lying in the fields. And I remember this for such a silly reason too...Not too long ago, someone I know shot a similar scene with my cell phone. Memories - how they tease me at times and elude me at others.
How I wish I could share the passion others share for this film...But then I guess, as Chacha said ages ago and people have repeated ever since,
'Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi...'
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Life cycle
As I sit mulling many things happening in my life right now, my memory takes me back to days in my childhood.
I can see my father running behind me as I learnt to cycle on empty roads in bandh-stranded Kolkata some time in the Eighties. He never let me know when he let go of the cycle. I always thought he was right there to hold me if I fell. Well, I did fall a number of times. But I always got up and rode on. Or so I choose to believe now. My memory, as family and friends will tell you, is phenomenally weak. I should check with him I did actually ride on or mourned over my bruises weighting for some saviour to pick me up and take me home.
I am not sure anymore.
I always thought I was independent. Maybe it wasn't independence, but being carefree to the extent of being careless about everything, including people. Never realised just how careless.
I want to ride that bicycle again. I want to know what my instinct made me do when I fell — did I cry or did I pick my cycle and ride on.
I want to go back in time and see how far away from myself I have come.
I can see my father running behind me as I learnt to cycle on empty roads in bandh-stranded Kolkata some time in the Eighties. He never let me know when he let go of the cycle. I always thought he was right there to hold me if I fell. Well, I did fall a number of times. But I always got up and rode on. Or so I choose to believe now. My memory, as family and friends will tell you, is phenomenally weak. I should check with him I did actually ride on or mourned over my bruises weighting for some saviour to pick me up and take me home.
I am not sure anymore.
I always thought I was independent. Maybe it wasn't independence, but being carefree to the extent of being careless about everything, including people. Never realised just how careless.
I want to ride that bicycle again. I want to know what my instinct made me do when I fell — did I cry or did I pick my cycle and ride on.
I want to go back in time and see how far away from myself I have come.
Monday 19 April 2010
April 19, 2010
The clouds burst today. They had been carrying their load for quite some time now. They brought some peace to a city clamouring for relief from the heat. After some time, as the evening sky turned into night, a quarter of a moon peeped out. Almost ashamed to show it’s incompleteness, wondering if earthlings would judge it by its appearance.
Little did it know not too many had the time to see it, today tomorrow or fourteen days later.
Surprising, the moon is so linked to love in traditional stories, music and popular culture. A moon is the lady love, a moon unites two distant yet yearning hearts. A moon is what the lovers must cross to reach their blissful netherworld.
And yet, the moon is a loner. Alone in a threatening dark and gloomy sky, the moon fights its battles with the clouds, makes friends with alien stars and holds its own in an alien sky. From the balcony after a long day’s work, I can reach out to it in the hope that it will not judge me my trespasses. It will not hold me guilty for carving out my own path in an increasingly chaotic wilderness.
It will keep me company as it cycles around my world, silent, watchful and patient.
Little did it know not too many had the time to see it, today tomorrow or fourteen days later.
Surprising, the moon is so linked to love in traditional stories, music and popular culture. A moon is the lady love, a moon unites two distant yet yearning hearts. A moon is what the lovers must cross to reach their blissful netherworld.
And yet, the moon is a loner. Alone in a threatening dark and gloomy sky, the moon fights its battles with the clouds, makes friends with alien stars and holds its own in an alien sky. From the balcony after a long day’s work, I can reach out to it in the hope that it will not judge me my trespasses. It will not hold me guilty for carving out my own path in an increasingly chaotic wilderness.
It will keep me company as it cycles around my world, silent, watchful and patient.
Tharoornama
A lot of things on my mind. First things first. Shashi Tharoor has resigned from his post as minister of state for external affairs. The whole Tharoor=Lalit Modi controversy over the franchisees of the Kochi IPL team must have grabbed as many eyeballs as Modi's pet matches, if not more.
But of late, there's juts one emotion that reigns supreme whenever the scandal comes to mind -- cynicism.
Does one really think Tharoor went just because he was caught being corrupt. There seems to be more to this than meets the eye. The GenNext minister that Tharoor was portraying himself as, will be missed. His clean image may have taken a beating, but political naivette seems more to be his fault than armtwisting a master arm twister like Modi to hand over the bid to Kochi or even armtwisting Rendezvous Sports World to take his friend Sunanda Pushkar on board.
The murky IPL world will throw up more googlies if only the politicians allow it to. But why does one feel that with Tharoor and Pushkar both giving up their stakes, real and imagined, the IPL controversy will blow over. Modi will emerge unscathed and all will be well on the field.
But of late, there's juts one emotion that reigns supreme whenever the scandal comes to mind -- cynicism.
Does one really think Tharoor went just because he was caught being corrupt. There seems to be more to this than meets the eye. The GenNext minister that Tharoor was portraying himself as, will be missed. His clean image may have taken a beating, but political naivette seems more to be his fault than armtwisting a master arm twister like Modi to hand over the bid to Kochi or even armtwisting Rendezvous Sports World to take his friend Sunanda Pushkar on board.
The murky IPL world will throw up more googlies if only the politicians allow it to. But why does one feel that with Tharoor and Pushkar both giving up their stakes, real and imagined, the IPL controversy will blow over. Modi will emerge unscathed and all will be well on the field.
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Thursday 8 April 2010
The unnatural death of a homosexual professor
Shrinivas Ramchandra Siras is dead. And the Aligarh Muslim University plans to hold a condolence meeting in his memory on the campus on Thursday.
How many among those who attend the meet and shed tears over the departed soul would have been part of the witch-hunt that may or may not have claimed his life on Tuesday?
The Marathi reader and former chair of Modern Indian Languages at Aligarh Muslim University was suspended for engaging in homosexual activities at his official residence on the campus with an unidentified rickshaw puller in February this year. The university authorities and some of his students were said to have colluded with a local news channel to film the incident and bring him to book.
Some reports say he admitted to his homosexuality, others are ambiguous. But the fact remains that when he appealed before the Allahabad High Court against the suspension, the court ordered the university to re-instate him.
The university, however, took its time. It said it hadn't received the court order yet. But Siras was still looking forward to returning the campus he loved and taught in for twenty years. Meanwhile, probably tired of the whole wait for justice or of the whole struggle, he may have killed himself. The police are yet to rule out suicide.
The university and the narrow-minded students who engaged in the witch-hunt against a man for his sexual preferences will now hold a condolence meet. One hopes they focus on his achievements in his chosen sphere of life rather than his private life.
It won't be far from the truth to imagine that many people will be secretly relieved that they did not have to see him back on campus. He wouldn't be there to remind them that they had a homosexual professor, nor would he be around to remind them of their intolerance to differences. Anything that doesn't conform to the majority is a sin, anything that fights this mindset is a bigger sin.
Which brings us to the question that is it enough for the law to decriminalise consensual gay sex? When will it be socially acceptable? Many of my friends would tell, to hell with society, but I wonder if one Siras would have not thought this during his last moments alive.
Darn the hypocrisy of it all. May his soul rest in peace in what one hopes would be a more tolerant netherworld.
How many among those who attend the meet and shed tears over the departed soul would have been part of the witch-hunt that may or may not have claimed his life on Tuesday?
The Marathi reader and former chair of Modern Indian Languages at Aligarh Muslim University was suspended for engaging in homosexual activities at his official residence on the campus with an unidentified rickshaw puller in February this year. The university authorities and some of his students were said to have colluded with a local news channel to film the incident and bring him to book.
Some reports say he admitted to his homosexuality, others are ambiguous. But the fact remains that when he appealed before the Allahabad High Court against the suspension, the court ordered the university to re-instate him.
The university, however, took its time. It said it hadn't received the court order yet. But Siras was still looking forward to returning the campus he loved and taught in for twenty years. Meanwhile, probably tired of the whole wait for justice or of the whole struggle, he may have killed himself. The police are yet to rule out suicide.
The university and the narrow-minded students who engaged in the witch-hunt against a man for his sexual preferences will now hold a condolence meet. One hopes they focus on his achievements in his chosen sphere of life rather than his private life.
It won't be far from the truth to imagine that many people will be secretly relieved that they did not have to see him back on campus. He wouldn't be there to remind them that they had a homosexual professor, nor would he be around to remind them of their intolerance to differences. Anything that doesn't conform to the majority is a sin, anything that fights this mindset is a bigger sin.
Which brings us to the question that is it enough for the law to decriminalise consensual gay sex? When will it be socially acceptable? Many of my friends would tell, to hell with society, but I wonder if one Siras would have not thought this during his last moments alive.
Darn the hypocrisy of it all. May his soul rest in peace in what one hopes would be a more tolerant netherworld.
Saturday 3 April 2010
I'm fat and I love myself
The Shoaib Malik-Sania Mirza-Ayesha (Maha Siddiqui) affair seems to be providing fodder for the gossip mills. And I would have let the three sort out their lives in private, had I not been drawn into the mess in my own private way.
A news report in a paper claims Shoaib dumped Ayesha because she was fat. Now, there's also a report quoting the family as saying 'Shoaib was duped thinking he was speaking to slim, beautiful Ayesha'. Which is funny when you read it. I mean, ya, he's famous and might want to have a trophy wife (like he'll now be hoping to get, and by trophy I mean the slim beautiful variety of women he seems to prefer as well as the kind who has some trophies to her credit).
At some level, his wanting a slim wife can be forgiven and forgotten as one of those numerous cases of 'fair, slim, homely bride' wanted columns in matrimonial sections of newspapers and websites.
I would have let it pass, had I not heard a colleague and a dear friend comment a few days ago, 'Why on earth would HE marry a fat ugly girl like her'. Well, it's surprising how my friends never pause to think they are talking to a fat woman when they throw such comments left, right and centre. And she's not alone.
So many of my friends comment about fat women displaying their 'thunder thighs' at water parks, in mini skirts at parties, in tight clothes in office and elsewhere. Either they don't see me, don't see me as fat or don't think I'll mind, cos I'm on their side!! Come on people, get a life! There's so much to be done rather than focusing on how fate or thin I am.
Earlier it used to be a bit painful to keep a straight face and ignore the comments, now I've got used to me and can just ignore the ludicrous observations with an indifferent smile.
It's hilarious when some people who make these comments are not the slimmest you could find on the planet anyway!
And hey! It almost seems fat people should be ashamed they are fat! They can't get married, shouldn't wear clothes they feel they are comfortable in if it is tight, or should simply hide from the rest of humanity for the rest of their lives and grow fatter within the four walls of their homes until they die (wonder if they would shrivel up and die though).
Somebody had a Facebook status message I've grown to love: God loved me so much, he made more of me. (Well, of course, I kept adding to it more, cos I love myself so much!!!)
To all those people who think life is all about being slimmer, more beautiful, fairer, taller...Wake up! there's more to life. Be happy with who you are! And if you are not, then work towards what you think will make you happy.
I'm fat, I'm fit, I'm a beautiful person and I'm happy about who I am. Wonder how many less fat people could say that with the same confidence.
(You would be forgiven for thinking I am fat as there's a lot of hot air in me, but no people, it's all the goodness that's packed in. As they say, good things come in small packages)
A news report in a paper claims Shoaib dumped Ayesha because she was fat. Now, there's also a report quoting the family as saying 'Shoaib was duped thinking he was speaking to slim, beautiful Ayesha'. Which is funny when you read it. I mean, ya, he's famous and might want to have a trophy wife (like he'll now be hoping to get, and by trophy I mean the slim beautiful variety of women he seems to prefer as well as the kind who has some trophies to her credit).
At some level, his wanting a slim wife can be forgiven and forgotten as one of those numerous cases of 'fair, slim, homely bride' wanted columns in matrimonial sections of newspapers and websites.
I would have let it pass, had I not heard a colleague and a dear friend comment a few days ago, 'Why on earth would HE marry a fat ugly girl like her'. Well, it's surprising how my friends never pause to think they are talking to a fat woman when they throw such comments left, right and centre. And she's not alone.
So many of my friends comment about fat women displaying their 'thunder thighs' at water parks, in mini skirts at parties, in tight clothes in office and elsewhere. Either they don't see me, don't see me as fat or don't think I'll mind, cos I'm on their side!! Come on people, get a life! There's so much to be done rather than focusing on how fate or thin I am.
Earlier it used to be a bit painful to keep a straight face and ignore the comments, now I've got used to me and can just ignore the ludicrous observations with an indifferent smile.
It's hilarious when some people who make these comments are not the slimmest you could find on the planet anyway!
And hey! It almost seems fat people should be ashamed they are fat! They can't get married, shouldn't wear clothes they feel they are comfortable in if it is tight, or should simply hide from the rest of humanity for the rest of their lives and grow fatter within the four walls of their homes until they die (wonder if they would shrivel up and die though).
Somebody had a Facebook status message I've grown to love: God loved me so much, he made more of me. (Well, of course, I kept adding to it more, cos I love myself so much!!!)
To all those people who think life is all about being slimmer, more beautiful, fairer, taller...Wake up! there's more to life. Be happy with who you are! And if you are not, then work towards what you think will make you happy.
I'm fat, I'm fit, I'm a beautiful person and I'm happy about who I am. Wonder how many less fat people could say that with the same confidence.
(You would be forgiven for thinking I am fat as there's a lot of hot air in me, but no people, it's all the goodness that's packed in. As they say, good things come in small packages)
Friday 2 April 2010
The moon stepped out of the shadows,
Looking for a cloud to hide behind
So long had it stayed away from the sky that
It forgot how much it loved to flaunt it's
brilliant, white robe
It forgot how much it loved to interact with the
stars, lovers on the earth
A lost beggar, a homeless mongrel
It stayed away from the people it loved
It stayed away from people in general
And when the time came to part the veil
It lost the desire to be seen
Wanting a curtain to hide behind,
A cloud to hold on to
Anything that would efface its existence
And blend it with the dark, menacing sky behind it,
The ignominy that it hated so much
Yet now, the thought of stepping into its own halo was
so scary that it took a step back
Into the dreary nightless sky
Into the eternal abyss
It's just a step forward into fearless
freedom or one into a sheltered forgotten well
Whither goes now?
Looking for a cloud to hide behind
So long had it stayed away from the sky that
It forgot how much it loved to flaunt it's
brilliant, white robe
It forgot how much it loved to interact with the
stars, lovers on the earth
A lost beggar, a homeless mongrel
It stayed away from the people it loved
It stayed away from people in general
And when the time came to part the veil
It lost the desire to be seen
Wanting a curtain to hide behind,
A cloud to hold on to
Anything that would efface its existence
And blend it with the dark, menacing sky behind it,
The ignominy that it hated so much
Yet now, the thought of stepping into its own halo was
so scary that it took a step back
Into the dreary nightless sky
Into the eternal abyss
It's just a step forward into fearless
freedom or one into a sheltered forgotten well
Whither goes now?
I've been itching to write about so much, but somehow thoughts have been eluding my grasp. Today was a busy day at work. Edited plenty of copies, made a page, proofed many more and basically earned my rest. But as it happens, I'm out of practice with how to spend earned rest, cos I've been so woefully under-worked for so long, it's stopped being funny any longer. Read a few blogs. Tried collecting my thoughts and thought I'd write. And of course, the focus is missing. Am rambling like always...
Wednesday 31 March 2010
Random thoughts racing through my mind. Thoughts triggered by a smell here, a sight there. Smells that haunt me forever and more, taking me back to some distant walks that are locked away in the treasury of my memory. Some regrets, but plenty of faith that whatever happens happens for the best.
A childish hope one holds on to when the going gets tough. Some comforts we never give up on. The comforts of the smells of night, of food getting cooked while still in bed, of wet earth, of a particular brand of oil, of much more.
This year is already proving to be a very long one. A lot of things have happened, so many people to have let gone, so many people letting go of me. Some back, in ways unexpected, some back in ways unwanted. A mid-term reality check leaves much desired. Much to be done and much ado about nothing.
But the journey is far from over. The destination far from reached.
A childish hope one holds on to when the going gets tough. Some comforts we never give up on. The comforts of the smells of night, of food getting cooked while still in bed, of wet earth, of a particular brand of oil, of much more.
This year is already proving to be a very long one. A lot of things have happened, so many people to have let gone, so many people letting go of me. Some back, in ways unexpected, some back in ways unwanted. A mid-term reality check leaves much desired. Much to be done and much ado about nothing.
But the journey is far from over. The destination far from reached.
Friday 26 March 2010
Unfinished canvas
So many paintings left unfinished
With blotches here and there
Some could have been a masterpiece
Yet, somewhere, the desire to paint
Has long departed.
Once in a while, the painter picks up his brush
Only to etch a stroke and lets go of it
Over time, a half-baked canvas remains
With little sense of it was began to convey
From time to time, the painter begins again
Swayed by a renewed urge
But the colours just don't correspond to thoughts
Is it because some hues are meant for the mind alone?
Too private even for the painter's own eyes?
With blotches here and there
Some could have been a masterpiece
Yet, somewhere, the desire to paint
Has long departed.
Once in a while, the painter picks up his brush
Only to etch a stroke and lets go of it
Over time, a half-baked canvas remains
With little sense of it was began to convey
From time to time, the painter begins again
Swayed by a renewed urge
But the colours just don't correspond to thoughts
Is it because some hues are meant for the mind alone?
Too private even for the painter's own eyes?
I looked into the mirror...
Walking down the road the other day, I picked up
a feather. I tucked it behind my ears
Thinking it made me look beautiful.
A few steps ahead, I found an abandoned earring
on a park bench. It seemed made for my ears.
I spotted a friend along the way and asked her how I looked.
She smiled, but didn't say much.
I was too excited to read meaning to the grin. I borrowed her lipstick
to complete my look.
I walked on, a bit dissatisfied. There was more I sought
And more I got. Some changes I liked,
Others I was too attached to to let go of.
A long and meandering walk later I reached home. Tired,
but keen enough to see how I looked.
I stepped into my bathroom and switched on the light.
I looked into the mirror...
...and a stranger looked back at me.
a feather. I tucked it behind my ears
Thinking it made me look beautiful.
A few steps ahead, I found an abandoned earring
on a park bench. It seemed made for my ears.
I spotted a friend along the way and asked her how I looked.
She smiled, but didn't say much.
I was too excited to read meaning to the grin. I borrowed her lipstick
to complete my look.
I walked on, a bit dissatisfied. There was more I sought
And more I got. Some changes I liked,
Others I was too attached to to let go of.
A long and meandering walk later I reached home. Tired,
but keen enough to see how I looked.
I stepped into my bathroom and switched on the light.
I looked into the mirror...
...and a stranger looked back at me.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Failure
How quickly they come,
How quicker they go.
One night it all made sense
And the next was a no-show.
I woke up on the wrong side.
Or maybe I'm sleeping still
Once unspoken words were heard
Today the ruckus is out to kill.
I am right where I began
Just more beaten than ever.
For the first step is yet untaken
After a million steps together.
Patience wears thin
Trust is a forgotten word
Ears shut, only wounds open
And no soothing word uttered.
A red thin line misnamed ego
A tool for self-preservation
Fear of losing oneself completely
And succumbing to devastation.
But lethargy sinks in to the soul
Nothing to stir it from its self-doubt
No light at the end of this tunnel
Just looking aimlessly for a way out.
How quicker they go.
One night it all made sense
And the next was a no-show.
I woke up on the wrong side.
Or maybe I'm sleeping still
Once unspoken words were heard
Today the ruckus is out to kill.
I am right where I began
Just more beaten than ever.
For the first step is yet untaken
After a million steps together.
Patience wears thin
Trust is a forgotten word
Ears shut, only wounds open
And no soothing word uttered.
A red thin line misnamed ego
A tool for self-preservation
Fear of losing oneself completely
And succumbing to devastation.
But lethargy sinks in to the soul
Nothing to stir it from its self-doubt
No light at the end of this tunnel
Just looking aimlessly for a way out.
Friday 12 March 2010
Invisible Man
Invisible Man, Invisble Man
Walking down the street by my side
There with me all the time
Yet invisible when I turn around to look at you
Why are you silent? Won't you talk?
Or are you just a voice in my head?
A figment of my muddied imagination
A thought i lost track of, long ago dead.
Why do i look for you everywhere?
When will I stop this game of hide and seek
With someone who's invisible to my eye
Still hoping for a glimpse, still trying to peek.
The tickets are sold out, the show is long over
Still staring at the screen for a scene I missed out on
Still waiting to understand the script
Invisible Man, I'm still hoping to find you anon.
Walking down the street by my side
There with me all the time
Yet invisible when I turn around to look at you
Why are you silent? Won't you talk?
Or are you just a voice in my head?
A figment of my muddied imagination
A thought i lost track of, long ago dead.
Why do i look for you everywhere?
When will I stop this game of hide and seek
With someone who's invisible to my eye
Still hoping for a glimpse, still trying to peek.
The tickets are sold out, the show is long over
Still staring at the screen for a scene I missed out on
Still waiting to understand the script
Invisible Man, I'm still hoping to find you anon.
Thursday 18 February 2010
Intolerance to differences
AMU professor suspended for being homosexual, reads a headline in Times of India's Feb 18, 2009 paper. It's shocking. But what's more shocking is the manner in which S.R Siras's sexual preferences were 'exposed'.
The professor, who was due for retirement, was reportedly caught on camera having consensual sex with a rickshaw puller in his house on the campus. And this whole feat was achieved by his students, in collusion with a local television channel. At least, the report in one parts says the students engineered the thing and another part says a local channel was involved.
What is it that makes us so narrow-minded and intolerant? Students, who are supposed to be enlightened by education and open to ideas, go to the length of entering somebody's private space and disrobing him in public.
How does it matter what somebody does behind closed doors as long as it not something that hurts another? Are we trying to play moral cop for all the wrong things? It's understandable if he was harassing any of his students for sexual favours or indulging in 'gross misconduct (the ground on which he was suspended) in the college.
But this! Is shocking to say the least.
The professor, who was due for retirement, was reportedly caught on camera having consensual sex with a rickshaw puller in his house on the campus. And this whole feat was achieved by his students, in collusion with a local television channel. At least, the report in one parts says the students engineered the thing and another part says a local channel was involved.
What is it that makes us so narrow-minded and intolerant? Students, who are supposed to be enlightened by education and open to ideas, go to the length of entering somebody's private space and disrobing him in public.
How does it matter what somebody does behind closed doors as long as it not something that hurts another? Are we trying to play moral cop for all the wrong things? It's understandable if he was harassing any of his students for sexual favours or indulging in 'gross misconduct (the ground on which he was suspended) in the college.
But this! Is shocking to say the least.
Monday 15 February 2010
The winter just doesn't seem to be keen on leaving Delhi this time. Which is well. It allows me the freedom to wake up late and still go for a walk without huffing and puffing and roasting in the sun. Had a lovely morning walk today, felt close to nature and to myself. So is nature my second nature? Watever!
Sunday 14 February 2010
Valentine's Day
Memories come back to the canvas of the mind
A red rose here,
A kiss there,
A forgotten fort
A promise long broken
Stored away
To be revived by tears of helplessness and loss
In some distant summer in some distant future
Some photographs that will never yellow with age
But will be corrupted by unnamed viruses
Some letters that inked thoughts of a tomorrow together
That made way for swifter emails that will never compensate
Some cards that still lie in recesses left untouched
Awaiting their resurrection in some future shared with another
A phone call
Songs recorded with an earnestness long gone
A shared lunch
Holding hands, exploring life, ideas and more
Dark stormy nights
Stormier days
Wind in the air
Tears down the cheeks
An open sky
Arrows of hurt
A broken mast
A rudderless ship
A jab in the heart
A love lost.
Another Day
A breezy night
A moonless sky
A hungry hug
A peck on the cheek
Warm sunshine
Fresh blades of grass
A jog in the park
A friendly lick
Budding hope
Everlasting faith
A love heals.
Happy Valentine's Day
Wednesday 10 February 2010
A gift
I feel the sunshine caress my face
I know he belongs to the human race
But this ray that plays with my eyes
Teases me, flirts with me and rejuvenates me
Is mine alone.
To warm me when my heart is cold
To dry the tears my heart can't hold
To lift me when my spirit falls
To give me hope when world seems false
He's mine alone.
And try as I might, logic fails.
A sense of ownership prevails.
A part of the sun is mine alone
And I can't part with this comfort zone
No matter how much I try.
Tuesday 9 February 2010
Withering away like the leaves in winter
The dry air brushes across
Taking strands of memories,
Spring waits to see how long will winter continue
Something snaps.
A twig beneath my foot,
Decayed, let not yet ready to die
It registers its protest
A stray leaf falls off a branch
Like a stray thought that wandered into my mind
Or a purposeless game in the journey of life
The dry air brushes across
Taking strands of memories,
Spring waits to see how long will winter continue
Something snaps.
A twig beneath my foot,
Decayed, let not yet ready to die
It registers its protest
A stray leaf falls off a branch
Like a stray thought that wandered into my mind
Or a purposeless game in the journey of life
Thursday 28 January 2010
There was a mad beggar on the road that day. He sat thinking that his left hand was trying to gain precedence over his right hand. To prevent it from becoming stronger, he rolled his left hand into a fist and hit the brick wall he was leaning against. Not only did his comfort get disturbed, his left hand was also broken. Then he kept punching the wall, so that the left hand did not heal and did not become stronger than the right. He did not pause to think that he should just let it heal while the right hand became stronger without challenge. He did not pause to think if a balance could be achieved between the two hands or not. He just went on punching, allowing the blood to stain the wall, and scar it for life.
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Love. It seems to be an emotion that brims over when everything is going my way, or is going drastically wrong. But what happens midway?
I've always thought that everything in life, including love, is about give and take. Everything is a simple mathematical equation. You give me attention, comfort and caring, I respond with love. I thought it works that way, at least it made sense that way rationally.
But sometimes, love overwhelms, even when you want it to lie low, when rationally it should be exiled from your heart. It comes and soothes you when people you love fail to understand you, when you fail to explain yourself to them.
It's not conditional. It's not bound by something I get in return. How else do so many people who I have failed in many ways continue to love me despite my shortcomings? How else do I continue to love so many people I fail to communicate with in one way or the other?
Ya, I guess, I was wrong. Love is more than a mathematical equation. It's more than chemistry. Whatever it is, I'm glad it's there and glad it keeps the world going when faith falls short.
Saturday 9 January 2010
Thursday 7 January 2010
Aruna's Story again
Aruna's story, through Pinki Virani's eyes. The book leads you through the life of staff nurse Aruna Shanbaug, who was brutally raped in 1973. The assault was the beginning of the tragedy her life became.
Through Aruna's Story, we get a glimpse of the person she was, the society she lived and was never really part of, and the people who made her experiences her life. Obviously, Virani has put in a huge amount of effort, time and more than a slice of herself into her book. From the perspective of a reader who is interested in what happened to Aruna, who wants to see her more than just a case and a tragic one at that, reading the book has been an eye opener.
Aruna's life raises a very important question of faith -- Why would God put anybody through what she has undergone? Is there a God then? What is the purpose of such a life? What is the faith we can hold on to in that case?
There are many nurses who have worked with Aruna, before the attack on her in November 1973 -- two days before she was to go on a three-month leave in which she was to get married to a colleague who she was in love with -- and have tended to her since then.
Aruna's zest for life, her positive strength, her faith in herself and her personal God, her determination to carve out a worthy life for herself despite her humble beginnings, when contrasted with her post-rape condition brought tears to my eyes. So many of her colleagues and the generations of nurses who tended to her in the past almost four decades have come up with the same questions.
What's keeping her alive? Cortically blind, with a brain so dramatically damaged that it prevents her from seeing, speaking or communicating, but keeps her alive to pain and fear, Aruna lives a vegetative existence. She will turn 62 on June 1, 2010. Of these years, she has spent less than half the years fighting to become successful in her chosen field. She had dreams, she worked towards those dreams, believed in justice and tried to be fair and loyal to the King Edward Medical College and Hospital, where she worked.
It was, in a way, that very self-confidence that brought her ruin. So many of her senior nurses at one time or the other spoken about the fine delicate balance between man and woman. Many have suggested that because she ticked off a sweeper who stole food allotted for dogs, she incurred his wrath. While nobody ever says so directly, the sweeper's brutal assault on her seems to be in a way justified if I may say so, for her overbearing, domineering persona.
The author brings up the failure of the system and society to punish her rapist, but the matron and other senior nurses blame Aruna's brave demeanour and devil-may-care attitude for what came upon her. One suggests she shouldn't have got into a fight with somebody so far below her status, though she acknowledges her loyalty to the hospital.
Many people have prayed for Aruna's death and deliverance. But there seems to be some sin in some past life she is paying for. Whatever be it, each person relates to a tragedy in their own way. Some believe her spirit is keeping her body alive so that she may see justice done to her, others still believe she is bearing the cross for the sins of others like Jesus Christ.
One can only hope and pray that Aruna Shanbaug finds the peace that has eluded her in life in death and afterlife.
It is ironical that somebody who was so keen on justice that she took on a sweeper who stole food meant for dogs, lived a dog's life because of that same criminal.
Is there something to do with the Bhagawad Gita here, where Lord Krishna tells Arjuna,
Do not think you are the doer. It is me alone who is the instrument as well as the cause.
Still thinking, still looking.
Alu posto and my chef-brother
My brother is a chef, which is a boon for somebody like me who cooks just because she has to eat. But there's a con to his chef-ness too, which struck me across my face this morning.
I usually tend to leave all the cooking and discussions on cooking to my mom, my aunts and my brother. I hold my tongue even when something assaults my limited knowledge of cuisine and cookery. And, in the true tradition of live and let live, I expect others to hold their tongue when it is my turn!! Expectations, they say, are disastrous.
I wanted to make alu posto (khus khus) for my family. There are very few things I know how to make well and this is one of those. So, when my five-star hotel chef of a brother came up with additions, subtractions and alterations to my recipe, I told him to let me have my way. The true gentleman that he is, he politely sidestepped.
But alas, his charm undid my alu posto. My mother, who had been listening to his recipe, internalised it. And of course, she embarked on making the dish his way, setting aside everything I had been telling her through the morning! And then, she also insisted that she thought it was my recipe she was following!
While I just left the kitchen to those who know it best, I also learnt a few lessons. Next time you want to impress anybody with your culinary skills, just follow this dialogue from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (I think that's the movie): 'When you got to shoot, shoot. Don't talk'
So when you got to cook, cook. Don't talk and leave room for somebody else to hijack your recipe...cos that's a sure recipe for disaster!
Here's how I make alu posto
Chop the alu into small pieces.
Grind/Make khus khus into a fine paste on a sil nada/sil batta (All my Bong friends vouch for the specific taste that comes only if you use the right instrument, and I agree with them)
Heat the oil, put in green chilli more for the flavour than the taste.
Add the alu. Add salt, allow it to cook.
When it is cooked, add the posto (khus khus paste)
Allow it to mix well. It shouldn't be too dry or too wet.
Take it off the heat and dig in!!
It's amazing when it's eaten with luchis!!
Happy dining.
The five-star chef would, in true five-star tradition, want you to add chopped cashew nuts and almonds...You could try that too! After all, my brother cooks really well :) Thank God for that!
Wednesday 6 January 2010
Sayonara Yamaguchi san
Tsutomu Yamaguchi, may your soul rest in peace.
A friend just called up to let me know that Yamaguchi, the only officially recognised survivor of the atom bombs in both Hiroshima and Nagasaki is no more.
The nonagenarian passed away on January 4 this year. May your hope for a future without war see light of day some time.
Monday 4 January 2010
Ugly!!! These serials are plain ugly -- an assault on the senses. They are noisy, give you a headache and make you puke.
There's this serial going on right now, where a marriage ceremony began, was stalled and was continued in half an hour, with the heroine alternating from glycerined eyes to toothy smiles. Gross. And then of course the camera angles, the sound and the concepts. Everybody is out to make the other look worse, feel worse and lose faith in humanity.
The stories are endless, the actors terrible and yet the audience is there. It's a crime visiting or calling people when the serials are on. The more popular ones like Anandam, Metti Oli, Engae Brahmanan and more... there can actually be a war if u end up disturbing people engrossed in the serials.
What's keeping me going is the constant train of comments my brother is making to get through the half hour of enforced boredom.
Aha, now there's some silence, but then sleep beckons. So ciao soon. God bless
Sunday 3 January 2010
Tea time begins. And as I don't appreciate the milky, light tea we have at home, I get to use the comp and listen to the gossip brew at the dining table like hot filter coffees in the mornings. I'm glad alliterations don't smell, cos I've been holding my breath hard for fear of the smell of coffee assaulting my nostrils. I HATE COFFEE!!
The only thing common to the gossip and the drink is the heady flavour of both.
Listening to tales from the housing scheme where my aunt lives, I learn about the geography of the US and visa rules, passport mysteries and more. But the abiding theme seems to be of the long, growing queue of unmarried young men and women, all of course eligible, across the world. I enjoy the shock with which my relatives discover live-in relationships, homosexuality and more.
While my mom and aunt roll their eyes at me when I ask them what's wrong with living in, my grandfather privately tells me it's ok and a natural progression of society! Talk about generation gaps!
The only thing common to the gossip and the drink is the heady flavour of both.
Listening to tales from the housing scheme where my aunt lives, I learn about the geography of the US and visa rules, passport mysteries and more. But the abiding theme seems to be of the long, growing queue of unmarried young men and women, all of course eligible, across the world. I enjoy the shock with which my relatives discover live-in relationships, homosexuality and more.
While my mom and aunt roll their eyes at me when I ask them what's wrong with living in, my grandfather privately tells me it's ok and a natural progression of society! Talk about generation gaps!
With all but one cousins gathered this January afternoon, it has been a study in generations. As my sister, who recently opened the score of great grand children for my grandparents, put it, watching four generations under one roof is a momentous thing. There's so much scope to watch, wonder and learn.
More on that later, cos right now, an extremely irritating serial is piercing its way into my ears and my heart, clogging my thoughts!! Am losing the thread. Crazy, stupid Sun TV serials.
Saturday 2 January 2010
Thoughts from home
I'm home, ruminating on much that comes into my head whenever I am home. Just wish this keyboard would be more conducive my touch. It's making me dwell more on my hand than on my thoughts :(
There's Aruna's Story as told by Pinki Virani, my discussions on philosophy with my grandfather and the arguments on marriage and singlehood with my aunt. But right now my fingers are hurting too much. So more later, from my dad's laptop.
Day Two...still writing
There's Aruna's Story as told by Pinki Virani, my discussions on philosophy with my grandfather and the arguments on marriage and singlehood with my aunt. But right now my fingers are hurting too much. So more later, from my dad's laptop.
Day Two...still writing
Friday 1 January 2010
New Year...I kept my promise
This year has begun. I have bid goodbye to the one gone by with mixed feelings. It was a year of discovery...about myself, about others around me, and my relationship with others. I have found new loves, lost old ones, rediscovered lost ones. It has been a roller-coaster of a year, that took me to uncharted territories. Some of them will go down to the grave with me. Some have made me think about the person I am, yet others have forced me to question my perception of myself.
It has been a year when I started flirting with poetry yet again from day one. There was a new fresh breeze that blew ideas into my life. They surprised me, confronted me, and confused me. But I am thankful that that breeze did not blow me off my roots.
I have always been worried about my roots, complained about their far-reaching spread, and their lack of relation with my present. But that fresh bout of wind shook me so hard, that I think I at least found myself gasping for a while.
I have hurt many people last year. Some unwittingly, some consciously. I do not regret either. After all, it was a learning process for you as well as me, no?
I have been, as always, very confused about myriad things. Including who I am. But I devoted a big part of last year pondering over that question. I haven't found the answer yet...the seeker that I am. My journey continues.
The new year brings a breath of fresh air. Even at this moment I am confused, about people, about emotions, about relationships. I hope I find some very important answers this year. And I hope I have the courage to acknowledge them. I hope I can stand up for what I believe in, but more importantly, I hope I figure out what I believe in.
God grant me strength to be who I am. God give others the strength to put up with me, forgive me and understand me. Amen
Happy New Year!
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