Getting Dirty

In one of the introductory scenes of The Dirty Picture, Vidya Balan in her role as Reshma a.ka. Silk, says to Emran Hashmi playing Abraham, a reticent I-hate-Silk director “Filmein sirf teen cheezon ke wajeh se chalti hai. Entertainment, entertainment, entertainment. Aur main entertainment hoon.” If the dialogue was not a punch enough, the poise with which Vidya delivers it, is a coup-de-grace for the audience. The wink, which I have always felt, no actor had done enough justice to post Madhuri Dixit gets a fresh patronage under Vidya. Throughout the movie Vidya as Silk would enthral the viewers with this signature gesture post delivery of any key dialogue. The wink imparts a new meaning to the dialogues, almost as if it never meant what it was supposed to mean; more often establishing Silk’s symbolic pun at her two faced fans, friends or foes.

In Ishqiya, if a feisty Vidya was a revelation, in this movie, she goes on to establish herself as an unparalleled actor beyond the league of any of her contemporaries. And how - not just by choosing a role that already had character written all over it, not by deciding to get into the skin of the character through a methodist school of acting - putting on weight, smoking or wearing what the character was needed to, but the real achievement lay in the ability to confidently carry the role of a sultry southern seductress who got a raw deal from the industry that created her, adulated her and then let her slip into an oblivion death, ironically only to reprise her much later in this story. Milan Luthria’s choice of subject is a winner and there are no second thoughts about it. What would have been a pity is if this fine script, camera work and cinematography had met incompetent acting - the movie would have met doomsday instantaneously. The real winner therefore is the casting director followed by the actors themselves. Each role have had a glove like fit in its respective actors. Naseruddin Shah as the never ageing, womanising, super-star who has no qualms of ‘tuning’ with every co-actress during the night and then avoiding them with equal nonchalance in the day, does what he does best - act. It is a treat that we are present in an era to see fine actors like Shah present their craft over and over again tirelessly. Bravo.

Tushar Kapoor plays the second fiddle brother to the super star, a role he must have by now gained an excellence over considering the number of such roles he so convincingly plays. I have always argued that he is a fine actor, if only he knew to select his roles. As Ramakant, Tushar does not disappoint - he is the weakling who despite all his good intentions for Silk can never muster the courage to side step society and wed her.

The other male lead - Emran Hashmi is an actor who has really come of age from the only kiss-and-kiss days. One could not miss his stellar performance in Once upon a time in Mumbai (again a Milan Luthria movie). And once again in this movie he does poetic justice to the role of Abraham, Silk’s arch detractor from the beginning and yet ironically perhaps the only one who empathised in the true sense with her predicament. As a character of a director who lives in the arrogance of his film making abilities not believing that cheap ‘sex’ (read – Silk) can actually ever sell movies Emran is more than convincing. The bitter sweet irony is that by the end of it all when Abraham finally meets a commercial success he admits that movies sell only because of three things - ‘entertainment, entertainment and entertainment,’ thereby coming a full circle by quoting the woman he so loved to hate - Silk.

The movie however unabashedly belongs to the character and actor- Silk and Vidya Balan respectively. I have mentioned earlier that the real winner is the casting director and the cherry in the pie of casting is Vidya Balan. It is not my biased interest in Vidya speaking in this section, but if you have watched the movie, you will agree that reprising the role of a character who moves from rags to riches to rags in her own terms, compromising with morality and satiating the hunger for success, she is utterly fantastic from the first to the last shot. A good director can only do as much as set the plot to a perspective but a good actor can take a perspective to new heights. Vidya does exactly this. She defines the role Silk in a quintessential manner leaving an indelible impression on the viewers. People have written about her ability to confidently feature a more than voluptuous character with ease. I shall regard that second to her ability to impart a unique trademark to the character, which will remain with you as a viewer long after you have come out of the cinema halls. Hence, I began talking about the wink. The manner how Vidya delivers it, almost makes me feel as if it’s aimed as a symbolic pun at her critics and detractors who may have written her off for not being the quintessential size zero, hour glass heroine. Oh - she is not all of that and I thank God for this. She is, well, she is ‘entertainment’ ;)

The Dirty Picture certainly qualifies as one of the hundred-movies-to-watch-before-you-die. Don’t Miss it.

The Jalebi Theory

Come winters and our capital’s streets and markets come alive with the aroma of delectable warm,oily, spicy (or sweet) snacks. And mind you, keeping in sync with the sentiment of the so-large ‘total vageetarian’ community, the ubiquitous and your nearby Aggarawal (both single and double ‘g,’clans) or Nathu halwaiwala, will perforate the evening air with aromatic and definitely mouth watering dishes like the Aloo Tikki (No, Mashed Potato patty is not a close English cousin or synonym), Samosas, Kachori, Moong-Dal-Halwa, Gajar-Ka-halwa, Paneer Tikka, Gulab Jamun and a host of others. If in these evenings you loiter or pass around the market and not caring whether you have a flat six pack tummy or one of those half-globe ones, you cannot deny the temptation to have feasted on these delicacies once or every possible time. It’s just so in our Delhism to not deny these beauties from adorning our big mouths. Top all this with a plate of piping hot jalebis and you are set to feel like a king/queen. If you ask me, in my humble opinion, this sweet twisted dish (hardly actually, if you consider a fermented dough of flour with some essence a dish) is the queen (assuming it to be feminine) of all winter desserts or street snacks. Well, to my assumption's favour, the Jalebi is certainly royal in her appearance and not one of those all-round-or-fluid’ desserts. The saffron colour adds an edge to the royalty and finally there is always a struggle to get your self a plate of her. (Kind of makes it elitist) Besides, like a benevolent royal, the Jalebi, creates a joyous atmosphere for the people consuming it. Don’t believe me - Observe a group or even yourself when you bite into a piece. There is a sense of immense joy, almost as if all your problems have been taken care of as the deep fried and sweetened dough melts in your mouth and the sweet syrup rushes down the gullet ; then you bite into another and another, till the feeling infiltrates your senses like a drug. That is the royal Jalebi for you.

If that was not enough, then one can feel her elitism when one tries to get an audience with her. Like suitors for a marriage, you are given numbers of when will she grace you. The attendant (the sales-boy) will nonchalantly scribble a number on your token slip and call it out almost as nonchalantly. No one messes with the high priestess and if you want her grace, then you weather the wait. In our friendly Agarwal store, I have not seen many refuse the number even though that would sometimes mean an hour long wait. In my own case I would not wait that long for a doctor, but Ms. Jalebi has her own charm and I succumb to it.

In the numerous plates of Jalebi I have consumed all this long, there was this epiphany today. This simple Indian dessert in many ways is also a philosophy of life itself. No, seriously. The ingredients, the shape, the cooking process and then finally tills its consumed, the Jalebi is life incarnate and if you are connoisseur of the dessert as much as I am , then you will agree. Let me elucidate.

Fine wheat flour mixed with butter milk is fermented as the dough for jalebi. Wheat flour is life, butter milk the experience of life and the fermentation is time. (This is not heavy, trust me) One can add saffron and essence to this batter, just as life has its share of emotions, good friends and other elements which ferment along with it. Now, after an overnight of fermentation (not excessive) comes the real cooking. The batter is placed in small quantities inside a muslin pouch which has a small hole. The cook will then artistically make concentric circles of the batter dropping out of the hole into heated oil, where its fried. The boiling oil if you consider can be the trials and tribulations that one’s life is fried in. The shape of the Jalebi is how one’s life is - never a straight line but layers of concentric circles, sometime touching each other and sometimes much dispersed. One can never escape this part regardless of who you are. This is the precedence to the best part, yet to begin. Only after the Jalebi is fried just enough to turn golden brown, that its immersed in a syrup of sugar for a short while, though long enough for it to absorb the sweetness before its served piping on your plate. The same way, life will fry us only enough and give us an opportunity to be dipped in the sweet experiences, which in the long run will be all that matters. And one cannot claim that there are no sweet experiences in one’s life - that will be saying one did not live at all. Better still, look at this way that despite all the fermentation and frying, its the taste of the Jalebi that lingers in your mouth, the joy that it brings in consuming it. So, if one can treat life as an experience through which we can bring joy to others and remain as a sweet memory, one has just Jalebied oneself. Profound - Not exactly, but what the heck, it was a thought and I take the pride of coining this as the Jalebi theory - something I wish 2012 to live by. Next time you gorge on a Jalebi, do not think of the calories; think of it as a learning of life, a bodhta. If that is heavy duty, then just consume it for the sake that it sweetens your taste buds.

Wishing all you readers a Jalebi of time in 2012. Share this with all and spread the Jalebi theory. :)

Note: Photo courtesy - indianimages.com

The Rabbit Hole

The year is 364 days old. Without wanting to sound very philosophical, come to think of it, even I am older by the same number of calendar days. It has been quiet a year - 2011. Like most of the years since I have started working, the days seem to have passed away quicker. Then again, I know this well, its not time that has picked up pace but my lifestyle. I do not know if this is a boon or a bane - an introspection left for my forties; no careless pondering on this for now.

2011 was the Chinese year of the rabbit. (2010 was the year of tiger, ironically) Rabbits, for me have always been far from being a romantic, furry, timid animal. The earliest fictional imagery, I can recollect of a rabbit, is that of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, always in a paucity of time, running late, incoherent yet wise. This perhaps is a perfect analogy for my ‘year of the rabbit’ -(read the mad hatter) Take a dive into a few thought provoking milestones of my journey into the rabbit hole this year.

Friends: This is has been a discovery this year. Well, isn’t this always in a year, you may wonder? Yes, it is, but live my life and age and you will understand why the impulse to write about this topic at the beginning. This year, I earned friends. In the past years I have made and lost friends, but have earned few. Earning friendship is a difficult and patient process. Every individual is different and the bond of friendship recognises this subtle thread that actually binds us together. The ‘rabbit year’ nourished such individuals in my life and I am grateful. It will be futile to talk about them, but if they choose to read (few even complain of my ‘exorbitantly expensive’ english) they well know who they are. My sincere wish that all of you get such friends in years to come and in case you all consider me one such, I will be much honoured and be willing to traverse the journey of life with you as far as possible.

Wife: Simmi and I are now a whole one year and nine months married. It has been a very fulfilling journey till now. Not that we did not or do not have our share of problems. We have had some bitter arguments and fights regarding the most trivial of issues. Yet, we are thankful that we did pick up those arguments and will perhaps continue to do so, because it helps cleanse the system of its unending list of daily frustrations of life, which we often tend to unleash on the easiest prey available to us - the one we love the most. In the course of our some very childish whims and arguments, I have come to realise that none but her would have ever tolerated such temperament of mine. She has over this period of togetherness, helped me to be myself, san pretensions and what more, loved me more for being so. I cannot be more grateful for that and maybe will smile next time we pick up a fight. The year also helped me realise her resoluteness and commitment to my family, when she decided to quit her job and be with my mom to take care of her. I was and still am amazed at her sacrifice, so just saying that ‘I am proud of her’ would be an understatement. Here is secret - Husbands/Men harbour an ambition of having model wife/girlfriends. If you ask me, the rabbit fulfilled my ambition this year.

Writing: This year, I re-discovered this passion. I always wanted to be a writer. It has been an undefeated passion for a long time since, I first wrote a verse in school, followed by some unlimited skits, short stories, essays and then came the years of the blank canvas. To write, I needed to read, to read I needed to discuss, debate, understand, observe and all this while the wheel was often missing some spoke or the other to complete a cycle. The year gifted me with a surreal mentor who completed the picture, dawning a new phase in me. With soulful mentor-ship, I also owe it to the social media revolution, which opened a new direct relationship between the writer and the reader. Factoring all these conditions the journey is well begun and I cross my fingers that I scurry to my destination steadily and not in a race with the tortoise.

Travel: I cannot claim to be a traveller, even though it is a passion. Or, lets put it this way I have not given into the real passion of being a traveller though there were some adventurous steps taken towards it. For the first time (quiet an achievement) I traveled abroad, albeit to only a neigbouring country - Sri Lanka. This was with friends and for cricket, so most of it gets censored in description. However, Lanka was fun - the highlight of the journey - I lost my camera on the first day.

Closer home, there was this road trip to Amritsar, again with friends. Great experience and place - the highlight of the journey - I bought a high end point-and-shoot camera. Then there was an office trip to Naukuchiataal, my holiday with Simmi down south to Bangalore, Hoggenakal and Coorg. In between all this there were two annual trips to home at Shillong or Guwahati, where most of the time, I was either busy repairing or having something repaired among the other lists of things that a dutiful-twelve-day-a-year-visiting son has to fulfill. Home can never be a travel destination, if you wear my shoes, that is.

Cricket: How could I miss this. I lived through all possible superstitions watching the India-Sri Lanka World Cup final in my own living room. The rabbit had a mixed bag for the Indian kookaburras. Winning the world cup is definitely a high point for a long long time, but the England series had exorcised my feeling for Cricket completely. I am now a far less passionate follower of Indian cricket, but deep inside, the heart beats, still race faster, every time a match is positioned on the razor’s edge. Like today, I was cursing and cussing the Indian team all over twitter when the buggers conceded the first test to Australia. Did, I say I was ‘less passionate?’

I guess, this is too small a list of events to summarise my 364 days, but like the mad hatter, I too am running late for the bed. Few milestones like Sleep, Movies, Reading, Cooking remain and should find place duly but only after I finish doing what I want to do now.

So where did the rabbit hole lead me to? Think, did I not answer that already. ;)

You will see more of me this year but before that gear yourself for 2012 - to ‘train a dragon’. You need skill and faith. Wishing you all ample of it, Happy New Year.

Before Sunday

Author note: "Of the writing exercises that I indulge in, one of my favourite is flash fiction. While most of you have read my poetry and encouraged me to explore the craft more, writing short (flash) fiction is another craft I am exploring. Writing fiction in less than a 1000 words is a difficult exercise, which I have come to realise over the first few attempts because as a writer, the first desire is to write everything and anything, in fear that one might miss out on details. However I have realised that we cannot undercut the role of you, the reader, who is intelligent and have the great ability to visualise. So, shorter sentences, simpler words and tighter plots are difficult and I have tried in what you will read below. There are lot of aspects that have gone in the writing of this story, one of which is staying awake when I should have been sleeping, but guess the fruit of creativity is more tempting than the curse it brings with it. Hope you all love the story and please do share your opinions. They help me to write better for you. Thanks again"

I knew it was Monday. I always knew Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow brighter, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays. I love Sunday and I have nothing against Monday either. For a four year old, week days really did not matter much anyway. Week days were important for the elders. They behaved differently on different days and over these young years I have almost come to map the patterns of the ones in my home.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays were almost the same as Mondays. One of them would rouse early, almost sleep walking to the kitchen or the bathroom. The lights of the living room would be lit. In summers, the curtains would be pulled open and bright sun light would eagerly split through the tall windows, resting here and there, lazily changing shapes and positions during the day. Thursdays, the ritual would be almost the same with a slight delay, which I understood led to the louder than usual crescendo of shouting and screaming, doors closing loudly, frantic noises in the kitchen of pots and pans clattering almost as if someone was trying to do voodoo. In between this chaos, one of them would take out a moment to smile at me and speak briefly. I would try to converse, but I am a little slow and they were always so impatient between Mondays to Thursdays. Sometimes they would actually pick up a fight over the time lost over me on these days. I feel guilty and sullen when this happens but always seem to forget it the next day.

Fridays would always arrive with a strange excitement cutting through the air. The best days are when one of them would play music even before the curtains would be pulled open. Over the next few hours, he would hum to the bathroom, dilly dally deliberately till she pushed him in, he struggling playfully. He would sometimes, pull her inside and I would hear her shouting, “No, Rahul, not now,” her protests and pitch oscillating between laughs and verbal struggles. Then it would get quieter, till a while after the lull (the music would be the loudest then) she would rush out of the door wrapped in a towel and he would keep calling out to her.

“Suits you right,” she would shout back, giggling, humming the tune of the song.

“Roshni, please, yaar,” he would keep shouting, his voice getting louder and impatient while she silently would wait outside the bathroom door, smiling to herself till he almost sounded desperate. She would then gently knock at the door and once slightly parted, she would walk inside, only to run out again giggling. A moment later he would follow, laughing and before you know, over the chase, which I also try and join, they would end up cuddling and hugging me. I feel very warm when they hug me and on Fridays, I always get the longer hugs than the usual.

I loved Fridays, as long as they would not return home late. It was not the late part that upsets me. If they were late, it meant more screaming, shouting, doors banging, pots clattering at night.

“Go to hell,” I heard him once shout.

“Fuck you,” she had once retorted “You had a nerve to behave like that in front of my friends”

I could never understand these conversations which seem to have begun even before they enter the room and then continues to the bedroom followed by eerie silence. The silence would often extend to the afternoon of the Saturday. Then, some friends would visit in the evening and they would behave as if nothing happened. There would be music, laughter and I would again suddenly be the centre of distracted conversations. I would be cuddled, hugged, fed made to forget the evening of the day before once again. Sometimes I get mixed up with the patterns of Saturday evenings and Friday mornings, but you can’t blame me for this, can you?

Sundays were lazy, very lazy. We would all sleep till late. In winters, sometimes, this would stretch to afternoons. I never complained (even though it meant lying on the bed) because this meant a lot of cuddling. I would slip between them and over half wake state they would take turns to talk to me, showering me with fond sweet nothings. If you ask me, I would love if time could freeze on Sunday mornings, but I could not compromise the visit to the park in the evening, the drive to the mall and the ice cream at India Gate. By the end of the day, everything would be sundry, lazy and beautiful, just like the setting sun they both loved to spend time watching, murmuring apologies and stealing kisses against the crimson sky. I loved Sunday evenings almost as much as Friday mornings.

But it was, Mondays I knew most. You cannot miss Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow even brightest, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays.

“Honey, I am taking Mojo out for his walk,” he shouted.

“Don’t be late,” she shouted back.

“Here, Mojo,” he ushered towards me as I happily wagged my tail. The week had begun and there are six more days to go before Sunday.

Listen

the poet is dead.

Died a silent death

when

you and I were writing prose

by the shores of the windy sea.

The sand,

picked on us

the poet,

by the rocks.

We scribbled, drew paragraphs plenty

the poet etched,

one

word

at

a

time

II

In the high tide,

we swam with the waves

hit the rocks

held on to them

when we were pulled away.

The poet

swam in deep sea;

never came back for tea.

III

Father,

why does my castle not stay?

Son,

its made of sand and clay.

Father

what does, this rock say

Son, it says

One

word

at

a

time

Life

does

not

always

rhyme.

For Me...

adhigatya guroH GYAnaM chhAtrebhyo vitaranti ye |

vidyA vAtsalya nidhayaH shikshakA mama daivataM ||

For me,

When the tortoise beat the hare,

when the gulmohar tree bloomed on papyrus,

when the single lines formed shapes,

when letters formed words lesser known,

when two and two added as four,

when the ball made its way into the goal,

when the smiles made way for the tears,

For me, you were there!

For me,

When the dress changed from grey to colours,

when books made way for notes,

when benches were counted from behind,

when time was measured with a P or an A,

when I grew and outgrew,

when I stole minutes in seconds to write verse in prose,

when i became a lower notation,

For me, you were there!

For me,

When i chose a system away from a system,

when i spoke of what should have been, and not,

when i carried unfulfilled dreams,

when i found many you's in many me's,

when i watered the forbidden desires,

when i rose and fell, and fell,

when darkness made way to light,

For me, you were there!

In my poetry,

In my soul,

In me, you all were there;

in each form,

same shape,

just a different octate, a different sestet!

For you, my own -

Om Gurur Brahma Gurur Vishnuh |

Gurur Devo Maheshawarah ||

Gurureva param brahma |

Tasmai Shri Gurave Namah ||

To Deuta (Dad), Maa, Bro Dsouza, Mr. Middlecourt, Mrs. Krishnakali, Sutapa ma'm, Krishnamurthy ma'm, Sunil Sir, Dr. Ratan, Rahul Sapra, Sumit Pillai, Namit, Shaheen Jehani, Himanshu Gautam, Arvind Joshi

The Poem - Generations old!

There was a first

and they were his words.

The other listened

patiently, sometimes

slept with eyes wide open.

In between punctuations,

gargles of alcohol,

a few nature's calls

and some verses blank,

The other would be seated,

seats below,

a meter below the meter

An old saying ran in the village

"Distance from the first always safer"

The first would recite,

pause;

The other would clap,

release a few audible excites.

Scratch his head,

Sometimes the groin,

Looks at the sun

when he came - was a red ball,

now - a bright ball,

when he will leave - in the sky a different ball.

His father had done the same,

So had the father's father.

Generations of practice,

Taught the survival in the game.

His son -

young and naive.

In the distance squatted,

played five on five.

Bought along to observe,

In years will have to learn,

Earn,

the family's morsel of bread,

Safe keep the land,

and all other fears that they dread!

The first would rise,

the other followed.

The first sighed,

the other sheepishly smiled.

The first burped,

the other gulped.

The first moved away,

Two hands on two men,

The alcohol must have been strong,

The other picks up his child,

Sleeping on the grass,

mud on his hide,

worms sleeping by his side.

On the way back, his questions galore -

"Baba - what did you hear today?"

The other would cradle him closer

"Poetry, my son, everyday!"

"Was I there in it?"

another question,

another silence from the other.

Many pauses later,

"No, my son, not you nor grand pa or me was in it!"

Patterns

I woke up next to her. The room was dark with faint streaks of street light sneaking past the curtains. Light always manages to surreptitiously make way into the dark corners. All it requires is a small crack, a gap, an inconsequential crevice or even a brief parting. As I sat on the edge of the bed, I deliberately parted the curtain to allow the smooth operator to sneak into the room willingly and sate it’s curiosity to explore dark corners. Dressed in yellow, drawing patterns of the window grill over my face in soft shadows, settling comfortably on the floor, a few of its rays carelessly lay on the bed next to me, flirting silently with my presence. I looked outside. The road that overlooked the window lay bare and my eyes could trace its unending horizon, adorned with numerous street lamps that seemed to coalesce into the dark sky as stars in the distant horizon. I shifted my gaze on the bed where she was lying, unaware, oblivious of the spectacle and my state of mind. The bed stead hugged her tracing the contours of her body. It seemed to be gazing back at me, teasing me at the proximity it seemed to be enjoying with her naked body. I let out a sigh and shifted my gaze back on the road and thought about the night, which was only a few hours old.

Our kisses were always very passionate. From gentle brushes to passionately crushing each other, our lips seemed to have a life of their own. For a few brief moment we would pause, the air echoing with our heavy breathing, look into each other’s eyes and then as if the wait has been itself too long, the lips would lock themselves again. Hands would prowl, pushing, pulling, and tugging at anything that would try and come between our skins. In between all this she would laugh when I bury myself on her neck, but that would be momentary. The bed would take the brunt of our wrestle; cotton, silk and sometimes satin crushed under our bodies. For those minutes everything seems to be secondary – time, the mobile phone ringing, the music, the candles that would never be lit and many other things that would be our concern when we would be two different individuals. Sometimes there would be questions in my mind but would be exorcised as quickly as they would conjure under the pulpit of the passion. I would laugh, sometimes smile and be in a state of stupor; she would winch, bite her lips, close her eyes, clench her fists, claw my back and seconds later everything would come to an abrupt end, the room would be filled with an eerie silence, sometimes punctured by hoarse whispers of her “love you.”

It was no different today. I kept lying on the bed, knowing what would come next. She crawled herself to my bare chest, kissed it and caressed the hair on it, she so much loved. I ran my hands through her tresses, carefully separating a few strands falling over her eyes. I wanted to see her eyes but like always her face would be buried inside me. I pulled myself back a little allowing her more room to rest her head on. My ears were slowly registering the various sounds around us now. Reality was near and I kept playing with her hair, hoping feverishly that she would fall asleep and silence would be the last conversation before we woke up again. For a long while she lay still and I strained my neck a little to see if she had slept. And then she spoke, her voice feeble but seemed to echo in my ears – “You took her name again today. You loved her a lot, na?”

I knew the question; I have heard it many times in the last few months. The past always caught up with me. “Perhaps, I can out run it someday,” I thought to myself as I looked out of the window. I could still see the road and the lights plastered unto the canvas. Nothing seemed to have changed from when I woke up till now. Time, Yes, time has passed but nothing else has changed. The light was still searching for other crevices and every time it has managed to find a presence in my room through the curtains. I looked at her on the bed. I made way back on the bed cuddling closer to her. The curtains – I left them open. I can’t fight the light anyway.

Broken

I broke down today

Over the thread of joy that lay barren

On my war struck heart's ground

Tears dried up inside

There were so many things to hide

Some mountains built of mole hills

Some rivers of rain drops

Some flowers strewn in between rides

to nowhere but the path inside

All along I knew - 'This is just a dream'

So was She

many years ago

When she walked away from my arms to another

And life had never been the same

Till I found my thread of joy

Over one drunk state of life

I hollered

The unsaid was heard

That was it

The dream began

And amongst all the nothingness

Little did I know

I had grown young

and the hardened heart tender

Unconditional

Unperturbed

but it was not to be

Every dream wakes to reality

I woke up a

morning with the essence of the thread of joy

Breaking to pieces

And I collect the shards of memories

Not weaker

but stronger

Because I have a promise to keep

To be where I have been left

with the same smile

the same spirit

the same heart

Tender

Young

Never ageing in the day or dark!

The first draft came from the heart... I will not say anything more. I have no punctuations left...

Today anger overtook love,

Temperament assaulted patience,

Love stood where it was.

It does not know to fight back,

So it decided to wait,

Where it stood!

Anger is volatile,

Love eternal.

So it stood under the tree

Waiting!

:) Sigh!!! I guess I have grown with time!!!

An Absent Presence!

In a moment fraught with your lingering presence

I miss the absence

Time would never be the same

But, yet it moves,

Dragging the moments,

With the pace,

I cannot keep up with.

So I wait under your shadow,

Waiting for everything to stand still.

Watch time pass by,

Waiting for the unheard emotion of the heart,

To pronounce the unpronounced,

To see the unseen!

All for a moment fraught with your presence,

Where I can feel the absence,

Of everything else but you!

Birth

I had written this a long time back - the good old way on paper. This was the time when I was reading a lot on the stream of consciousness technique in literature, popularised by Henry James and the other favourite of mine, Virginia Woolfe. In college we were being taught Woolfe's Mrs. Dalloway and every page of the book was an experience I can still relish. Some of my friends said that I was literally seduced by her, and I would not disagree. I still am and never fail to miss on reading something about or by her whenever possible. Those bohemian college days were fun and amidst the stupor of literary liquor, the fertile mind would conceive something or the other. This story was a result of one such night. Today, I am re-writing it and hope to carry the original flavour but the excitement of doing so is much more than what the result would be.

She nervously read her appointment receipt. This was the tenth time that she was doing so and perhaps would do so a few more times before the clock reads 3.30 pm.

"3,30 pm, " she thought to herself, "is the appointment and she could not be late." She was known for procrastinating. Everything could wait for her. Life was fun and so was she. “There will always be a time for everything," she would announce loud to anyone who tried to talk to her about it. Sometime she would laugh it off. Her laugh was mesmerising. It never failed to disarm her detractors and like always leave many men in the room smiling to themselves, secretly wishing her in their lives.

The waiting room had two other ladies. She tried not to meet their eyes but would secretly steal a look at them. Both of them carried a happy anticipation on their face. This would make her more nervous and, she would continue to read the appointment receipt and steal glances at the hands of the big round clock that was hung on the wall. It seemed very still and discomforted her. She would shift her gaze occasionally at the water dispenser in the hallway and watch the bubbles rise up in the canister every time someone would fetch out a glass of water.

He looked around in the room for the bottle of water. She usually would leave it beside his bed knowing that it would be first thing he would reach out for in a half awake and half sleep state. Today, it was not there and finally after groping for a while, he lazily rose from the bed and looked at his watch - "3.30," it read.

"3.30," she looked at the clock on the wall and then looked at her wrist. She was not wearing her watch today but that did not matter now. It was 3.30 and she was still waiting for her turn. She looked at her receipt again to reconfirm and then rose nervously trying to smoothen the crease of her dress. She loved dressing for any occasion but did not have time for the same today. Dress did not matter here, grit does. She walked towards the receptionist who was busy on the phone, deftly moving her fingers on the keyboard of the computer at the same time. She cleared her throat to announce her presence.

"Please proceed," the receptionist told her. She let out a sigh of relief knowing that she was not late today. She did not need directions to the place. She was here earlier and quickly found herself the room. She read the board outside the door like the previous time - "Sonia Singh, Snr. Gynecologist". "Nothing changes," she thought, “nothing at all”. She knocked at the door.

He heard a knock at the door and rushed to open it. It was the colony guard asking for the monthly wage. He refused yet again – “Come next week.” He was anticipating her at the door and he would not want to waste time on anyone else. The room was stale with smoke but he was not bothered. He would sometimes move to the window and look out of it through the smudged panes. The street below with all the cars, cycles, rickshaws, thelas and people seemed a contrast of his room, which never bore a busy look. Lazy, maybe but busy never. She loved it that way and he smiled to himself thinking of how she would announce that even an alert sentry would fall asleep in the room.

She smiled at the doctor. This was the first time she did so. The doctor smiled back and suddenly she was not nervous anymore. She knew what she wanted to hear and she knew what to do. “So,” the doctor spoke raising her eyes from a series of report, “are you serious on your decision”

“Yes, I am,” she spoke. She looked into the doctor’s eyes. The doctor smiled and asked to her lie down. “It will be a routine check up,” the doctor said, “don’t worry.” She was not worried, just a little amazed at the decision that had materialized in her head. She asked for a glass of water.

He hated the morning after dehydrated feeling. “I must stop drinking so much,” he thought to himself. He has been promising the same thing from a long time -sometimes to her and sometimes to himself. Each time he fails miserably, the same way he has been treated in his pursuit for a new job. Jobless, married and living on his wife’s income was not easy. He hated to think himself as a chauvinist but the ‘man’ in him roared at times and he succumbed to the lure of liquor so easily then. He vaguely remembered that she wanted to tell him something yesterday. “What was it?” he thought. “Did she tell me where she will be going today?” he pondered

She had not told him about her visit. “He must be anxious,” she thought. She was out on the streets. The din of the traffic was deafening. “Careful,” she told herself, to calm the excitement to reach home. She passed by a McDonalds and quickly stole a glance at her reflection on the window. She looked like one of the ladies in the room earlier – the glow of anticipation not hidden on her face anymore. She smiled and moved towards the crossing and patiently waited for the traffic signal to turn red.

She still was thinking of her decision at the signal. “This is it.” She told herself continuously, “There is no turning back now.” She took a deep breath and looked at the traffic signal and then at the other side of the road. There was only one woman waiting to cross over. “She looks so happy and bright,” she thought to herself, looking at the woman. The traffic signal turned red and the vehicles came to a screeching halt.

He could see the streets from the window and he kept waiting beside it looking at the traffic signals change colours. “She should be home soon,” he thought and looked at the clock on the table. “4.40,” it read.

“4.40,” he spoke aloud, nervously looking at the table searching for a note or anything that would tell him where she was. He cursed his addiction yet again and lit a cigarette when he heard the knock on the door.

“This is it,” he thought as he rushed to open the door.

“This is it,” she thought as she waited for the door to open.

He gave a knowing smile and ushered her in. The time read 4.45 and everything seemed to stand still when she spoke. He heard her patiently and slowly moved towards her. She kept looking at his eyes.

He thought for a while and then stole his eyes away from her and moved to the window, to blow out the smoke. The window made a strange noise when he yanked it open. Her eyes kept following him waiting for him to break the pregnant pause that had suddenly become more eerie than the room itself.

He smiled and held her tight in his arms. He was numb with a feeling that only he could understand.
She held him and felt the warmth in his shoulders, “Things would be ok,” she knew it.
He loosened her slightly and looked into her eyes while still holding her fragilely in his arms. The gaze was long drawn and she went limp when his breath got closer and spontaneously her eyes closed and lips parted. She could feel him get closer to her lips and was surprised when he passed by and cleared his throat to speak to her ears

“Abort it,” he spoke.
She stood transfixed for the moment, listless and stunned. Her mind re-winded to the clinic, to the knock at the doctor’s door, to the decision, to the exit she had made, to the street, to the crossing, to the woman who stood on the other side of the crossing – “How happy she looked,” she thought before slumping on the floor.

“So,” she spoke as she curled naked to the other side and he held her from behind – “Boy or Girl?”
“Girl,” he answered, nuzzling his head deeper into her nape and his hands tighter into her stomach.

A borrowed Wish

I read it... I loved it... Sorry but I have borrowed it....

A wish like the morning dew upon the cold palm
Like the effervescent laugh on the lips of a three-year old
Like the silence between the naked lovers sitting by the window
Like the cluster of stars hovering above the crowded head
Like the eyes that glisten with hunger and shamelessness,
Like the madness of a vagabond venturing into the unknown, knowingly
Like the windy night removing the peels of sorrow… slowly
Like You and I, torn and apart, forming a coherent whole
Like the wish itself, born in the mind, nursed in the heart and never told
Like love, surpassing the boundaries of the known, traversing the limitless possibilities with that one wish…

One could not say this better.... Sigh!!!

Of the Head and the Heart

Before these first letters and words made into this space, I have written and keyed the back space key on my keyboard more than once. The indecisiveness was again between writing prose or verse and I know where this is coming from. I am in midst of a waging battle between the head and heart. This is not a new feeling but this time the sentiments are overpowering and it is exhausting me. The feeling is similar to the that of an athlete, running the last mile, the finishing line in site. But, I know that I am no athlete this time. I am just the road on which the race is being run.
The body, I realise, is strangely only a shell to the two imperialists-the head and the heart. It responds to commands that they order. When there is a truce between them the body is the happiest of all. Lest the imperialists decide to conquer each other, may hem break loose and so is my state right now.
So what is the bone of contention this time? If you ask me, I will not be able to define it just now, because as much the heart wants to disclose, the head wants to hide. Thus, my expressions are incoherent and yet in midst of it there may be a meaning, an elixir to calm the furnace that burns inside me, taking away pieces of me in each blow that one strikes to another. I write tonight, not because, I want to express, but because I wish to find myself in these words, lest all is wiped out in this war. Tonight, I write for myself.
There are photographs hung up on the wall that stare back at me and then there are photographs in my head (or is it the heart?) that stare into me. Each one has its own space and each one have stories with it. The stories are sometime simple tales and sometime part of an epic that I feel I live in. Our lives indeed are no less than an epic. Each story has another associated with it. Each moment is fraught with heroism and malice, love and hatred, betrayal and loyalty. The list would be endless. What happens when all these stories demand an ending. It is then that battle becomes inevitable. My stories today demand an ending and the head and the heart have different scripts in mind.
If the bard said "To be or not to be" is an eternal question, his postulation was not far from the truth that mortal beings have to go through. Yes, I generalise my state with everyone because at this moment I would feel a bit more secure if I were to feel that the state that I am in, is not something that I am waging alone. I have realised that we do not fear driving a moment to its truth, we fear the consequence of it. Hence we hold back and let out exasperated sighs speaking of it all someday (if ever) over intoxicated states and the more enterprising yet cowardly lot like me, would express it subtly with words that other would find hard to understand.
I have feared driving many decisions to their moments of truth and tonight they all come out of the closet and stare at me. It is not they want me to act on it but my heart renders in pain seeing their state and revolts against the head who push them back inside the closet. Of all these, one such decision is what my heart would not allow to be shoved back into the closet. So the battle.
Fools, I say. In the battle that you both ensue, the moments and memories around the decision is getting ravaged and raped. Stop it, I say. Let me survive with those moments and memories because if they die, I die with them. Understand that it is the memories in the head that lead to the moments that reside in the heart. One cannot survive without the other. And the decision... Know this, as I did a moment ago when I heard it:

Zarre Zarre Mein Usi Ka Noor Hai
Jhak Khud Mein Woh Na Tujhse Door Hai
Ishq Hai Usse To Sab Se Ishq Kar
Ishq Hai Usse, To Sab Se Ishq Kar
Is Ibadat Ka Yehi Dastoor Hai

Amen.

Silence

You and I
have a silence that
speaks of us.
A silence that measures
our thoughts,
our memories,
in a single moment of a lull.

You and I
have a silence that is
sometimes loud,
sometimes silent,
sometimes not at all.
Like a secret
known to you and me,
whispered to our ears
by our eyes.

You and I
have a silence that
undresses the noise between us,
bares our naked soul,
revealing,
like the way it always was.

You and I
live this silence,
long after the phone line is cut.
A Silence that speaks
Of all that remains
You in me
and I in you.

Inert

I have this very strange feeling since morning today. No matter how hard I am trying to define the feeling, I am just unable to do so. It is almost like as if I am been etherized, made inert. Every conversation that I am indulging in seems mindless and all that seems to be echoing in my mind is a drone of some thoughts, which I yet again have no idea of. If you ask me, it almost feels as if the whole universe has boiled down many questions on to me and I do not know which one to answer.

I am asking myself if this feeling actually erupted with the first chapter that I began to read of Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being." The philosophy he propounds is interesting -

The heaviest of burdens is simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into new heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?

I understand this thought but I cannot relate it to my condition. Is it weight that burdens me or is it the mere absence of any that is managing to create these strange confabulations? My guess is that, it cannot be the absence of a burden. Rather, it is confluence of many 'weights' that is creating this condition in me.

Simmi and I will be distanced even further, now with me shifting to Dwarka. There is a piece of news regarding my professional growth that I have been waiting for since sometime and the anxiety of both seems to be the root cause of this inertness. Along with this and so many other thoughts that I seem to be effortlessly indulging myself in, this condition refuses to budge. Permit me to Sigh. It helps. Every pause helps, but only momentarily. Grrrrrrr!!! Oh so Prufrockian!!!

...And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Saints are Sinners Who don't give up!!!

Thu, Nov 6, 2008 at 11:55 AM: Simmi had this status on her gtalk and it swept me off my feet. When I first read it, I thought that she had picked this line as a random thought from Jhumpa Lahiri's "Unaccustomed Earth" which she has been reading for sometime now. I gave the line a thought and though it intrigued me, I failed to arrive at a concrete or even abstract meaning to the same. I requested her to explain it to me and from that moment on when she did so, I am in a complete awe of the statement. I will try my level best to rephrase the conversation that we have had online and later on phone to share my ecstacy and mental orgasm:

Me: Tell me na what it implies

Simmi: Wait

(after 2 minutes of innocuous prodding)

Simmi: Saints are sinners, because they refuse to give up on their ideals...

Me: ? (I was wondering if she had read anything Marxist recently)

Simmi: Look, how do you define a sin is inconsequential. What matter is, that saints in their attempt to correct and do things right and in doing so they end up 'sinning' in expecting a result. Expectation is a want, in many ways a sin. The true form of duty should not hinge on expectation or result, but only on duty. So many saints in succumbing to expectations, become 'sinners'... (pause)

Me: Go on... ( I was not convinced. If a person expects, then he cannot be a saint, is what I thought!! But I knew that she had more to this, than just that)

Simmi: Saints also have a will to never give up... They will fight for a cause because they expect the change, which for all probability might be for the best of mankind,... but they fight because they expect a change and in doing so they succumb to it as a temptation. (I was sniffing a philosophy of Gita in it)... I shall discuss this with you further when we talk. Got to run now.

Me: K... Hmmmm

I was still thinking...

We could never proceed with this conversation, but I bet there was more to this. My verdict - "I liked the conversation"

Midnight Verse!!!

Amidst a cloud of smoke,
The butt end of memories
Choke in my throat.
Coughs cease, my eyes gasp,
and the lungs need air.
I rush out (like always),
Leave the smoke behind
Carry the choke,
Adam's apple,
Eve's love.
The cycle is vicious.

As the moon sets,
and dim stars spangle the sky
I light yet another.
Inhale the smoke,
A half intermittent cough,
The butt of memories still remain,
Addiction?
Nay, " Its Life, I tell myself"