There are some things and events that gently and unmistakably point out the passage of time. And remind us of how life comes full circle in different ways every day.
Like the gulmohar tree I see from my living room. Splashes of fiery reds that intensify in sync with the blazing summer. A moist, green mass in the monsoon….so rich and verdant that the slender branches seem to bow under their burden.
Like the roly-poly little fella in the next building who emerges one fine summer morning in a spanking new uniform and polished shoes. Hair neatly combed to frame a sullen little face. Understandable, since he had all the time in the world to play and laze around till yesterday. But summers come and go, little kids soon become not-so-little kids…… and I smile a half-smile at nobody in particular when I recall that this is the third time I’ve seen his back-to-school ritual.
Like sitting down to update my blog, and then realizing that’s it’s been a good three months since I wrote last. And grudgingly acknowledging that Philip and many others had a valid point about the huge intervals between my posts. ;-P
Like the arrival of a Ganesha in our neighbourhood, with eyes as gentle as his girth is massive. Who is welcomed with shouting, singing and chanting that starts at one in the a.m. and goes on for all of next day. Which is a prelude to a ten day frenzy of colour, prayers and ardent believers. Not to forget traffic jams.
Like hearing the clack-clack of dandiyas in the neighbourhood, and realizing that we’re well into the festive season already. So let’s gear up for another round of festivities, praying for a peaceful and happy one at that.
Season’s greetings to y’all!!
P.S – That was a blanket wish, folks… so excuse me till Pongal of 2010!!!
>:-D
Listening to: ‘Piya tora’ from Raincoat……ahhhh, Hariharan’s voice!!! :-)
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Then and now...
*Started writing this one fine June afternoon....and sat down to finish it yesterday :). Oh well, procrastination's one of my nicer qualities....
It’d been a regular Sunday so far.
Church in the morning……after staying up reading till 2 a.m.
A quick trip to the local book stalls for the week’s supply.
A leisurely brunch and cuppa coffee at her regular hangout.
And back home by two in the p.m.
Oh well and all that, she thought. This is the way it’s been for a while now. Hard to explain yearning for company, for a trip, for a casual conversation, yet being reluctant to call a buddy or just head out. She puttered around the room, telling herself for the thousandth time that this was the weekend to get the room tidied up. Oh yeah, it is. So’s next weekend. A fleeting moment of amazement when she realized that it was almost July.
What would the rest of the day be like? Sleep? No. Though she eventually will, she knows that. Call a friend? Mebbe later. A quick jaunt to the mall downtown? Perhaps, but the weekend crowd of loud families and clingy couples was the last thing she needed.
Better read a book till I decide.So she stretched out on the bed, keeping the windows wide open to catch the cool breeze.
Ahhhhh..bliss.
Karen Carpenter’s soulful alto rose from the laptop perched on the desk.
Perfect. The only singer she’d ever aspired to sound like. Soon, she was deep into the plot and subplots of the battered spy thriller.
She awoke suddenly, startled by a coolness on her arm. Confused for moment, she saw that the room was much darker now, the curtains flapped wildly, and Karen continued to sing. Make believe, the song name registered somewhere at the back of her mind.
But then is then, and now is now…..
And right now, it was raining…… the sweet, moist scent of the earth was heady alright. As was the cool spray that had woken her up. She could never explain how rain always, unfailingly, triggered off a series of images in her mind.
Of her much younger self stretching her arms out of the window to ‘catch’ the rain. Of running around outside with her cousins in a ferocious Kerala rainstorm, of an era when she could go topless (or bottomless, for that matter) without anybody batting an eyelid. Of praying hard for heavy rain on school nights, so that she could stay in the next day. And then feeling guilty at having her prayers answered, as she watched a street urchin trying to stay dry under the straggly limbs of the nearest tree.
Of more pensive evenings, when a teenager watched the simple beauty of an afternoon shower, and wondered why people and life itself had to be so complicated. Of the bright cleanness of the trees after the rain, of a green so intense it hurt your eye. Of silently crying in the dark a few years later, as she heard the rain pound relentlessly. They’d buried her beloved grandmother that evening, and the thought of the rain pelting that lonely grave, and battering the flowers was almost too much to bear.
Of deliberately prolonging the five minute walk back home from college, if it so much as drizzled. Of watching from her hostel window in another part of the country, as the rains misted the landscape into impressionist masterpieces. Of breathing in the damp, cool air one Easter evening, and wondering if it was just her or if life really was a bitch.
As always, the montage released a sharp, short pang of homesickness. And sadness. A longing to be truly footloose and carefree once again. Secretly, she enjoyed the rain even in the huge metro, despite the whole city turning into a squelchy bog. Despite the ordeal of her commute and the massacred footwear. No sense in spoiling the magic of the moment by thinking of day to day issues……Mundane practicality would rear its ugly head whenever, wherever.
Meanwhile, Karen Carpenter was almost through with her song.
…And now is all that matters, anyhow
I totally agree, she thought, watching as the rain caressed the earth and sang its love songs once again. As it had always done for eons past.
It’d been a regular Sunday so far.
Church in the morning……after staying up reading till 2 a.m.
A quick trip to the local book stalls for the week’s supply.
A leisurely brunch and cuppa coffee at her regular hangout.
And back home by two in the p.m.
Oh well and all that, she thought. This is the way it’s been for a while now. Hard to explain yearning for company, for a trip, for a casual conversation, yet being reluctant to call a buddy or just head out. She puttered around the room, telling herself for the thousandth time that this was the weekend to get the room tidied up. Oh yeah, it is. So’s next weekend. A fleeting moment of amazement when she realized that it was almost July.
What would the rest of the day be like? Sleep? No. Though she eventually will, she knows that. Call a friend? Mebbe later. A quick jaunt to the mall downtown? Perhaps, but the weekend crowd of loud families and clingy couples was the last thing she needed.
Better read a book till I decide.So she stretched out on the bed, keeping the windows wide open to catch the cool breeze.
Ahhhhh..bliss.
Karen Carpenter’s soulful alto rose from the laptop perched on the desk.
Perfect. The only singer she’d ever aspired to sound like. Soon, she was deep into the plot and subplots of the battered spy thriller.
She awoke suddenly, startled by a coolness on her arm. Confused for moment, she saw that the room was much darker now, the curtains flapped wildly, and Karen continued to sing. Make believe, the song name registered somewhere at the back of her mind.
But then is then, and now is now…..
And right now, it was raining…… the sweet, moist scent of the earth was heady alright. As was the cool spray that had woken her up. She could never explain how rain always, unfailingly, triggered off a series of images in her mind.
Of her much younger self stretching her arms out of the window to ‘catch’ the rain. Of running around outside with her cousins in a ferocious Kerala rainstorm, of an era when she could go topless (or bottomless, for that matter) without anybody batting an eyelid. Of praying hard for heavy rain on school nights, so that she could stay in the next day. And then feeling guilty at having her prayers answered, as she watched a street urchin trying to stay dry under the straggly limbs of the nearest tree.
Of more pensive evenings, when a teenager watched the simple beauty of an afternoon shower, and wondered why people and life itself had to be so complicated. Of the bright cleanness of the trees after the rain, of a green so intense it hurt your eye. Of silently crying in the dark a few years later, as she heard the rain pound relentlessly. They’d buried her beloved grandmother that evening, and the thought of the rain pelting that lonely grave, and battering the flowers was almost too much to bear.
Of deliberately prolonging the five minute walk back home from college, if it so much as drizzled. Of watching from her hostel window in another part of the country, as the rains misted the landscape into impressionist masterpieces. Of breathing in the damp, cool air one Easter evening, and wondering if it was just her or if life really was a bitch.
As always, the montage released a sharp, short pang of homesickness. And sadness. A longing to be truly footloose and carefree once again. Secretly, she enjoyed the rain even in the huge metro, despite the whole city turning into a squelchy bog. Despite the ordeal of her commute and the massacred footwear. No sense in spoiling the magic of the moment by thinking of day to day issues……Mundane practicality would rear its ugly head whenever, wherever.
Meanwhile, Karen Carpenter was almost through with her song.
…And now is all that matters, anyhow
I totally agree, she thought, watching as the rain caressed the earth and sang its love songs once again. As it had always done for eons past.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Little bundle of.....??
Recently, I was having this perfectly ordinary conversation with a colleague of mine when she casually dropped this line…..
“You know, my mom had tried to abort when she was pregnant with me, but that attempt failed. So she carried me to full term.”
Mentally, I’d gone all slack-jawed while keeping a normal face on the outside (or so I believe). But such was the impact of that one line that I’ve even forgotten the context in which it was said. The colleague in question didn’t seem too fazed, but I was reeling from what I’d heard. Needless to say, the rest of the conversation went over my head.
How do you deal with the knowledge that your mother tried to get rid of you when you were in her womb???? We’re all conditioned to expect being wanted in some capacity or other.....Most of all by our families.
No doubt, abortion was, is, and will always be a question with no right or wrong answers. I’m against taking a life, especially when the target in question cannot fight back or speak up. But I also think that the mother in question is the only one who can take a call on the matter. That too only in certain circumstances.
Well, I’m not going to debate the rights and wrongs of an age old issue here. Fine, so you tried to abort your baby for reasons best known to you. Assuming your child survived an abortion attempt, is it really necessary to let them know about it later? Does the parent in question even have a clue about the emotional crapload they’re dumping on a kid’s head??
Granted, from what I know my friend seems to have had a normal, happy life with her folks so far. But how does it feel to know that at some time, however long back, you were not wanted? That the ones responsible for your existence actually tried to eliminate you from the scene? And yes, this friend will have certain health issues for life, thanks to the botched abortion.
I guess this is better than what another friend of mine went through. Her teen years weren’t very smooth, what with her being the much younger child and her mom having a successful, demanding career. One particularly nasty mother-daughter spat stopped dead in its tracks when her mom yelled, “You know something?? I never wanted you. I knew it wasn’t good for my career. I would’ve aborted you, but your grandmom wouldn’t budge.”
We could only watch the trauma she went through while trying to come to terms with that revelation. She’s married now, with a child of her own. On the face of it atleast, she seems to have made peace with her mother. It’s not something I can ask about despite being a close friend.
I really don’t know.
And I can’t judge either, though it’s really hard to restrain myself from doing so. Mebbe it’s coz I’ve never seen an unborn child being regarded with anything other than joyful anticipation. Anxiety yes, but of the positive kind.
I guess there are some situations in life where the bliss of ignorance is the best alternative.
“You know, my mom had tried to abort when she was pregnant with me, but that attempt failed. So she carried me to full term.”
Mentally, I’d gone all slack-jawed while keeping a normal face on the outside (or so I believe). But such was the impact of that one line that I’ve even forgotten the context in which it was said. The colleague in question didn’t seem too fazed, but I was reeling from what I’d heard. Needless to say, the rest of the conversation went over my head.
How do you deal with the knowledge that your mother tried to get rid of you when you were in her womb???? We’re all conditioned to expect being wanted in some capacity or other.....Most of all by our families.
No doubt, abortion was, is, and will always be a question with no right or wrong answers. I’m against taking a life, especially when the target in question cannot fight back or speak up. But I also think that the mother in question is the only one who can take a call on the matter. That too only in certain circumstances.
Well, I’m not going to debate the rights and wrongs of an age old issue here. Fine, so you tried to abort your baby for reasons best known to you. Assuming your child survived an abortion attempt, is it really necessary to let them know about it later? Does the parent in question even have a clue about the emotional crapload they’re dumping on a kid’s head??
Granted, from what I know my friend seems to have had a normal, happy life with her folks so far. But how does it feel to know that at some time, however long back, you were not wanted? That the ones responsible for your existence actually tried to eliminate you from the scene? And yes, this friend will have certain health issues for life, thanks to the botched abortion.
I guess this is better than what another friend of mine went through. Her teen years weren’t very smooth, what with her being the much younger child and her mom having a successful, demanding career. One particularly nasty mother-daughter spat stopped dead in its tracks when her mom yelled, “You know something?? I never wanted you. I knew it wasn’t good for my career. I would’ve aborted you, but your grandmom wouldn’t budge.”
We could only watch the trauma she went through while trying to come to terms with that revelation. She’s married now, with a child of her own. On the face of it atleast, she seems to have made peace with her mother. It’s not something I can ask about despite being a close friend.
I really don’t know.
And I can’t judge either, though it’s really hard to restrain myself from doing so. Mebbe it’s coz I’ve never seen an unborn child being regarded with anything other than joyful anticipation. Anxiety yes, but of the positive kind.
I guess there are some situations in life where the bliss of ignorance is the best alternative.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Kabutar Konundrums
No, I’m not a K-serial addict.
Yes, I know conundrum is spelt with a ‘C’.
Yeah, yeah, yeah..... I used a ‘K’ coz I felt like it.... Fine???
But I digress…back to the ko....errr....conundrums.
I swear I used to be this nice, gentle, more-peaceful-than-the-Buddha type....compared to Phoolan Devi at least. But Mumbai’s changed all that. The villain here is the pigeon a.k.a. the kabutar.
Oh you know them……remember that standard movie scene, where the grey birdies fly away as the camera zooms in on the Gateway of India?? They’re the ones. Yep….. you see them right before the camera moves on to Marine Drive.
Ok, that’s enough of SoBo for you. Time to move on to a scene that recurs fairly regularly in less glamorous parts of the city.
An ordinary shoebox-sized apartment in suburban Mumbai.
Background noise. Scraping and the ruffle of feathers. A guttar-goo that’s suspiciously close by. Stealthy human footsteps.
A sudden explosion of noise. Falling furniture. Flying pigeon, followed by flying books, newspapers etc, followed by an outstretched broom. And the outstretched broom has a screaming, cussing Zahra attached to the handle.
Despite her blinding fury, Zahra manages a valiant swipe at the offending creature. A bottle of water falls down, valiant victim to the valiant swipe. Idiot bird keeps trying to fly out of a closed window despite a clear path to the open one next to it.
Now comes the part that Zahra REALLY has a problem with.
Dumb pigeon perches on the curtain rod and lets loose. And I mean LOOSE.
Like, how on earth can such a small creature produce so much SHIT??!?!?!? Having fulfilled his vile agenda, the $%$#%& bird finally figures out that a window is open, and flies out. Bravo.
Can’t believe they trusted these creatures with messages in the World Wars….. but back to the ish-tory. Bewildered suburban pedestrians stare in surprise as a wild haired, wild eyed, screeching (but ..ahem…amazingly gorgeous) woman, sticks her head out of the window, brandishes a broom and yells…
“Miserable creature, may you DIE of constipation!!!!!!!”
Deafening, shocked silence.
“Aww, c’mon yaar, my aloo ki subzi wasn’t that bad.”
That’s the roomie who’s just come in. Zahra gives her a baleful look and gets back to yelling outta the window (still looking amazing btw…cough, cough!!)
That’s pigeons for you. I mean, seriously, the world would be a nicer place if these (and other) avians had no excretory systems at all. Or excretory outlets. Whatever.
Btw, before I forget… let’s have a round of applause for the exquisite Ms. Sonam Kapoor. Rumour hath it that she’s a serious candidate for Best Supporting Actress post Delhi-6.
What? You don’t know why??
Remember the masakali-matakali routine with the kabutar supported on her head??
“Zahra, your PJs………….. Grrrrrr!!!”
Uh-oh. That’s the roomie coming after me with the broom.
Time to run fo…thwack…OUCH!!!
Yes, I know conundrum is spelt with a ‘C’.
Yeah, yeah, yeah..... I used a ‘K’ coz I felt like it.... Fine???
But I digress…back to the ko....errr....conundrums.
I swear I used to be this nice, gentle, more-peaceful-than-the-Buddha type....compared to Phoolan Devi at least. But Mumbai’s changed all that. The villain here is the pigeon a.k.a. the kabutar.
Oh you know them……remember that standard movie scene, where the grey birdies fly away as the camera zooms in on the Gateway of India?? They’re the ones. Yep….. you see them right before the camera moves on to Marine Drive.
Ok, that’s enough of SoBo for you. Time to move on to a scene that recurs fairly regularly in less glamorous parts of the city.
An ordinary shoebox-sized apartment in suburban Mumbai.
Background noise. Scraping and the ruffle of feathers. A guttar-goo that’s suspiciously close by. Stealthy human footsteps.
A sudden explosion of noise. Falling furniture. Flying pigeon, followed by flying books, newspapers etc, followed by an outstretched broom. And the outstretched broom has a screaming, cussing Zahra attached to the handle.
Despite her blinding fury, Zahra manages a valiant swipe at the offending creature. A bottle of water falls down, valiant victim to the valiant swipe. Idiot bird keeps trying to fly out of a closed window despite a clear path to the open one next to it.
Now comes the part that Zahra REALLY has a problem with.
Dumb pigeon perches on the curtain rod and lets loose. And I mean LOOSE.
Like, how on earth can such a small creature produce so much SHIT??!?!?!? Having fulfilled his vile agenda, the $%$#%& bird finally figures out that a window is open, and flies out. Bravo.
Can’t believe they trusted these creatures with messages in the World Wars….. but back to the ish-tory. Bewildered suburban pedestrians stare in surprise as a wild haired, wild eyed, screeching (but ..ahem…amazingly gorgeous) woman, sticks her head out of the window, brandishes a broom and yells…
“Miserable creature, may you DIE of constipation!!!!!!!”
Deafening, shocked silence.
“Aww, c’mon yaar, my aloo ki subzi wasn’t that bad.”
That’s the roomie who’s just come in. Zahra gives her a baleful look and gets back to yelling outta the window (still looking amazing btw…cough, cough!!)
That’s pigeons for you. I mean, seriously, the world would be a nicer place if these (and other) avians had no excretory systems at all. Or excretory outlets. Whatever.
Btw, before I forget… let’s have a round of applause for the exquisite Ms. Sonam Kapoor. Rumour hath it that she’s a serious candidate for Best Supporting Actress post Delhi-6.
What? You don’t know why??
Remember the masakali-matakali routine with the kabutar supported on her head??
“Zahra, your PJs………….. Grrrrrr!!!”
Uh-oh. That’s the roomie coming after me with the broom.
Time to run fo…thwack…OUCH!!!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Intellect - His and Hers
A sincere request to all the guys out there.....
When you talk about wanting an intelligent and accomplished woman in your life, do take a moment to consider exactly how much intelligence and accomplishment you can handle. For nine times out of ten, I've seen that a man is more comfortable if he is the intellectual superior of his partner. Preferably on the career front as well. Superior, mind you, not even equal. I don't intend for this to be a blanket statement.... I have seen some exceptions, but they have been far and few in between. Fine, so we've got a truckload of societal conditioning to deal with, but I won't get into that right now. And yes, quite a lot of women seek a partner they can look up to.
Like, dude, it's your life and your opinion. And it can significantly impact somebody else's life too. So please be frank about it, and don't try to be what you're not. In case you haven't considered this aspect till now, please do.
I really can't tell if you'll find much female support for directly/indirectly saying that you want the upper hand...... but I can assure you that the honesty will be greatly appreciated.... and respected.
Even if it takes a little while coming.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Songs of my days
Come to think of it, I could retrace my entire life through a series of songs.
My earliest memories would be of listening to tape after tape of Yesudas and Chitra’s Malayalam duets. And some SPB hits in Tamil. Not to forget Ilaiyaraja.
And that brings back memories of days before the scourge called 'education' hit me (:-P)…of our first home in Gelfie-land, and the tape recorder that proudly stood on the sideboard. Unfortunately my aged-three-years version of Kannai Kalaimaane is still quoted verbatim by my folks (Sob!) Am not trying to say that the aged-twenty-something version’s better, but atleast the words are not scandal-inducing. Btw, that song’s the Tamil precursor of Surmai Akhiyon Mein.
Net result: I’m a lifelong fan of Yesudas and still think nobody can sing like he does. Like, for heaven’s sake listen to that voice, and then consider that he’s pushing 70 now!!!
Time moves ahead. Now there are early morning rides to school. And buddy, I mean early, coz my classes started at 7!!! I was a whiner-cum-howler who’d faithfully cling to her Amma’s hand every morning, so school, predictably, wasn’t the best way to start the day. The only consolation was the music during the ride in Dad’s (and my) beloved 1990 Daewoo.
Enter Messrs Kishore Kumar and Mohd Rafi.
Aiyyayya karoon main kya sukoo-sukoo??
Gaata rahe mera dil…Ek ajnabee haseena se yun mulakaat ho gayi….
Kehna hai…humein tumse pyaar kitna…..
Is mod se jaate hai…
Aur agley mod leke, we’d finally reach school. And those songs would be playing in my head all day. Kishore Kumar’s amazing no doubt, and I am a big fan. But somehow, I’ve always had a softer corner for Rafi’s songs.
Not too long after came the glorious day when I took my ‘savings’ (all the chillar collected over several years) and bought….
The recorder found its way to my study corner, as did Amma’s contribution to my music fetish. Two complete albums of Jim Reeves. And thus did a lifelong love-affair bloom. Maaannnn, whattayyyy voice……I still turn into a puddle of incoherent, starry-eyed idiocy when I hear his songs.
If there is some other way to prove that I love you… (Oh, Jimmmmm…really???)
….. I swear I don’t know how (It’s okay…. Believe me!!!)
That such amazing talent died so young is a big, biiiiiiig loss. Oh btw, THIS is the man responsible for my voice fixation….. In case you didn’t know already, a good voice can do wonders for a guy’s wow-score in my rule-book (90% weightage sometimes!!)
Oh come on, don’t snigger. Gals, imagine your honest reaction when you meet your dream man who’s a John Abraham/ Junior B look-alike….. and then realise that he sounds like Sachin Tendulkar…or Laloo Yadav. No offense to either of them, but I trust you’ve got the point.
Back to the music. Then Abba came along as did the Beatles, BeeGees,
And the melange grew more and more interesting as school progressed to college. Pop, rock, retro and movie music combined into unique definitions for each year. Or situation.
Any song from Minnalae brings back the cheering and yelling during fiercely fought inter-dep contests during undergrad. Kaakha Kaakha is permanently linked to a howlarious class trip to Goa.
A much-loved violin instrumental of Kabhi Kabhi conjures up visions of the Qutub Minar in twilight as seen from my hostel room. The same view through misty veil-like sheets of rain whenever O Saathi Re (of Omkara) plays.
Of packing bags to go home post-exams, at 2 a.m. amid shouts and screams of laughter, when Dil Jo Bhi Kahey blasts away in the background. Off-key caterwauling to the accompaniment of empty Bisleri bottles whenever Kajra Mohabbatwala plays.
Of how Kajra Re defined us being ragged in the first year of B-School, Beedi Jalai Le when we did the ragging in the second, and Sajnaji Vaari Vaari in our farewell party.
It’s not about the songs having any significance per se in the context. I guess it’s about a significant memory that acted out while the song was played.
Another category I haven’t mentioned so far, but has been there all along is sacred music and gospel. Thanks to this genre I never knew something called stage fright. At least not while singing in a group. Singing in a church choir is something I’ve been doing for most of my life, and the satisfaction it brings is something else altogether. Catching up on musicals by the MMA and MCC choirs in Chennai, and Paranjothi in Mumbai is something I do religiously, and methinks it’s worth the pain taken.
I guess I can’t possibly list down every single song that brings back a recollection. Hopefully, I haven’t lived half my life yet, so I’m wishing that the soundtrack of my life gets more interesting with every passing day.
And while that’s happening, turn up the volume folks…and let the music play!!!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Some years on
I do not love you except…
…because I love you, she completed the line.
I go from loving to not loving you
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire
Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words along with the speaker. There was a reading going on at her favourite bookstore by an author of some repute, and he was quoting this poem in some context.
Ten years on, she could still quote Neruda with the same ease as she did at eighteen. Never mind that she hadn’t touched a tome of poetry for more than five years. Back then, it was the elusiveness of the meaning that fascinated her. As did the man’s ability to seemingly wrench out a plethora of emotions from the core of his being. The rhythm, the words, the endless contradictions woven together seamlessly…. She could never get enough of it.
A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth. A few years ago, the elusive meaning had finally presented itself…..only too clearly. The contradictions didn’t puzzle her any more. The wisdom that comes with age, she thought wryly. Only that she hadn’t bargained for that much pain to colour the process of understanding.
She rarely took out that box of sepia memories in her mind. Endless walks, endless conversations, discussing poetry, swapping favourite books, sharing ten minutes over a hurried coffee. She marvelled at how some recollections could still make her smile despite the searing hurt that would inevitably follow. How they stayed up talking the whole night beside a dying bonfire during the batch tour. The knowing smiles on her friends’ faces when she told them of that conversation. You only talked? Giggles had followed.
They would never understand. Never could. That just a smile, the way his hand held hers, the pleasing lilt of his voice…. They were enough to make her feel complete and loved like never before. That she had been accepted as she was, with no expectations. That the two of them had placed a meeting of minds above all else. They were an atypical teenage couple.
But they had split five years later in typical teenage fashion, despite pushing their mid twenties then. Pride, and a refusal to accept that each had wronged the other. A reluctance to apologize, an unwillingness to appear pliant. Accepting it now isn't going to help any.
A mental shoulder shrug.
She moved on to the next bookshelf, another bookworm on a late afternoon tryst with her best friends.
In this part of the story I’m the one who dies
The only one
And I will die of love because I love you
She was willing to bet that the Romance section didn’t have a story like hers. One without a happy ending.
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Purple dusk deepened to inky blackness as he watched from his apartment window. A sense of loneliness, his constant companion these days, hovered around all he did. Life didn't have to be like this, he reminded himself. Retrospection made it very easy to acknowledge his mistakes, and recall that he’d had a chance to remedy their rift.
Had.
He would live the rest of his life knowing that he was the biggest fool on earth to have turned away the one person who saw him exactly as he was. Accepted him that way. And loved him for it.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don’t have her. To feel I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
Not bad. He could still recall the ‘Saddest Poem’ as Neruda called it. And he could still picture the rapture on her face when she heard it for the first time. From him.
He turned away from the window, a smile on his face. Hurt yet amused. Silently acknowledging that he would carry this burden everywhere. That at the end of it all, he’d have his own epic poem, and nobody to recite it to. That he did not really want to tell it to anybody but her.
Perhaps, he mused, the embers wouldn‘t come to life even if he ran into her again. They had half a decade, a couple of countries, and a distance like several oceans between their minds to contend with.
Perhaps.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her
Love is short and oblivion so long
The buzz of a suburban evening bored into his consciousness, as he settled into his couch for another routine evening of TV, newspapers and retrospection.
Perfectly worded, as always, he mused. Chances are, Neruda was once a bigger fool than I was
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…because I love you, she completed the line.
I go from loving to not loving you
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire
Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words along with the speaker. There was a reading going on at her favourite bookstore by an author of some repute, and he was quoting this poem in some context.
Ten years on, she could still quote Neruda with the same ease as she did at eighteen. Never mind that she hadn’t touched a tome of poetry for more than five years. Back then, it was the elusiveness of the meaning that fascinated her. As did the man’s ability to seemingly wrench out a plethora of emotions from the core of his being. The rhythm, the words, the endless contradictions woven together seamlessly…. She could never get enough of it.
A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth. A few years ago, the elusive meaning had finally presented itself…..only too clearly. The contradictions didn’t puzzle her any more. The wisdom that comes with age, she thought wryly. Only that she hadn’t bargained for that much pain to colour the process of understanding.
She rarely took out that box of sepia memories in her mind. Endless walks, endless conversations, discussing poetry, swapping favourite books, sharing ten minutes over a hurried coffee. She marvelled at how some recollections could still make her smile despite the searing hurt that would inevitably follow. How they stayed up talking the whole night beside a dying bonfire during the batch tour. The knowing smiles on her friends’ faces when she told them of that conversation. You only talked? Giggles had followed.
They would never understand. Never could. That just a smile, the way his hand held hers, the pleasing lilt of his voice…. They were enough to make her feel complete and loved like never before. That she had been accepted as she was, with no expectations. That the two of them had placed a meeting of minds above all else. They were an atypical teenage couple.
But they had split five years later in typical teenage fashion, despite pushing their mid twenties then. Pride, and a refusal to accept that each had wronged the other. A reluctance to apologize, an unwillingness to appear pliant. Accepting it now isn't going to help any.
A mental shoulder shrug.
She moved on to the next bookshelf, another bookworm on a late afternoon tryst with her best friends.
In this part of the story I’m the one who dies
The only one
And I will die of love because I love you
She was willing to bet that the Romance section didn’t have a story like hers. One without a happy ending.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Purple dusk deepened to inky blackness as he watched from his apartment window. A sense of loneliness, his constant companion these days, hovered around all he did. Life didn't have to be like this, he reminded himself. Retrospection made it very easy to acknowledge his mistakes, and recall that he’d had a chance to remedy their rift.
Had.
He would live the rest of his life knowing that he was the biggest fool on earth to have turned away the one person who saw him exactly as he was. Accepted him that way. And loved him for it.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don’t have her. To feel I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
Not bad. He could still recall the ‘Saddest Poem’ as Neruda called it. And he could still picture the rapture on her face when she heard it for the first time. From him.
He turned away from the window, a smile on his face. Hurt yet amused. Silently acknowledging that he would carry this burden everywhere. That at the end of it all, he’d have his own epic poem, and nobody to recite it to. That he did not really want to tell it to anybody but her.
Perhaps, he mused, the embers wouldn‘t come to life even if he ran into her again. They had half a decade, a couple of countries, and a distance like several oceans between their minds to contend with.
Perhaps.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her
Love is short and oblivion so long
The buzz of a suburban evening bored into his consciousness, as he settled into his couch for another routine evening of TV, newspapers and retrospection.
Perfectly worded, as always, he mused. Chances are, Neruda was once a bigger fool than I was
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Arbit Observations #4
The Goddess is back.
Yes, you may kiss the ground.
Apologies for the no-show have already been made.....So brace yourselves for another dose of asininely arbit observations from my so-called life. What better way to kick off the blogging for this year??
Tsk tsk…. Didn’t your mama tell you that groaning audibly is rude??? Here goes.....
1. You know your life has sucked as thoroughly as it possibly can when
Yes, you may kiss the ground.
Apologies for the no-show have already been made.....So brace yourselves for another dose of asininely arbit observations from my so-called life. What better way to kick off the blogging for this year??
Tsk tsk…. Didn’t your mama tell you that groaning audibly is rude??? Here goes.....
1. You know your life has sucked as thoroughly as it possibly can when
a. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong
b. When you thought things couldn’t get worse, they just did
c. AND, the only email you’ve received in a week on your personal id is about a 70% discount on Viagra.
2. The ugly duckling grew up to become a swan. In Andersen’s version at least. In real life, there’s a 99.999% probability that the ugly duckling will grow up to become at best, a verrrry average DUCK. Accepting this fact has freed up an incredible amount of time for me to focus on bigger issues of life. Like the wonderful ambiguity of phrases like ‘Striking looks’ and ‘Unconventional appearance’. Oh yes, Her Royal Duckiness lets out an indignant quack every now and then, but is at peace otherwise.
3. Pointy toed shoes on men give me the creeps. Crrrreeeeeepsssss. I’m talking about the shoes that taper into a point that sticks out ten inches in front of the wearer. Call me antiquated if you will, but my support for the metrosexual man goes only as far as clean nails and good overall hygiene.
4. WHYYYY do my northie counterparts expect me to fall on any and every plate of curd rice/idlis like a starving refugee???
5. Why Zahra? Why not another name? Thought I’d explained that somewhere in this blog. Actually, Thamaraichelvi Kumudavalli and Isabel DeMontmorency St Claude were close contenders. But then I figured that a Zahra by any other name would be just as asinine. Therefore, the name with the least typing effort won.
6. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why Indian men scratch their privates in public with complete abandon. Like, it’s called ‘privates’ with a purpose, right? Mebbe it’s coz of a flawed genetic strain unique to the males of our race. Something like the see-wall-MUST-pee syndrome they already suffer from. Tragic. Am going cross-eyed from all the eye-averting I do during my daily commute.
7. Never do a competent job of anything if you can help it. No more than what's needed to keep your job, I mean. Working my backside off under crazy deadlines, and pulling off the near impossible even once only translates into more loony projects coming my way...with crazier deadlines. Like I want this at 3 p.m. yesterday types.
8. Bairi Piya in Devdas is a pretty decent song, come to think of it (it’s playing on radio as I type) Would’ve been better if they’d shaved off the “Eeesh” bits and taken a good forty seconds off it. Waitaminit….that also means removing the only part of the song I can sing. Eeeeeesh!!
9. And while we’re on songs, I SOOOO miss the hostel gaana sessions. :-((
Words cannot describe the joys of singing Umrao Jaan songs with 3 other similarly challenged AND loud females at 3 a.m., while smirking at the wails of misery from adjoining rooms. (Cackle, cackle) A nice, steaming plate of Maggi at 5 a.m. and my plate...sorry, cup of happiness would overflow. Sigh.
10. I hate pointy toed sh…..Oops, that one’s done already…. Okay, I HATE random and indiscriminate displays of…. Heck, ANY display of butt cleavage. Why, people, why???? Found myself at a crowded coffee shop the other day, with several square inches of ‘it’ on display at chair-level all around (Eeewwww). Guys and gals alike. Somebody help me if I’m missing the point here. Honestly, seeing that the brief is authentic Calvin Klein doesn’t make it any less traumatic.
11. And Dostaana must’ve really sucked yaar. Oh, not that I’ve seen it. Y’see I couldn’t help but think so when all my gal-buddies denounced the movie in unison. When women say that about a movie, despite liberal close up shots of just John Abraham in just his chuddies, then you gotta do a serious rethink. Btw, I’m told his apparel is all original designer wear. Not that I’d know …and not that I think most of us gals would care ;-P
Well, that’s all the arbitness I can manage for now, so breathe easy folks. Am busy pinning up my list of new year resolutions on the wall. Oops, just lost 3 months in getting started.
Zahra, you eeeeediot, change that 8 to 9.
Ahem...
Errr.... I'm back.
And looking verrry sheepish for not having written for a good three months. Fie, Zahra.
This being the first post of the year, I guess I should be doing the decent thing and wishing y'all, no matter how late it is. Hey, we have 9 months and 7 days left, okay?!?!
So Happy New Year (embarrassed grin)....and I sincerely hope that 2009, or what's left of it, rather, will be a rocking year for you. Good luck, cheers and all that.
And before I forget, ze blaawg completed a year of existence sometime last month.....
......so Happee Budday and thank you to all that soul curry and filter kaapi that's brought me more satisfaction than I ever imagined. :-)
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Have yourself....
Have yourself a whole five minutes of solo time this morning. To realise that it's Christmas time again, and reflect on the past year.To be thankful that you're in one piece and alive to celebrate it. To remember for a moment those who've moved on, and be grateful for the ones who're still around.
Have yourself the thrill that comes from hearing the buzz that pervades the house. Which doesn't happen on any other occasion ever.
Have yourself the luxury of admiring your Christmas tree for a moment. Of thinking that it is the most beautiful tree on the face of the earth despite being smaller than most and thoroughly battered by your growing-up years.
Have yourself the fun of answering calls and happy greetings from friends and family around. Of back slapping cheeriness and hearty "Look-who's-here"s as everybody comes together.
Have yourself a warm, happy feeling in your heart when you step into a church decked up to the nines. When you see the people you know around. When you call out "Merry Christmas!" in all sincerity despite the fact that you're at loggerheads with them the rest of the year.
Have yourself those I-shouldnt-have-had-that-third-appam feelings inspite of having warned yourself not to overdo it this year. And huge servings of biryani later in the day, with little morsels of plum cake in between. And excuse yourself by saying that Christmas comes along just once each year.
Have yourself the joys of singing carols at the top of your voice, despite being tone deaf and having the neighbours beg for mercy. Of knowing that these songs somehow will never lose their charm despite having heard them all your life.
Have yourself that sense of optimism that comes through on Christmas, no matter what may shake the earth and your faith on other days.
Most of all, have yourself a very merry Christmas and lots and lots of fun. And may you have a wonderful 2009 to look forward to.
Have fun, take care and God bless.
Love
Zahra
Have yourself the thrill that comes from hearing the buzz that pervades the house. Which doesn't happen on any other occasion ever.
Have yourself the luxury of admiring your Christmas tree for a moment. Of thinking that it is the most beautiful tree on the face of the earth despite being smaller than most and thoroughly battered by your growing-up years.
Have yourself the fun of answering calls and happy greetings from friends and family around. Of back slapping cheeriness and hearty "Look-who's-here"s as everybody comes together.
Have yourself a warm, happy feeling in your heart when you step into a church decked up to the nines. When you see the people you know around. When you call out "Merry Christmas!" in all sincerity despite the fact that you're at loggerheads with them the rest of the year.
Have yourself those I-shouldnt-have-had-that-third-appam feelings inspite of having warned yourself not to overdo it this year. And huge servings of biryani later in the day, with little morsels of plum cake in between. And excuse yourself by saying that Christmas comes along just once each year.
Have yourself the joys of singing carols at the top of your voice, despite being tone deaf and having the neighbours beg for mercy. Of knowing that these songs somehow will never lose their charm despite having heard them all your life.
Have yourself that sense of optimism that comes through on Christmas, no matter what may shake the earth and your faith on other days.
Most of all, have yourself a very merry Christmas and lots and lots of fun. And may you have a wonderful 2009 to look forward to.
Have fun, take care and God bless.
Love
Zahra
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Fellowship of the Ring(less)
Ohmigod.
I can’t believe I actually did this. On my last trip home , I finally gave in to my parents’ subtle demands. Oh well, ‘subtle’ is soooo 2007……. Now it’s more like the Exorcist theme score.
I…errr…. Ahem…. I…… damn, I can’t say this!!!
Oh then TYPE it out lady.
I…. cough, cough….. actually helped them create a profile for me on a matrimonial site. :( :( I solemnly swear that I don’t drink or do drugs.
Stop sniggering willya???
Btw, am pretty sure they’ve already explored multiple alternatives to foist their darling one and only onto some unwitting nalla payyan out there. Note: Do they exist???My suspicions hit an all time high when I saw a string of mails from the Malayala Manorama ID in Dad’s mailbox. I just happened to stop by his desk to ask something, and there was this sudden Alt + Tab rhythm that got started. For the uninitiated, the Malayala Manorama is not just a Mallu newspaper, it’s also the best friend of Mallu parents who don’t know what to do next with their twenty somethings.
I did have my doubts about the wisdom of it alright. Especially since
A) I’m in no particular hurry to tie the knot.
B) My parents’ and my idea of a nice guy vs okay-okay guy tend to clash occasionally
C) Have to keep reminding them that their dream son-in-law is right up there with Santa Claus, dragons and fairies….. a creature of fantasy.
D) And I have to keep reminding myself that all the guys I’ve dreamed of are unattainable public figures, who are married or committed to disgustingly gorgeous women…or just don’t exist. Sigh.
E) As a follow on to (D), the Enchantress reminds me it could be worse. The dream man might just turn out to be gay. Aiyyayyoooo…and good men are a rarity already.
F) Help me God, what if this whole website thingie actually works???? :-S
But on careful consideration it seemed only fair to help them out. After all, parents are bound to need help when they have a gorgeous, amazingly talented and supremely intelligent daughter on their hands.
No, I don’t have a sister.
Kinda dense aren’t you? I was talking about myself.
But here’s a little confession….. Browsing through some of the profiles made me think I shoulda started this eons ago…… I had no clue there was SO much entertainment on the net for free!!!! ;-D
Tomes have been written about the kinds of matrimonial ads that get published…. Some noteworthy blog posts have been dedicated to them too. But honestly, some of these profiles make you laugh out loud, or think really hard.
Among the giggle-worthy, here are some gems I found :
1. “Looking for a partner….. blah blah blah….. who also likes to cook and rear children.”
Hellooooo?!?!?! :-O Somebody pleeeeease get him a copy of Eats, shoots and leaves.
2. “She should be a candle light for me in my hours (sic) of darkness..”
Buddy, what you need is either an agony aunt or an inverter. Or a plain bulb. And you talk like you expect a LOT of darkness ahead……. NOT the best attention grabber for a future mate. Ladies, I see the potential for a lot of skeletons in this closet.
3. “I’m a coooooooool guy!!!”
I swear that’s exactly what was written. And ALL that was written. Stay far, far away from this one, Zahra-girl. This is the type your friends warned you about on Orkut.
4. “I’m a deeply religious, pious and spiritual person.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with that statement….. Faith matters to me too. But the overall tone of this particular profile left me kinda confused….. I didn’t know whether to continue reading, cross myself or light a candle. Methinks we’ve got the next Vatican canonization here.
5. “Myself a very handsome, caring, sensitive, dynamic personality….”
I just cannot compete with such perfection. You forgot to add ‘unshakeable self-esteem’ to your virtues buddy. Btw, about your profile pic….. Shades that cover 85% of your face don’t help. Especially since the uncovered 15% is not exactly standalone material….. nothing personal, just an objective observation.
My folks discreetly sugest that a profile pic will be in orer.
Mental sticky note: Upload a pic of Lolakutty.... we're talking wholesome Mallu gorge-yess-ness here.
:P
Hmmm…. One of the inescapable phases of quarter-life I guess….. at least the family’s getting some free entertainment.
Quite a few of my fellow victims in the Fellowship of the Ring(less) are in similar predicaments. My best friend (who’s a Bong) wishes that Bong guys were known for physique and looks too, not just academic credentials. Coz all her ‘prospects’ to date have been exceptionally geeky-looking Bong-men with multiple Ivy League qualifications. Anybody who can change that trend…..the geeky one….please let me know….. FYI, you’ll have to be single and Bong AND really tall (coz she is) AAANNNDDD intelligent ('coz she is, VERY) to floor this babe. There. That’s my good karma for the week.
Btw neither of us are six-pack fans, so we’re not very choosy that way. But yeah, we don’t dig family packs either.
On a serious note, it’s kinda disturbing that a LOT of people mention ‘fair’ as a criterion before education or personality or anything else. What’s with this fairness fixation anyway??? Especially when the same guys might be drooling over the not-exactly-fair Bipasha Basu. I know this horse’s been bludgeoned to death, but I just had to give my two cents’ worth of kicks.
Oh and did I tell you, I got a response to my profile the very next day ;-P
The mail started like this.....
“I came across your profile and found it SOOO interesting, I hope you don’t mind (sic)…”
There were a coupla smileys too, for my benefit. Oh yes I mind. Terribly. That profile was meant to be uninteresting and solely for my private edification.
Incidentally this guy has apparently not bothered to use a community/region/language filter while searching. Guess chronic spammers have to do their thing whenever, wherever.Needless to say, that guy’s email got the ‘Delete’ treatment.
Appaaa...AmMAAAAAAAA.... I told you this wasn’t a good idea.
I can’t believe I actually did this. On my last trip home , I finally gave in to my parents’ subtle demands. Oh well, ‘subtle’ is soooo 2007……. Now it’s more like the Exorcist theme score.
I…errr…. Ahem…. I…… damn, I can’t say this!!!
Oh then TYPE it out lady.
I…. cough, cough….. actually helped them create a profile for me on a matrimonial site. :( :( I solemnly swear that I don’t drink or do drugs.
Stop sniggering willya???
Btw, am pretty sure they’ve already explored multiple alternatives to foist their darling one and only onto some unwitting nalla payyan out there. Note: Do they exist???My suspicions hit an all time high when I saw a string of mails from the Malayala Manorama ID in Dad’s mailbox. I just happened to stop by his desk to ask something, and there was this sudden Alt + Tab rhythm that got started. For the uninitiated, the Malayala Manorama is not just a Mallu newspaper, it’s also the best friend of Mallu parents who don’t know what to do next with their twenty somethings.
I did have my doubts about the wisdom of it alright. Especially since
A) I’m in no particular hurry to tie the knot.
B) My parents’ and my idea of a nice guy vs okay-okay guy tend to clash occasionally
C) Have to keep reminding them that their dream son-in-law is right up there with Santa Claus, dragons and fairies….. a creature of fantasy.
D) And I have to keep reminding myself that all the guys I’ve dreamed of are unattainable public figures, who are married or committed to disgustingly gorgeous women…or just don’t exist. Sigh.
E) As a follow on to (D), the Enchantress reminds me it could be worse. The dream man might just turn out to be gay. Aiyyayyoooo…and good men are a rarity already.
F) Help me God, what if this whole website thingie actually works???? :-S
But on careful consideration it seemed only fair to help them out. After all, parents are bound to need help when they have a gorgeous, amazingly talented and supremely intelligent daughter on their hands.
No, I don’t have a sister.
Kinda dense aren’t you? I was talking about myself.
But here’s a little confession….. Browsing through some of the profiles made me think I shoulda started this eons ago…… I had no clue there was SO much entertainment on the net for free!!!! ;-D
Tomes have been written about the kinds of matrimonial ads that get published…. Some noteworthy blog posts have been dedicated to them too. But honestly, some of these profiles make you laugh out loud, or think really hard.
Among the giggle-worthy, here are some gems I found :
1. “Looking for a partner….. blah blah blah….. who also likes to cook and rear children.”
Hellooooo?!?!?! :-O Somebody pleeeeease get him a copy of Eats, shoots and leaves.
2. “She should be a candle light for me in my hours (sic) of darkness..”
Buddy, what you need is either an agony aunt or an inverter. Or a plain bulb. And you talk like you expect a LOT of darkness ahead……. NOT the best attention grabber for a future mate. Ladies, I see the potential for a lot of skeletons in this closet.
3. “I’m a coooooooool guy!!!”
I swear that’s exactly what was written. And ALL that was written. Stay far, far away from this one, Zahra-girl. This is the type your friends warned you about on Orkut.
4. “I’m a deeply religious, pious and spiritual person.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with that statement….. Faith matters to me too. But the overall tone of this particular profile left me kinda confused….. I didn’t know whether to continue reading, cross myself or light a candle. Methinks we’ve got the next Vatican canonization here.
5. “Myself a very handsome, caring, sensitive, dynamic personality….”
I just cannot compete with such perfection. You forgot to add ‘unshakeable self-esteem’ to your virtues buddy. Btw, about your profile pic….. Shades that cover 85% of your face don’t help. Especially since the uncovered 15% is not exactly standalone material….. nothing personal, just an objective observation.
My folks discreetly sugest that a profile pic will be in orer.
Mental sticky note: Upload a pic of Lolakutty.... we're talking wholesome Mallu gorge-yess-ness here.
:P
Hmmm…. One of the inescapable phases of quarter-life I guess….. at least the family’s getting some free entertainment.
Quite a few of my fellow victims in the Fellowship of the Ring(less) are in similar predicaments. My best friend (who’s a Bong) wishes that Bong guys were known for physique and looks too, not just academic credentials. Coz all her ‘prospects’ to date have been exceptionally geeky-looking Bong-men with multiple Ivy League qualifications. Anybody who can change that trend…..the geeky one….please let me know….. FYI, you’ll have to be single and Bong AND really tall (coz she is) AAANNNDDD intelligent ('coz she is, VERY) to floor this babe. There. That’s my good karma for the week.
Btw neither of us are six-pack fans, so we’re not very choosy that way. But yeah, we don’t dig family packs either.
On a serious note, it’s kinda disturbing that a LOT of people mention ‘fair’ as a criterion before education or personality or anything else. What’s with this fairness fixation anyway??? Especially when the same guys might be drooling over the not-exactly-fair Bipasha Basu. I know this horse’s been bludgeoned to death, but I just had to give my two cents’ worth of kicks.
Oh and did I tell you, I got a response to my profile the very next day ;-P
The mail started like this.....
“I came across your profile and found it SOOO interesting, I hope you don’t mind (sic)…”
There were a coupla smileys too, for my benefit. Oh yes I mind. Terribly. That profile was meant to be uninteresting and solely for my private edification.
Incidentally this guy has apparently not bothered to use a community/region/language filter while searching. Guess chronic spammers have to do their thing whenever, wherever.Needless to say, that guy’s email got the ‘Delete’ treatment.
Appaaa...AmMAAAAAAAA.... I told you this wasn’t a good idea.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Paralysis by analysis?
Last Sunday evening was just like any other. Yours truly hovered somewhere around the confluence of boredom, inertia, and a growing awareness of yet another weekend slipping by. I flipped through mags and newspapers while my roomie caught up with Jodhaa Akbar on TV. Nothing new to read….. everything seemed to be a rehash of these ‘basic’ tenets :
1. Purple is the new black. Or pink. Or whatever. Every self proclaimed fashion guru is screaming his/her guts out about how anybody with dress sense cannot get enough of this colour. True. I cant get enough of Cadbury’s either.
2. Saif and Kareena are deeply in luuuuvvvv. Kareena says “Main unke bachchon ki maa banna chahti hoon”. Sho-shweet. Incidentally Bebo, some tabloid had already credited you with that line long before you said it. Whatever, lady. So long as I don’t have to see soppy lines in bold type on front pages everyday.
3. The auto industry is headed south. You telling me every other industry’s headed north??
4. Minister X accuses opposition of sowing the seeds of communal tension in the country.
5. Minister Y retorts that X and his party have let the country go to the dogs with their inefficiency. As evidenced by the recent terror attack.
6. Speaking of canines, dogs all over the country are up in arms at comments made by a certain senile Communist who is as mature as a cranky three year old. Canine leaders reaffirm that their community does not require party endorsements to merit human recognition.
Okay, I made up the last one. But dog lovers and humans everywhere are seeing red. And they’re not shouting pro-Marx slogans either.
A week’s gone by since the massacre at Mumbai. The media has dissected every second of the siege, shoved mikes in the face of every traumatized survivor, and made endless collages of a burning Taj, bloody corridors and slain fighters. No doubt it requires a LOT of guts to stay put at ground zero and provide updates, not knowing if a stray bullet’s gonna put a period to your life. Still, I can’t help but think that we’re guilty of overkill this time too. Now, it’s the CCTV footage of the shootout that’s doing the rounds on primetime slots.
Political parties are making the most of every mudslingin’ moment they get. And they’re ab-so-looooot-uh-ly lovin’ it. So much so that one prominent group just couldn’t wait to put out an ad in the paper asking citizens to vote for them if they wanted change. On Day Two of the siege at that. This, and the consequent blame game have finally convinced me that all our netas put together have a collective IQ + EQ in the region of -2500 (rounded).
Fresh opinions and theories have been thrown at my head every day of the past week. Public opinion also seems to follow a trend these days. Atleast the print representatives of the thinking public do.
First it was to point out that our heroes have fallen for the nation’s glory, and that we should not let their sacrifice go in vain. Weep Mumbai, for it’s your defining icon that’s under siege. THE Taj Mahal hotel. SoBo with its old-world charm has finally lost its peaceful aura to terrorist bullets.
Then it was to speculate on the possibility of an insider job. Otherwise, HOW could there have been such a massive intelligence failure?
All Indians everywhere, look seaward…..The very route used to fuel the communal riots of the early ‘90’s has been used again. Such audacity! Bull. If we couldn’t find the time to do anything in 15 years, then we had it coming.
Parallels, parallels everywhere. My…what a tangled web we weave.
India’s 9/11. Why we have to draw parallels with the US for every damn thing still mystifies me.
The NSG took only two hours to reach the Maldives when a coup started. Why nine within India? Buddy, if I knew that I would also tell you why we let off Union Carbide with nothing more than a rap on the knuckles for virtual genocide 24 years ago.
Angry declarations now. The celebrated Mumbaikar resilience may be finally showing signs of wear. Enough, we say!
The intellectual elite of the country scoff at the peace marches and candlelight vigils. This won’t get you anywhere, they smirk.
The latest question doing the rounds is why there was no coverage of the massacre at VT, no mention of thirty innocents who lost their lives.
Finally, the wheels have turned full circle.
How come Mumbai is finally demanding action?
Does chalta hai, yeh sab hota hai hold only for the aam aadmi? So, it hurts when the elite are hit in their watering holes eh??
And WHEN did the Taj become an icon of Mumbai?? The crowded trains of Mumbai define the spirit of the city better. Therefore, VT is a more appropriate choice of icon.
This country will never cease to amaze me.
In the meantime, I’m gonna go and light a candle for the dead at the makeshift shrine in the corner of my street. A shrine complete with a garishly done collage of pics of the slain top cops.
I’m no Socrates-meets-Einstein-meets-Gandhi hybrid, but I still maintain that some action, even of solidarity, is way WAAAYYY better than no action at all.
To cut a long story short, we Indians are back to doing what we do best. Pointing fingers.
Keep up the rigmarole people, and pretty soon we’ll have a nation that is more than willing to point the middle digit at the powers that be.
And then twiddle its billion times two thumbs till terror, tragedy and apathy meet and snuff out a hundred times something more innocent lives.
Yet again.
1. Purple is the new black. Or pink. Or whatever. Every self proclaimed fashion guru is screaming his/her guts out about how anybody with dress sense cannot get enough of this colour. True. I cant get enough of Cadbury’s either.
2. Saif and Kareena are deeply in luuuuvvvv. Kareena says “Main unke bachchon ki maa banna chahti hoon”. Sho-shweet. Incidentally Bebo, some tabloid had already credited you with that line long before you said it. Whatever, lady. So long as I don’t have to see soppy lines in bold type on front pages everyday.
3. The auto industry is headed south. You telling me every other industry’s headed north??
4. Minister X accuses opposition of sowing the seeds of communal tension in the country.
5. Minister Y retorts that X and his party have let the country go to the dogs with their inefficiency. As evidenced by the recent terror attack.
6. Speaking of canines, dogs all over the country are up in arms at comments made by a certain senile Communist who is as mature as a cranky three year old. Canine leaders reaffirm that their community does not require party endorsements to merit human recognition.
Okay, I made up the last one. But dog lovers and humans everywhere are seeing red. And they’re not shouting pro-Marx slogans either.
A week’s gone by since the massacre at Mumbai. The media has dissected every second of the siege, shoved mikes in the face of every traumatized survivor, and made endless collages of a burning Taj, bloody corridors and slain fighters. No doubt it requires a LOT of guts to stay put at ground zero and provide updates, not knowing if a stray bullet’s gonna put a period to your life. Still, I can’t help but think that we’re guilty of overkill this time too. Now, it’s the CCTV footage of the shootout that’s doing the rounds on primetime slots.
Political parties are making the most of every mudslingin’ moment they get. And they’re ab-so-looooot-uh-ly lovin’ it. So much so that one prominent group just couldn’t wait to put out an ad in the paper asking citizens to vote for them if they wanted change. On Day Two of the siege at that. This, and the consequent blame game have finally convinced me that all our netas put together have a collective IQ + EQ in the region of -2500 (rounded).
Fresh opinions and theories have been thrown at my head every day of the past week. Public opinion also seems to follow a trend these days. Atleast the print representatives of the thinking public do.
First it was to point out that our heroes have fallen for the nation’s glory, and that we should not let their sacrifice go in vain. Weep Mumbai, for it’s your defining icon that’s under siege. THE Taj Mahal hotel. SoBo with its old-world charm has finally lost its peaceful aura to terrorist bullets.
Then it was to speculate on the possibility of an insider job. Otherwise, HOW could there have been such a massive intelligence failure?
All Indians everywhere, look seaward…..The very route used to fuel the communal riots of the early ‘90’s has been used again. Such audacity! Bull. If we couldn’t find the time to do anything in 15 years, then we had it coming.
Parallels, parallels everywhere. My…what a tangled web we weave.
India’s 9/11. Why we have to draw parallels with the US for every damn thing still mystifies me.
The NSG took only two hours to reach the Maldives when a coup started. Why nine within India? Buddy, if I knew that I would also tell you why we let off Union Carbide with nothing more than a rap on the knuckles for virtual genocide 24 years ago.
Angry declarations now. The celebrated Mumbaikar resilience may be finally showing signs of wear. Enough, we say!
The intellectual elite of the country scoff at the peace marches and candlelight vigils. This won’t get you anywhere, they smirk.
The latest question doing the rounds is why there was no coverage of the massacre at VT, no mention of thirty innocents who lost their lives.
Finally, the wheels have turned full circle.
How come Mumbai is finally demanding action?
Does chalta hai, yeh sab hota hai hold only for the aam aadmi? So, it hurts when the elite are hit in their watering holes eh??
And WHEN did the Taj become an icon of Mumbai?? The crowded trains of Mumbai define the spirit of the city better. Therefore, VT is a more appropriate choice of icon.
This country will never cease to amaze me.
In the meantime, I’m gonna go and light a candle for the dead at the makeshift shrine in the corner of my street. A shrine complete with a garishly done collage of pics of the slain top cops.
I’m no Socrates-meets-Einstein-meets-Gandhi hybrid, but I still maintain that some action, even of solidarity, is way WAAAYYY better than no action at all.
To cut a long story short, we Indians are back to doing what we do best. Pointing fingers.
Keep up the rigmarole people, and pretty soon we’ll have a nation that is more than willing to point the middle digit at the powers that be.
And then twiddle its billion times two thumbs till terror, tragedy and apathy meet and snuff out a hundred times something more innocent lives.
Yet again.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Still we rise....
So you’ve done it again.
You took it upon yourself to make the worst nightmares of a people and a nation come true.
So you’ve gone ahead and killed a few hundred innocents who were merely guilty of minding to their own lives. Of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whose ghastly crime was belonging to a nationality or faith that didn’t match your own.
Not that you’d care even if it did. After all, you think the earth spins on the trajectory of your bullets.
Perhaps seeing beyond the barrel of an AK-47 is much tougher than it sounds. Actually, that would explain why you always vent your spleen and empty your rounds on those who have nothing to do with you.
Oh you’ve succeeded all right. You needn’t lose sleep over that.
I will definitely view unattended bags and unclaimed parcels with suspicion. All my life.
Avoiding public places during festivals and national holidays is already ingrained in my psyche. Now I’m not sure of ordinary places on ordinary weekdays too.
I live in the knowledge that the statistical possibility of my ending up as a terror statistic has hit an all-time high.
I fear for my loved ones wherever they may be.
The innate goodness of human nature is a thing of the past. Therefore I view my fellow beings with suspicion.
Dammit, I say a prayer every time I walk into a movie hall!!
And most importantly, you’ve added one more face to ‘evil’ as I know it. You and your predecessors have done your homework well.
But there’s one more thing I want you to know.
It’s gonna take much, much more than a few dozen armed, misguided and violent zealots to break the will of a nation.
You claim to act out of faith. What you have actually proved is your lack of it.
You have accepted and put on record that you’re incapable of being a thinking, rational, civilized being.
That you truly are absolutely incapable of being a human being.
Thank to you, many hundreds of lives have been irrevocably changed.
Some will mourn the loss of a friend or sibling all their lives. Some others will always remember saying goodbye to a loved one leaving for India, not knowing that it was the last time.
Some children will grow up with one parent and a photo of the other. Or perhaps a photo alone. For some others, their very families are a memory now.
Dismiss this as just another run-of-the-mill, emotional rant if you will.
But I’ll have you know that the spirit of this city, of this nation and her people, is much stronger than anything your fanatical commanders prepared you for.
It is as real as the air you breathe, as real as the fact that the sun rises and sets everyday.
To rise again the next day, no matter what.
I am confident that my countrymen and I will continue to live our lives with renewed spirit and vigour, despite all that you do to reduce us to a nervous, hysterical mass of humanity.
Most of all I hope and pray that your wretched soul may languish in Hades.
That you may writhe in impotent fury at the futility of your so-called sacrifice.
Now and for the rest of eternity.
The last few of days have been harrowing ones, even for those who were not directly involved in the terror attacks. Here’s a prayer for those who’re grieving their losses now.
Wish our politicians would stop relying so much on our resilience, and instead do something about every Tom, Dick and Harry who decides to throw a bomb and make a point! Like, hey, the spirit of Mumbai's there alright but we won't let ourselves be kicked around like this!
One thing I couldn’t help noticing though. WHERE the *&$% did the self proclaimed protectors of Mumbai, the Shiv Sena and the MNS go? Haven’t heard a peep from them through all this.
Or perhaps they were waiting for a headcount of Maharashtrian hostages. Oh you never know. Funny, I don’t remember seeing anything about Thackeray asking if the NSG were from Maharashtra. Mebbe they were too busy planning their next attack on non-Marathi speakers, who have the gall to continue living in Mumbai.
You skulking, miserable cowards.
You took it upon yourself to make the worst nightmares of a people and a nation come true.
So you’ve gone ahead and killed a few hundred innocents who were merely guilty of minding to their own lives. Of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whose ghastly crime was belonging to a nationality or faith that didn’t match your own.
Not that you’d care even if it did. After all, you think the earth spins on the trajectory of your bullets.
Perhaps seeing beyond the barrel of an AK-47 is much tougher than it sounds. Actually, that would explain why you always vent your spleen and empty your rounds on those who have nothing to do with you.
Oh you’ve succeeded all right. You needn’t lose sleep over that.
I will definitely view unattended bags and unclaimed parcels with suspicion. All my life.
Avoiding public places during festivals and national holidays is already ingrained in my psyche. Now I’m not sure of ordinary places on ordinary weekdays too.
I live in the knowledge that the statistical possibility of my ending up as a terror statistic has hit an all-time high.
I fear for my loved ones wherever they may be.
The innate goodness of human nature is a thing of the past. Therefore I view my fellow beings with suspicion.
Dammit, I say a prayer every time I walk into a movie hall!!
And most importantly, you’ve added one more face to ‘evil’ as I know it. You and your predecessors have done your homework well.
But there’s one more thing I want you to know.
It’s gonna take much, much more than a few dozen armed, misguided and violent zealots to break the will of a nation.
You claim to act out of faith. What you have actually proved is your lack of it.
You have accepted and put on record that you’re incapable of being a thinking, rational, civilized being.
That you truly are absolutely incapable of being a human being.
Thank to you, many hundreds of lives have been irrevocably changed.
Some will mourn the loss of a friend or sibling all their lives. Some others will always remember saying goodbye to a loved one leaving for India, not knowing that it was the last time.
Some children will grow up with one parent and a photo of the other. Or perhaps a photo alone. For some others, their very families are a memory now.
Dismiss this as just another run-of-the-mill, emotional rant if you will.
But I’ll have you know that the spirit of this city, of this nation and her people, is much stronger than anything your fanatical commanders prepared you for.
It is as real as the air you breathe, as real as the fact that the sun rises and sets everyday.
To rise again the next day, no matter what.
I am confident that my countrymen and I will continue to live our lives with renewed spirit and vigour, despite all that you do to reduce us to a nervous, hysterical mass of humanity.
Most of all I hope and pray that your wretched soul may languish in Hades.
That you may writhe in impotent fury at the futility of your so-called sacrifice.
Now and for the rest of eternity.
The last few of days have been harrowing ones, even for those who were not directly involved in the terror attacks. Here’s a prayer for those who’re grieving their losses now.
Wish our politicians would stop relying so much on our resilience, and instead do something about every Tom, Dick and Harry who decides to throw a bomb and make a point! Like, hey, the spirit of Mumbai's there alright but we won't let ourselves be kicked around like this!
One thing I couldn’t help noticing though. WHERE the *&$% did the self proclaimed protectors of Mumbai, the Shiv Sena and the MNS go? Haven’t heard a peep from them through all this.
Or perhaps they were waiting for a headcount of Maharashtrian hostages. Oh you never know. Funny, I don’t remember seeing anything about Thackeray asking if the NSG were from Maharashtra. Mebbe they were too busy planning their next attack on non-Marathi speakers, who have the gall to continue living in Mumbai.
You skulking, miserable cowards.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Happy Diwali!!
Happy Diwali folks..... wishing you a wonderful festive season and all the happiness in the world.
Be back soon with a post...in the meantime, can somebody help me out with a layout prob I'm having?? My page elements i.e. blogroll, earlier posts, sitemeter et al appear below all my posts when I visit my page.... the layout's fine when I go to individual post pages.
Any help on how to set this right will be GREATLY appreciated :)
Cheers and stay happy!!
Be back soon with a post...in the meantime, can somebody help me out with a layout prob I'm having?? My page elements i.e. blogroll, earlier posts, sitemeter et al appear below all my posts when I visit my page.... the layout's fine when I go to individual post pages.
Any help on how to set this right will be GREATLY appreciated :)
Cheers and stay happy!!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A walk down Indigo lane
It's past 11 p.m. Yet another evening after yet another day of mundane, even depressing routine. The kind of predictability that makes me think I should've defined my desire for 'stability' a tad more explicitly. A little sliver of a flame dances atop the scented candle on my desk. One of those fancy ones sold in fancier sounding stores. A faint mixture of orange and cinnamon scents the air as I sink deeper into a coffee-and-fatigue induced stupor.
It's one of those days. One of those dammitall phases I seem to be slipping into for increasingly frequent and longer stretches these days.
Mebbe it's just the job. Despite all that the bosses say, they know and I know that all I am is a glorified 'Maker of Pivot tables'. Certain unshakeable facts stick to your mind even when you don't want them to. And make you question just about everything till you're in one big, sticky, messy loop. Like, should I be more aggressive? Should I switch profiles? Should I even be doing this?
What am I trying to prove?
WHAT THE HELL????
A cool breeze finds its way into the room, carrying the sharp tang of evening rain with it. It plays with the magazines strewn around, ruffling the pages in a mock Mexican wave. My candle flame dances, flickers, cowers down and springs back to life again. Pretty much like some of my convictions.
Like the conviction that backed some of the important choices in my life. Some individual, some collective. For the individual/greater good. Or so I thought at the time. But there's this nagging doubt at the back of my mind that unleashes itself when I least expect it.
Suddenly it doesn't seem so smart to have refused a chance offered on a platter. For everything I thought I wanted. And still think I do. I can't put it out of my head. I keep returning to scan it under a microscope, to keep probing it like I would an aching tooth. I guess it will vanish only when I get a choice better than the one I turned down. And when would that be? Will it be???
Call it quarter-life crisis if you will..... is this human, or is it just me?
Outside, the low, steady notes of a conch fill the air as a city erupts in celebration. The elephant-god has paid his visit, and it's now time to see him off. The Vignaharta smiles down benevolently, flanked by palm fronds and chasing-lights, festooned with ropes of marigold and rose. His devotees surround him, dancing to the dhol-beat in a gulal-suffused mist.
Inch by inch, he meanders through the suburbs to join others of his ilk, and make his way southward to the sea. In a few hours from now, he will be lowered into the inky depths of the Arabian Sea, leaving nothing behind, but a few ripples and the remnants of floral tributes. Relieved devotees will then go home, having entrusted their lord with the year ahead.
The patter of rain grows louder outside. My candle flickers and cowers again as the shadows dance in sync. Cast your burden aside and move on. Consign your fears to the depths and look life in the eye. Like you would when you know that your deepest, darkest cares have been laid to rest in the ocean, never to rise again.
Would that my uncertainties were stilled as easily.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
I'm SO glad you're a boy!!
I'M BAAAAAAACCKKK!!!!!
*Deafening silence*
Oh well, don't say I didn't tell ya.
Ages since I logged in.....am sure there's tons of great posts that I've gotta catch up with. Been kinda bogged down with work (aren't we all).... some of it pretty shitty at that. And a 'life', so to speak, remains non-existent. Hmmm.... atleast somethings are constant. As a colleague of mine puts it "Life ees the sucks, man!!!" No, he's not a school dropout or something, in case you're wondering.
A quick clarification on the title....it's NOT pro female-infanticide. It's got to do with a tag that Philip passed on to me eons ago...procrastination's just one of my many virtues btw.
So here goes....T&C of the tag are as follows:
Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
Confession: I've Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V'd the last 5 lines from Philip's blog. Y'see, it's like, y'know, this little neurotic fixation that the yum-bee-yay tribe has.... we do not type and expend precious energy if there's any means of avoiding it in the first place.
Step 1: Thou shalt pick up the nearest book
Blindly sweep my arm over the table next to my bed. Pick up topmost book that gets knocked to the floor. Maeve Binchy's "The Copper Beech". Ok I can see all you macho dudes roll your eyes skyward... trust me, it wouldn't hurt to read this genre of books once in a while. And in my opinion, Maeve Binchy does NOT write chick lit, though her stories appeal more to women. Background info time. The book's about a group of classmates who grow up together in an Irish village. Each chapter's named after one person. Each chapter traces a series of events through the same time period but from a different person's perspective. And thus an entire story builds up.
Time for step 2.
Step 2: Thou shalt open to page 123
Done. Next?
Step 3: Thou shalt find the fifth sentence
Got it. Wait...oh damn..that was the seventh line (or was it the sixth?) Never claimed I was good with numbers anyway. Recount. Ahhh. NOW I've got it.
Step 4: Thou shalt post the next three sentences
"I always told myself that when we were both sixteen, I would tell you I've known since the very beginning that you were a boy. I was afraid to tell you that I knew in case you'd stop writing. I like you being a boy"
Cryptic?? Simple enough really. Eddie's an awkward young fella who decides to make a friend through his school's pen-pal program. So this nine-year-old picks out 'Chris' from Scotland. Chris's first reply reveals that Chris is actually short for Christine, AND she thinks she's writing to an Edith, not Eddie. The rest of it goes about how Eddie remains Edith for a few more years blah blah blah, till Chris writes to him on his sixteenth birthday, from lines five to ten or so on page 123.
Step 5: Thou shalt tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
I tag thee...
Nikhil - who writes about pretty much everything under the sun. His only problem here would be which book's page 123 will qualify. Or if it happens to be one of those pro-female books that he uses to take a dig or two at me. ;-)
Sritanu - The Bong bard will have something interesting for sure.
Dennis and Pradeep - Two amazingly talented writers who share one teeny-weeny flaw. They don't write. Duh. One hasnt touched his blog since January (unless he's moved it elsewhere)...and the other since June. GUYS.PLEASE.WRITE!!!
Only four people on my list...really dunno anybody else I could tag.
Acknowledgement: I raise my cup of filter kaapi to Philip, who tagged me.
Hope to write the next post after a much shorter interval...cheers!
*Deafening silence*
Oh well, don't say I didn't tell ya.
Ages since I logged in.....am sure there's tons of great posts that I've gotta catch up with. Been kinda bogged down with work (aren't we all).... some of it pretty shitty at that. And a 'life', so to speak, remains non-existent. Hmmm.... atleast somethings are constant. As a colleague of mine puts it "Life ees the sucks, man!!!" No, he's not a school dropout or something, in case you're wondering.
A quick clarification on the title....it's NOT pro female-infanticide. It's got to do with a tag that Philip passed on to me eons ago...procrastination's just one of my many virtues btw.
So here goes....T&C of the tag are as follows:
Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
Confession: I've Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V'd the last 5 lines from Philip's blog. Y'see, it's like, y'know, this little neurotic fixation that the yum-bee-yay tribe has.... we do not type and expend precious energy if there's any means of avoiding it in the first place.
Step 1: Thou shalt pick up the nearest book
Blindly sweep my arm over the table next to my bed. Pick up topmost book that gets knocked to the floor. Maeve Binchy's "The Copper Beech". Ok I can see all you macho dudes roll your eyes skyward... trust me, it wouldn't hurt to read this genre of books once in a while. And in my opinion, Maeve Binchy does NOT write chick lit, though her stories appeal more to women. Background info time. The book's about a group of classmates who grow up together in an Irish village. Each chapter's named after one person. Each chapter traces a series of events through the same time period but from a different person's perspective. And thus an entire story builds up.
Time for step 2.
Step 2: Thou shalt open to page 123
Done. Next?
Step 3: Thou shalt find the fifth sentence
Got it. Wait...oh damn..that was the seventh line (or was it the sixth?) Never claimed I was good with numbers anyway. Recount. Ahhh. NOW I've got it.
Step 4: Thou shalt post the next three sentences
"I always told myself that when we were both sixteen, I would tell you I've known since the very beginning that you were a boy. I was afraid to tell you that I knew in case you'd stop writing. I like you being a boy"
Cryptic?? Simple enough really. Eddie's an awkward young fella who decides to make a friend through his school's pen-pal program. So this nine-year-old picks out 'Chris' from Scotland. Chris's first reply reveals that Chris is actually short for Christine, AND she thinks she's writing to an Edith, not Eddie. The rest of it goes about how Eddie remains Edith for a few more years blah blah blah, till Chris writes to him on his sixteenth birthday, from lines five to ten or so on page 123.
Step 5: Thou shalt tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
I tag thee...
Nikhil - who writes about pretty much everything under the sun. His only problem here would be which book's page 123 will qualify. Or if it happens to be one of those pro-female books that he uses to take a dig or two at me. ;-)
Sritanu - The Bong bard will have something interesting for sure.
Dennis and Pradeep - Two amazingly talented writers who share one teeny-weeny flaw. They don't write. Duh. One hasnt touched his blog since January (unless he's moved it elsewhere)...and the other since June. GUYS.PLEASE.WRITE!!!
Only four people on my list...really dunno anybody else I could tag.
Acknowledgement: I raise my cup of filter kaapi to Philip, who tagged me.
Hope to write the next post after a much shorter interval...cheers!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Check this out
The madness continues... don't see myself coming anywhere near this blog for some time more...boohoo!!
In the meantime, here's a little something that I've schemed and plotted over for the last coupla days
http://technicolorsunset.blogspot.com
This is completely uncharted, unexplored territory pour moi... so please do take a look and lemme know what you really think of it...
Awaiting the 'pheedback'.... cheers till the next post!!
In the meantime, here's a little something that I've schemed and plotted over for the last coupla days
http://technicolorsunset.blogspot.com
This is completely uncharted, unexplored territory pour moi... so please do take a look and lemme know what you really think of it...
Awaiting the 'pheedback'.... cheers till the next post!!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Be right back!
Unpardonably long delay in replying/posting et al.... sorry ppl, but I've been busier than I have any business to be..or like to be for that matter..:((
Things will (hopefully) ease out in a week or so. (Fingers, toes and eyes crossed!)
Philip, thanks for the tag.... shall take it up asap. To make up for my tardiness, I hereby transfer 20 toppu-karnams from my account to yours. :)
See y'all soon, and stay happy!!
Ok ok...TRY to stay happy!!!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Oru zimble jeevacharitram - Part 1
(Reluctant) Statutory Disclaimer : The post(s) that follows is a long-windedly, incredibly, shamelessly self-centred one. It traces the past and present of yet another insignificant keeda who crawls arounds these days in the biggest keeda-hill of them all a.k.a. Mooombhaiii.
A friend of mine suggested recently that my blog should contain a little more about ME. But wasn't this already all about me and my antics/thoughts/blahblahblah?? Oh well, whatever. I hereby bow to public opinion. (Okayyyy, so less than half a dozen people follow my blog!! Here goes.
Zahra is NOT my real name. That should've been pretty workable. I chose not to write under my real name for the simple reason that I write more freely under an assumed one. No inhibitions whatsoever about what if so and so reads this, what will such and such think et al. Those who know me in person may be able to figure out my identity from what I write here, but that's fine by me.
And thus I began looking for a fairly simple yet not too common name. Came across a coupla sites that gave the meaning as grace and elegance. Some others even mentioned that it was the Urdu/Hebrew/Arabic equivalent of flower. Not bad at all. Quite nice in fact. Since grace and elegance are qualities I kept (and still keep) aspiring to, I decided to let it reflect in my nom-de-plume. Oh I saw that half-smile, btw.
My real name is nothing to write home about. I can tell you it's not Priya. In fact, I'm telling you it's not Priya, 'coz that's what I was almost named. Apparently my dad threw a spanner in the works by gently reminding mom of something. That guys in Kerala colleges have this thing for singing 'O Priye' to girls with the name. The musically challenged would only call it out. Talk about far-sighted. I suspect he knows much more than he lets on. First hand experience on the singing side perhaps, but he insists on maintaining SUCH a gentlemanly front. :(
Now that Priya had been chucked outta the window...the name, silly... the hunt began for other nice names. Some friend suggested 'Angela' which (thankfully) was rejected outright. There's such a complete absence of anything angelic in me. Boohoo. Some more names came and went. And then a propah Christian name popped up. Sounded pretty starchy when said out loud, but mom discovered she actually liked the legitimate shorter version of it. Typical Mallu trait, lemme tell you...this fondness for short and sweet 4-5 letter names. Of course the sweetness quotient depends on whether you're named Jijo/Biji, or manage to get away with Paul/Mary.
The whole family concurred and yours truly was promptly carted off to church. There, the priest dangled me over the baptismal font and solemnly intoned, “I baptize thee...
...... ***** ******....
...in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Followed by the sprinkling of water and the drawing of a cross on a sleeping infant. I'm told I slept through my own baptism...to my mother's eternal embarrassment!! Probably the first of my many displays of unflappable cool. (Ahem!) Btw I wasn't named according to the great Mallu X'ian baby naming formula though... in case you haven't read that email fwd, do let me know. :)
I was born in Kerala, yes, but that's the only event of any significance in my life to have happened there. Spent the first 13 years of my life as a typical 'Gelfie' Mallu. Methinks we fulfilled every stereotype, except one. I speak Malayalam fluently, and read it too. I'd even go so far as to say that I can give my (for want of a better term) 'native Mallu' cousins a run for their money. In fact, if the VJ's on TV are anything to go by, then I'd qualify for a PhD in advanced Malayalam.
Then we heeded the tug that band-bajaofies on NRI heartstrings and came back to India for good. To join an established yet fast growing community of Non Resident Keralites or NRK's. To live in a land which is not in Kerala but is not so far away as to make you miss it terribly. That speaks a language very similar to, yet totally different from mine. Which was known as Madras in olden days and is now Chennai.
That's short for Chennappanaickapattinam btw. Thank God they shortened it. Can you imagine a flight announcement with that name? So, in this city I got my first taste of convent school life, Madras bhashai, brilliant choirs, Kollywood dominated politics and...siiiighhhhh...filter kaapi. It's so sweet to recall the beginnings of a lasting romance. Dunno if this applies to situations involving humans though.
A few weeks in Chennai, and the first of my many revelations hit me. And so I knelt down and prayed.
I thank Thee Lord, for Thy many mercies
'Specially Marina beach and milaga bajjis
But most of all, that my parents dear
Did not name me Priya and bring me here
Y'see, every third female in this city is a Priya or a variant of it. Priya, Padmapriya, Vishnupriya, Lakshmipriya, Haripriya....heck, even Priyamvada. Now you get the priya...sorry, point. Archana's and Divya's are a dime-a-dozen too.
All-girls school (a first for me) was a riot. Missed my old school terribly but had loadsa giggles at the nuns' rules and regulations. Bless them, Thanks to life there, there are some unchanging aspects to my life as I live it today. Oh yeah, my soda-kuppi glasses didn't help my cause, but made some amazing friends despite it all.
Then came graduation at a local women's arts and science college where urstruly discovered some 70% of herself. Women's college, so the Priya hullaballoo was for nothing after all. Had been given up by half the family/friends circle for not taking the more respectable job-and-groom-assuring med/engg/science route. Point to be noted here.... full marks to my parents for sticking to their guns and backing me all the way. All you folks who still believe that Science is THE Holy Grail.... by all means stick to your beliefs...but pls do pause to think of how hurtful those dismissive looks and comments can really be. Oh, they motivate all right, but not in the right kinda way.
Anyway, those three years taught me a few (hitherto unknown) things about myself. That I could actually write if I put my mind to it. That I could lead a group and work in fairly undefined situations without too much trouble. Most importantly, that I could stick out like a sore thumb in any crowd (which I did quite effortlessly) AND not give a damn. Life hasn't been the same since that discovery.
And a little keeda of an idea that I should do an MBA after this popped up. I've made my reasons for doing an MBA lamentably clear in an earlier post.
WHAT?!?!?!? You haven't read it??? Fie, dear reader...here it is. Point 7, FYI.
More later.... if you aren't choking already that is.. ;-)
A friend of mine suggested recently that my blog should contain a little more about ME. But wasn't this already all about me and my antics/thoughts/blahblahblah?? Oh well, whatever. I hereby bow to public opinion. (Okayyyy, so less than half a dozen people follow my blog!! Here goes.
Zahra is NOT my real name. That should've been pretty workable. I chose not to write under my real name for the simple reason that I write more freely under an assumed one. No inhibitions whatsoever about what if so and so reads this, what will such and such think et al. Those who know me in person may be able to figure out my identity from what I write here, but that's fine by me.
And thus I began looking for a fairly simple yet not too common name. Came across a coupla sites that gave the meaning as grace and elegance. Some others even mentioned that it was the Urdu/Hebrew/Arabic equivalent of flower. Not bad at all. Quite nice in fact. Since grace and elegance are qualities I kept (and still keep) aspiring to, I decided to let it reflect in my nom-de-plume. Oh I saw that half-smile, btw.
My real name is nothing to write home about. I can tell you it's not Priya. In fact, I'm telling you it's not Priya, 'coz that's what I was almost named. Apparently my dad threw a spanner in the works by gently reminding mom of something. That guys in Kerala colleges have this thing for singing 'O Priye' to girls with the name. The musically challenged would only call it out. Talk about far-sighted. I suspect he knows much more than he lets on. First hand experience on the singing side perhaps, but he insists on maintaining SUCH a gentlemanly front. :(
Now that Priya had been chucked outta the window...the name, silly... the hunt began for other nice names. Some friend suggested 'Angela' which (thankfully) was rejected outright. There's such a complete absence of anything angelic in me. Boohoo. Some more names came and went. And then a propah Christian name popped up. Sounded pretty starchy when said out loud, but mom discovered she actually liked the legitimate shorter version of it. Typical Mallu trait, lemme tell you...this fondness for short and sweet 4-5 letter names. Of course the sweetness quotient depends on whether you're named Jijo/Biji, or manage to get away with Paul/Mary.
The whole family concurred and yours truly was promptly carted off to church. There, the priest dangled me over the baptismal font and solemnly intoned, “I baptize thee...
...... ***** ******....
...in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Followed by the sprinkling of water and the drawing of a cross on a sleeping infant. I'm told I slept through my own baptism...to my mother's eternal embarrassment!! Probably the first of my many displays of unflappable cool. (Ahem!) Btw I wasn't named according to the great Mallu X'ian baby naming formula though... in case you haven't read that email fwd, do let me know. :)
I was born in Kerala, yes, but that's the only event of any significance in my life to have happened there. Spent the first 13 years of my life as a typical 'Gelfie' Mallu. Methinks we fulfilled every stereotype, except one. I speak Malayalam fluently, and read it too. I'd even go so far as to say that I can give my (for want of a better term) 'native Mallu' cousins a run for their money. In fact, if the VJ's on TV are anything to go by, then I'd qualify for a PhD in advanced Malayalam.
Then we heeded the tug that band-bajaofies on NRI heartstrings and came back to India for good. To join an established yet fast growing community of Non Resident Keralites or NRK's. To live in a land which is not in Kerala but is not so far away as to make you miss it terribly. That speaks a language very similar to, yet totally different from mine. Which was known as Madras in olden days and is now Chennai.
That's short for Chennappanaickapattinam btw. Thank God they shortened it. Can you imagine a flight announcement with that name? So, in this city I got my first taste of convent school life, Madras bhashai, brilliant choirs, Kollywood dominated politics and...siiiighhhhh...filter kaapi. It's so sweet to recall the beginnings of a lasting romance. Dunno if this applies to situations involving humans though.
A few weeks in Chennai, and the first of my many revelations hit me. And so I knelt down and prayed.
I thank Thee Lord, for Thy many mercies
'Specially Marina beach and milaga bajjis
But most of all, that my parents dear
Did not name me Priya and bring me here
Y'see, every third female in this city is a Priya or a variant of it. Priya, Padmapriya, Vishnupriya, Lakshmipriya, Haripriya....heck, even Priyamvada. Now you get the priya...sorry, point. Archana's and Divya's are a dime-a-dozen too.
All-girls school (a first for me) was a riot. Missed my old school terribly but had loadsa giggles at the nuns' rules and regulations. Bless them, Thanks to life there, there are some unchanging aspects to my life as I live it today. Oh yeah, my soda-kuppi glasses didn't help my cause, but made some amazing friends despite it all.
Then came graduation at a local women's arts and science college where urstruly discovered some 70% of herself. Women's college, so the Priya hullaballoo was for nothing after all. Had been given up by half the family/friends circle for not taking the more respectable job-and-groom-assuring med/engg/science route. Point to be noted here.... full marks to my parents for sticking to their guns and backing me all the way. All you folks who still believe that Science is THE Holy Grail.... by all means stick to your beliefs...but pls do pause to think of how hurtful those dismissive looks and comments can really be. Oh, they motivate all right, but not in the right kinda way.
Anyway, those three years taught me a few (hitherto unknown) things about myself. That I could actually write if I put my mind to it. That I could lead a group and work in fairly undefined situations without too much trouble. Most importantly, that I could stick out like a sore thumb in any crowd (which I did quite effortlessly) AND not give a damn. Life hasn't been the same since that discovery.
And a little keeda of an idea that I should do an MBA after this popped up. I've made my reasons for doing an MBA lamentably clear in an earlier post.
WHAT?!?!?!? You haven't read it??? Fie, dear reader...here it is. Point 7, FYI.
More later.... if you aren't choking already that is.. ;-)
Monday, June 9, 2008
A (blighted) day in the life of Zahra
9:30 a.m.
Uneventful 45-minute ride to office. I get down at the office entrance, only to have the next auto driving in wreak muddy havoc on my pristine white salwar.
Stay calm, stay positive. Breeeeeaaaathe.
It's tooooo early in the day to murder somebody, babe.
Surf Excel hai na.
Walk, no, STALK into office, snarling at the watchman on duty.
10:10 a.m.
My karmampudicha PC has taken nothing short of 30 minutes to start up. Leaving me to twiddle my thumbs and toes. The blasted machine actually flickered to life only after I folded my hands, whining "Pleeeeeaaaaase" under my breath.
I swear the thing's possessed.
10:15 a.m.
Rush to canteen for breakfast, or whatever's left of it.
Menu:
-
Missal Pav. Nope. Burned my stomach lining off with it yesterday. Gotta allow it two days to regenerate.
-
Vada Pav . Ho-hum.
-
Amb-let Pav. Huh?? Oh ok...Omelette Pav.
-
Bhajiya Pav. Honestly...this guy will stuff anything into a pav.
Finally settled for Idli-Sambar against my better judgement. Takes 20 minutes to finish as I have to step on one side of the idli and lop off chunks from the other side.
The idlis in college were better. We only had to throw them at the class rep's head.
11:30 a.m.
The Big Boss has sent out one of those "Hey guys let's catch up on the team reviews" emails to everyone.
Venue: Conference Hall
Time: 14:00 hrs IST
Date:.... (Gasp!!!) Saturday?!?!?!?
#@$#@$%#$%$!!! Please fill in with vowels and consonants of your choice. Foul language is against my credo.
Like, DUDE, you may not have a life to catch up with on weekends, but the rest of us do. Misery.... another 2 p.m. meeting where everybody walks in at 3 p.m., sits around and laughs at (supposed) witticisms till 5 p.m., and then decides to catch up with the real agenda on Monday.
Feeling blue. Solid, navy B-L-U-E.
12:50 p.m.
Vitriolic email from business head who wants his project completed 2 weeks before schedule. Really now. The Cc option should be disabled for some people. He's put his entire vertical and mine in that bar.
Debated the wisdom of replying with a subtle, sarcasm laden email describing the benefits of a nature-appreciation jaunt.
Like...'Take a hike' , y'know.
Oh, forget it. He's capable of writing back asking for a timeline for that too. Grrrrr.
1:00 p.m.
Made up my mind to go the J-Lo way and insure the same..uhh...property. Different reasons though.
Hers is admired/coveted/drooled over, around the world.
Mine is whipped outta shape, even if in the figurative sense. Actually, that hurts more.
1:40 p.m.
Lunchtime.
Karela mash and watery dal. Sour curd that'll work wonders for my stomach bacteria population.
Rice. Atta frisbees... sorry, rotis. And the works.
Mental sticky note: Prepare last will and testament. Name nominees.
2:50 p.m.
Finally. Got past the blocks and "Company policy does not permit access to this site" pop-ups and logged in to Orkut. Hmmm. Mebbe their Chinese fortune cookie-type messages will have something nice to say.
Today's fortune: You and your wife will live happily ever after.
Rrrright.
Me. And wife.
Bhaery phunny. Exactly what I needed to hear.Bad, bad Confucious. No chowmein for you.
A distant Chinese-accented voice screams, "I no say thaaaaaat!!!!"
Rocking day so far. Shouldn't surprise you that I'm pro-Tibet now.
3:00 p.m.
Moved on to Orkut scrapbook. 3 new scraps. Lemme see.
Damn. Two of them are for pasting code into the address bar to see
"Congratulations!! You've been voted the World's Biggest LOSER!!"
OR
"Warning: Preparing to self-destruct....5..4..3..2.."
The third one's a 'frand-sheep' request from some obscure geek who thinks I look garjyaass...errr...gorgeous. Did I mention that the only picture on my profile is one of Hobbes? I tell you, these techie-types need to get out and meet real people once in a while.
Waitaminit. Mebbe he really was talking about Hobbes. Self esteem steps out for a walk in the rain.
4:15 p.m.
Desperate for a caffeine fix. Rushed to pantry with coffee mug to find.... no prizes for guessing.
"Machine out of order. Regret inconvenience."
5:00 p.m.
Nooooo....
Urgent requirement for crucial data and metrics for a high-level meeting. A scroll down the forwarded email shows that the meeting was scheduled more than a month ago. A call to the so-called 'desperate' AGM reveals that he's already left for the day. Like, hello, who's meeting was this? There go my plans to leave at 6 sharp.
Sorely tempted to stagger around clutching my heart and croak, "Oh palpitations! Oh palpitations!"
Before you start sniggering, lemme tell you that Anton Chekhov actually used that line. Atleast his translators did.
5:45 p.m.
First sensible act of the day. Discreetly disconnected landline, and switched mobile network to an unreliable one. Gave self feeble pat on the back...shoulder, actually. can't reach that far.
Inner voice: Exercise, woman, exerciiiiiise!!!"
Zahra's voice: "Shaddup. SHAADDDDUUUP!!"
6:20 p.m.
Emailed the accursed report. Hurriedly shut down comp and fled down the corridor, only to barrel into...gulp...Boss. Whyyyy is his cabin on the way out? I tell youuuuu (Tam-style)...the vaastu in this place is all fouled up.
"Btw, I want updates on the status of Projects Alpha through Omega by ten a.m. tomorrow. See you."
Aatma descends effortlessly to the ground floor. Bhautik shareer awaits the lift to follow suit.
8:20 p.m.
Back home in one piece despite suicidal auto driver.
Stood in front of the mirror and chanted "Why am I doing this to myself??" 100 times as per routine.
Check dinner prospects. Yesterday's dal and last week's bread.
10:45 p.m.
Thought: It couldn't get worse than this.
Second thought: Don't be too sure.
Oh well, so it was my statue day today. Go to bed praying for the pigeon's role tomorrow.
ZZZzzzzzzz.....
Note: Okay, so I exaggerate, :) But I've had several days like this one in the not-too-distant past!!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Souls and Raindrops*
7:44 A.M.
The green electronic display flickered, blinked and changed as she watched.
7:45 A.M.
The wind kicked up a chocolate wrapper and a dirty scrap of newspaper into a slow pirouette around her feet. She caught the flyaway end of her dupatta and wrapped it around her handbag, clutching both closer to her body. A gingerly placed step to the left, a little hop to the front, and she was past the puddle of water. Her pace quickened against the wet stone platform worn smooth by decades of rushing feet. Soon, she was just another blur of movement in a teeming, seething mass of commuters, under a sloping, leaky station roof, under a fast-greying sky.
He crouched in a filth-ridden corner of the stairs leading to the second platform. The corrugated sheet of the roof didn’t reach far enough to shelter him completely. A slow trickle of water crept down the side of the stairway into a splash of Coke from somebody’s carelessly thrown plastic cup. The trickle swirled, widened and welled up, till it finally broke free into the grooves between the smooth stone slabs and meandered into a puddle at his feet. It didn’t seem to bother him.
A rusty can with traces of its once blue wrapper sat at his feet. A faint gleam inside it told of some earlier passer-by’s generosity. His gnarled, dirty hands stretched out and away from him in that timeless petition for help, sympathy and most of all, money. Tangled, matted locks of greasy grey hair hung down the sides of his face that bent abjectly over his hands. A dull pair of eyes with yellowed whites and age-clouded irises stared vacantly, resignedly, at the ground in front of him. A blur of feet of all sizes and shapes, covered and bare, clattered around him as the damp wind whipped at his ragged shirt, bringing his shrivelled frame into sharper relief.
She stole a quick glance at her watch. Two minutes left for the next train. She could catch it if she hurried down the stairs to Platform 2 fast enough. She nearly ran past the brown, ragged, smelly isle of stillness on the stairway. Oh, she’d seen him before. No words of supplication from this one. No invoking curses or abusing ancestors if you passed him by. Even if he did, who had the time to listen? A slight raise of his hands, a barely perceptible movement as he leaned forward…this was all the indication one had to realise that a fellow being was seeking charity.
Something made her stop and unzip her bag. Sympathy? Sorrow? Guilt? All three perhaps? She dug deep into the recesses of her purse while being rudely jostled aside and sworn at by other frazzled commuters. Never mind. She dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched palms and raced down the stairs, just as the train pulled onto the platform. A few seconds later she’d pushed, shoved and clawed her way into the heart of a bogey filled with sweaty, ill-tempered women.
A little raindrop left its home and made its way down to earth. Falling down, falling fast. Past other drop-laden clouds, and layers of dust and fumes. Down, further down, past thirty-storeyed buildings, past shabby tenements stacked on a wasteland slope, dodging the outstretched limbs of a thirsty tree. Whipped and tossed around by a steady wind, it finally lay down to rest in a star-shaped spatter atop a train that was slowly pulling out of a suburban station. Soon the raindrop was joined by millions of its brothers who’d decided to follow suit. Together they drummed in time to the rhythm of the train, of the people moving, of the vast metropolis, of life itself.
If she could’ve looked back at the stairs, she would’ve seen him sitting in his corner, a huddled mass of assorted rags. She hadn’t realized that alms, one meal a day and an occasional scrap of sympathy thrown his way were no longer the focus of this man’s existence.
She couldn’t have possibly known that for the past few hours, the man himself had ceased to exist.
*Note: The title has been borrowed from that of a poem by Sidney Lanier.
The green electronic display flickered, blinked and changed as she watched.
7:45 A.M.
The wind kicked up a chocolate wrapper and a dirty scrap of newspaper into a slow pirouette around her feet. She caught the flyaway end of her dupatta and wrapped it around her handbag, clutching both closer to her body. A gingerly placed step to the left, a little hop to the front, and she was past the puddle of water. Her pace quickened against the wet stone platform worn smooth by decades of rushing feet. Soon, she was just another blur of movement in a teeming, seething mass of commuters, under a sloping, leaky station roof, under a fast-greying sky.
He crouched in a filth-ridden corner of the stairs leading to the second platform. The corrugated sheet of the roof didn’t reach far enough to shelter him completely. A slow trickle of water crept down the side of the stairway into a splash of Coke from somebody’s carelessly thrown plastic cup. The trickle swirled, widened and welled up, till it finally broke free into the grooves between the smooth stone slabs and meandered into a puddle at his feet. It didn’t seem to bother him.
A rusty can with traces of its once blue wrapper sat at his feet. A faint gleam inside it told of some earlier passer-by’s generosity. His gnarled, dirty hands stretched out and away from him in that timeless petition for help, sympathy and most of all, money. Tangled, matted locks of greasy grey hair hung down the sides of his face that bent abjectly over his hands. A dull pair of eyes with yellowed whites and age-clouded irises stared vacantly, resignedly, at the ground in front of him. A blur of feet of all sizes and shapes, covered and bare, clattered around him as the damp wind whipped at his ragged shirt, bringing his shrivelled frame into sharper relief.
She stole a quick glance at her watch. Two minutes left for the next train. She could catch it if she hurried down the stairs to Platform 2 fast enough. She nearly ran past the brown, ragged, smelly isle of stillness on the stairway. Oh, she’d seen him before. No words of supplication from this one. No invoking curses or abusing ancestors if you passed him by. Even if he did, who had the time to listen? A slight raise of his hands, a barely perceptible movement as he leaned forward…this was all the indication one had to realise that a fellow being was seeking charity.
Something made her stop and unzip her bag. Sympathy? Sorrow? Guilt? All three perhaps? She dug deep into the recesses of her purse while being rudely jostled aside and sworn at by other frazzled commuters. Never mind. She dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched palms and raced down the stairs, just as the train pulled onto the platform. A few seconds later she’d pushed, shoved and clawed her way into the heart of a bogey filled with sweaty, ill-tempered women.
A little raindrop left its home and made its way down to earth. Falling down, falling fast. Past other drop-laden clouds, and layers of dust and fumes. Down, further down, past thirty-storeyed buildings, past shabby tenements stacked on a wasteland slope, dodging the outstretched limbs of a thirsty tree. Whipped and tossed around by a steady wind, it finally lay down to rest in a star-shaped spatter atop a train that was slowly pulling out of a suburban station. Soon the raindrop was joined by millions of its brothers who’d decided to follow suit. Together they drummed in time to the rhythm of the train, of the people moving, of the vast metropolis, of life itself.
If she could’ve looked back at the stairs, she would’ve seen him sitting in his corner, a huddled mass of assorted rags. She hadn’t realized that alms, one meal a day and an occasional scrap of sympathy thrown his way were no longer the focus of this man’s existence.
She couldn’t have possibly known that for the past few hours, the man himself had ceased to exist.
*Note: The title has been borrowed from that of a poem by Sidney Lanier.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Arbit observations #3
The Goddess returns with more... (ahem!)...'pearls' of.... never mind. Just keep reading , and I'll be thankful enough.
Actually these are the side-effects of lying at home doing absolutely nothing (i.e. nothing useful) for a month, with an offensively cheery-blue fibre cast on my elevated foot, staring right back at me. Personal note: Change favourite colour to pista green
1. You know your parents have run out of ideas on what to do with you when you start getting a certain predictable set of q's thrown at you on every visit home.
"Isn't it time you started thinking about your future?"
Like.....future what? Future luxury car, foreign vacation, paycheck??? Good idea!!
"There's this nice boy....."
Of course they're all nice... nobody presents their son as a history sheeter cum axe-murderer cum wife-beater with a roving eye to boot.
"This is not a stage of your life to be taken lightly"
I totally agree. You realise that NOTHING at all can be taken lightly when your father starts encouraging you to do exactly the things he forbade just two years ago. Like discussing what you think of a guy's looks, his personality, and most importantly, his compatibility with you. All this when you realised only ten minutes ago that the guy existed at all!!
2. Things may not always be what they seem to be. Oh, that's old hat, I know. Am talking about displays of emotion here. For instance, the time when my parents were leaving after dropping me off at hostel in Delhi. As they walked away towards the car, I saw Appa steadfastly stare at the ground, and Amma discreetly dab at her eyes with a hanky. Stupid ole me presumed it was the grief of leaving their darling baby at the other end of the country and going back to Chennai. A couple of years and a whole series of arbit observations have revealed a 99.99% probability that their reaction was more on the lines of "PEACE.....After twenty-one years!! Thank God for MBA courses" :-S Now you know why Indian parents don't mind splurging on an MBA for their kids, even when the fees show an overtly positive correlation to global oil prices.
3. Meeting long lost relations and family friends doesn't exactly top the list of earthly pleasures for most of us. There are some exceptions of course, but most of these encounters can make you cringe inwardly, even as you prepare to face the assault with a diabetes-inducing smile plastered on your face. I mean, you just KNOW when that achayan/ammai/ammachy/uncle/aunty bears down on you all goggly-eyed and smiling and making a (ob)scene in general.
"Ente moley, nee angu valuthayi poyallo!!" (Beti, you've grown!)
Errr.... isn't that normal...esp since I hadn't even started crawling the last time you saw me??? Besides, I don't particularly appreciate the not-so-subtle references to my prospering waistline..... Hmph!
4. All those who fell for the hype and hoopla of The Monk who sold his Ferrari have obviously missed out on a verrrrry important point. Why don't you see that the Monk HAD a Ferrari to sell in the first place??
:-( Sadist...BAH!!! Go right ahead and rub it in my face....I'm still saving for a tyre to call my own. Oh, and no comments about tyres of my own making pls!! ;-P
5. You'll always have a soft corner for kids you dandle on your knee in their babyhood. No matter that they may grow, or mutate rather, into unexplained forms of pestilence a few years later.
6. Whoever predicted that "soft, curling tendrils" are THE look for our crowning glories this season obviously has a head full of poker straight hair. I'm serious. Nobody in their right mind would voluntarily put up with the pains of a head full of hairy curls of tendrils...err, curly tendrils of hair, day in and day out. Especially when the tendrils/ corkscrews have no sense of direction. I speak from personal experience. Waking up every morning looking like I was struck by lightning the previous night DOES NOT make me feel particularly hep or fashionable. Ah well, dunno if I can blame that fashionista. We've all heard that one on the vegetation being verdantly viridian on the other side.
7. Answering the question "Why an MBA?" is THE biggest farcical exercise you go through in the process of acquiring the degree. All this even before you're accepted into the course, mind! The whole process should've given me a fair idea of what I was getting into. Every coaching centre worth its salt tells you not to bull**** while answering that one. Fine, but what if I hadn't??
a) It's all about the money, honey!
b) Actually, I'm clueless. An MBA was the only thing left after I crossed out every other option.
c) Pleeeeease give me an admission....my folks will get me married otherwise.
d) I'd rather live on a farm, paint masterpieces and call the cows home everyday. But that doesn't bring in the moolah.
e) Face it. I can't rake in peanuts for another decade to get to an MBA's entry level job in my company.
f) Errr.... everybody else is doing it..right??
None of these seemed like a wise answer despite the honesty. Had this distinct sensation of stuffing both feet down my gullet when I thought of these. Therefore I am an MBA today and practising the bull**** professionally. Looking back now, I wonder how I kept a straight face while answering that question in B-school interviews. That's the scary part, I guess....I'd actually believed what I said then.
8. Why is it that the most charming, sweep-me-off-my-feet gentleman I've ever met is nearly 70 years old? Is it a reflection of declining quality standards through the decades or something? Before you jump to any theories about me being an older-man type, lemme tell you that I have nearly twenty-odd women my age agreeing with me on this. The gentleman I'm referring to was a visiting faculty at our B-school, and living proof that there's nothing like chivalry, respect and politeness to win the ladies over. Looks and physique can take a hike. Even MCP-ish views are graciously excused when they come from such people. Oh never mind. You guys may never get it at all. Gimme a man like that between the age of 25 and 30.... oh heck, make it 25 and 40, and I'll marry him blindfolded ;-)
9. I'll pro'lly live in coastal places all my life. There's something about the way the ocean captures every mood and every shade of my being, and throws it right back at me that I'll never get enough of. Nothing like its vastness to give you a very good sense of where exactly you stand and how significant you are in the scheme of things.
10. Something's seriously wrong when a person's smile doesn't reach their eyes. Age is no indicator of maturity. And you definitely have grown up in some way if you can enjoy a good, hearty belly-laugh at your expense.
Wish I practised half of what I preached.... but hey, spouting gyaan is something we MBA-types do naturally!!
Actually these are the side-effects of lying at home doing absolutely nothing (i.e. nothing useful) for a month, with an offensively cheery-blue fibre cast on my elevated foot, staring right back at me. Personal note: Change favourite colour to pista green
1. You know your parents have run out of ideas on what to do with you when you start getting a certain predictable set of q's thrown at you on every visit home.
"Isn't it time you started thinking about your future?"
Like.....future what? Future luxury car, foreign vacation, paycheck??? Good idea!!
"There's this nice boy....."
Of course they're all nice... nobody presents their son as a history sheeter cum axe-murderer cum wife-beater with a roving eye to boot.
"This is not a stage of your life to be taken lightly"
I totally agree. You realise that NOTHING at all can be taken lightly when your father starts encouraging you to do exactly the things he forbade just two years ago. Like discussing what you think of a guy's looks, his personality, and most importantly, his compatibility with you. All this when you realised only ten minutes ago that the guy existed at all!!
2. Things may not always be what they seem to be. Oh, that's old hat, I know. Am talking about displays of emotion here. For instance, the time when my parents were leaving after dropping me off at hostel in Delhi. As they walked away towards the car, I saw Appa steadfastly stare at the ground, and Amma discreetly dab at her eyes with a hanky. Stupid ole me presumed it was the grief of leaving their darling baby at the other end of the country and going back to Chennai. A couple of years and a whole series of arbit observations have revealed a 99.99% probability that their reaction was more on the lines of "PEACE.....After twenty-one years!! Thank God for MBA courses" :-S Now you know why Indian parents don't mind splurging on an MBA for their kids, even when the fees show an overtly positive correlation to global oil prices.
3. Meeting long lost relations and family friends doesn't exactly top the list of earthly pleasures for most of us. There are some exceptions of course, but most of these encounters can make you cringe inwardly, even as you prepare to face the assault with a diabetes-inducing smile plastered on your face. I mean, you just KNOW when that achayan/ammai/ammachy/uncle/aunty bears down on you all goggly-eyed and smiling and making a (ob)scene in general.
"Ente moley, nee angu valuthayi poyallo!!" (Beti, you've grown!)
Errr.... isn't that normal...esp since I hadn't even started crawling the last time you saw me??? Besides, I don't particularly appreciate the not-so-subtle references to my prospering waistline..... Hmph!
4. All those who fell for the hype and hoopla of The Monk who sold his Ferrari have obviously missed out on a verrrrry important point. Why don't you see that the Monk HAD a Ferrari to sell in the first place??
:-( Sadist...BAH!!! Go right ahead and rub it in my face....I'm still saving for a tyre to call my own. Oh, and no comments about tyres of my own making pls!! ;-P
5. You'll always have a soft corner for kids you dandle on your knee in their babyhood. No matter that they may grow, or mutate rather, into unexplained forms of pestilence a few years later.
6. Whoever predicted that "soft, curling tendrils" are THE look for our crowning glories this season obviously has a head full of poker straight hair. I'm serious. Nobody in their right mind would voluntarily put up with the pains of a head full of hairy curls of tendrils...err, curly tendrils of hair, day in and day out. Especially when the tendrils/ corkscrews have no sense of direction. I speak from personal experience. Waking up every morning looking like I was struck by lightning the previous night DOES NOT make me feel particularly hep or fashionable. Ah well, dunno if I can blame that fashionista. We've all heard that one on the vegetation being verdantly viridian on the other side.
7. Answering the question "Why an MBA?" is THE biggest farcical exercise you go through in the process of acquiring the degree. All this even before you're accepted into the course, mind! The whole process should've given me a fair idea of what I was getting into. Every coaching centre worth its salt tells you not to bull**** while answering that one. Fine, but what if I hadn't??
a) It's all about the money, honey!
b) Actually, I'm clueless. An MBA was the only thing left after I crossed out every other option.
c) Pleeeeease give me an admission....my folks will get me married otherwise.
d) I'd rather live on a farm, paint masterpieces and call the cows home everyday. But that doesn't bring in the moolah.
e) Face it. I can't rake in peanuts for another decade to get to an MBA's entry level job in my company.
f) Errr.... everybody else is doing it..right??
None of these seemed like a wise answer despite the honesty. Had this distinct sensation of stuffing both feet down my gullet when I thought of these. Therefore I am an MBA today and practising the bull**** professionally. Looking back now, I wonder how I kept a straight face while answering that question in B-school interviews. That's the scary part, I guess....I'd actually believed what I said then.
8. Why is it that the most charming, sweep-me-off-my-feet gentleman I've ever met is nearly 70 years old? Is it a reflection of declining quality standards through the decades or something? Before you jump to any theories about me being an older-man type, lemme tell you that I have nearly twenty-odd women my age agreeing with me on this. The gentleman I'm referring to was a visiting faculty at our B-school, and living proof that there's nothing like chivalry, respect and politeness to win the ladies over. Looks and physique can take a hike. Even MCP-ish views are graciously excused when they come from such people. Oh never mind. You guys may never get it at all. Gimme a man like that between the age of 25 and 30.... oh heck, make it 25 and 40, and I'll marry him blindfolded ;-)
9. I'll pro'lly live in coastal places all my life. There's something about the way the ocean captures every mood and every shade of my being, and throws it right back at me that I'll never get enough of. Nothing like its vastness to give you a very good sense of where exactly you stand and how significant you are in the scheme of things.
10. Something's seriously wrong when a person's smile doesn't reach their eyes. Age is no indicator of maturity. And you definitely have grown up in some way if you can enjoy a good, hearty belly-laugh at your expense.
Wish I practised half of what I preached.... but hey, spouting gyaan is something we MBA-types do naturally!!
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