Remember? Do you remember? Do you? Remember?
Insistent.
Constant.
Annoying.
Do you love me or do you not?
You told me once but I forgot.
Vases that give the impression of being made up by once-shattered-and-then-put-together-again-glass… With millions and zillions of veins running through them…
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.
Do you remember?
Do you?
Do…?
Too many choices…
Saturday or Sunday?
Black or white?
Turquoise Cottage or TGIF?
Train or plane?
Levi’s or Pepe?
Your place or mine?
Some choices are easier to make, than others.
Do you choose to remember, or not?
Poor Orlando! When he was betrayed by the Russian princess, he went to sleep for a week. And when he awoke, the Russian princess was a hazy recollection. And he was free once again.
Must you die for a little while in order to live again?
Must you sleep for a little while in order to forget?
Do you want to forget?
Do you need to forget?
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget
Why do you dance?
Oh. Wait.
Let me alter that.
Do you dance?
With the LIIT and the martini and the Marlboro and the madness and the melody and anyone-who-happens-to-walk-into-your-arms??
When you wake up the next morning, do you remember the night before?
Really?
And if you remember, do you want to forget?
After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
Adam and Eve fall with knowledge… Yet, somehow, “knowledge is power”… Who said that? I forget… It doesn’t really matter…
…hee spent his whole life trying to forget…
…drank away her memory…little at a time…
…never could get drunk enough…to get her off his mind…
…until the time…
Oh, that epiphanic moment!
Is it a moment, really? Or a process…
Has it ceased to matter?
Are you just a cynic tonight?
Or are you reborn, renaissance-d?
Have you found the poetry in the pain?
And are you willing to immortalize it in the landscape of your mind?
Markers of memory…
Parades and festivals and national holidays and commemorations are meant to remind us.
Do not forget.
Do not forget: your history, your people, and your family. You are made up of them.
Do not forget.
Do not.
Don’t.
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.
Gooseflesh in a tiny monument at 6:00 AM.
The strains of a song that take you back to a gushing river in the mountains.
A drink that tastes of argument.
Phrases that hold coffee-and-cigarettes-on-a-cold-winter-day.
A face on the street that tugs at your memory.
Lilac sheets that dream of bedtime stories.
Anthems that make you feel like you are part of a movement.
The fragrance of freshly mowed grass and a vision of garden treasure-hunts.
A date equated with a howling mob.
The shirt that that will unbutton the touch of betrayal.
Dimples that make you see dead Prime Ministers.
Staircases that lead to ancestral homes in faraway-small-towns.
A loud noise that rips your consciousness into the smithereens of a series of bomb blasts.
The past is past, and the past is present.
I am you, and you are me.
We have remembered, and we have forgotten.
Chronology collapses.
How long till the world will be completed?
How many times will history repeat it?
And what shall we do with this deceptive glimmer of memory?
Drink to it, he said.
Anyone for an LIIT? Or perhaps, a Margarita?
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
You're just a cynic tonight...
B.A.S.E
Don't you see the charade is over?
Do you really know her, sweetheart?
Do you really know anyone?
All the messages and the letters and the conversations in the world are not enough for you to believe you have the key to her mind. Well...maybe you do believe you know what's going on inside her head as she looks at you.
Think again.
Oh, innocence!
Haven't you figured it out yet?
This is her playground...my playground...your playground...their playground...
Don't expect life to turn into love-fest simply because the time is ripe for you to fall in love.
Integrity?
What's that??
There are the fairy tales, and the blockbusters.
But this is the real world.
This can't be happening
Too many secrets.
So perhaps you'd rather not know. At all.
All right, then. I suppose ignorance is a valid choice.
But you don't need to go looking for disaster to find you...
4:00 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, a lone piece of lingerie in an incongruous setting, a photograph someone inadvertently posted on Picasa, a glance exchanged across a table... there are a million ways in which your world can fall apart.
And it will happen, you know.
A lightning shock of tears as you realize, once and for all, that you don't really know anyone at all.
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold... and broken hallelujah
Beaded curtains.
I see something beyond them.
Smoke and glinting glasses; I can hear laughter.
Knowledge is power.
At least I will go on and have a good time tonight.
So life swirls on... and it's easy to get lost in the maze of mojitos, madness and melancholy music.
Looking for a warning sign?
Waiting for a cue?
Look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigbys of the world. Testament to the fact that sometimes, there are no signs and no cues.
You wait and wait and wait... Life passes by... BAM- you're sixty-five, solitary, still waiting...
When you get what you want
But not what you need
Every now and then, there is a... moment?
The unexpected message, the headline, the winning catch, the blog-post, the kiss, the friend, the statement...
Secrets dissolve.
Flashpoints of honesty.
Things left unsaid turn into equations. Years are wandered through. Tongues that are tied and twisted finally speak. Dragons are reborn. Promises are made, and kept.
The world sparkles, and it looks like your Broadway musical has finally taken off.
Lights will guide you home
The Caprioshkas glimmer and the sunlight shimmers.
Carpe diem.
It's the kind of moment that will keep you going...
And when crossroads are arrived at, you will remember the hysterical laughter at that table... that stunning music video they aired in 1998... that unforgettable dance... the biting mountain air on a certain morning... your feet sinking into the dewy grass... grapes soaked in honey... sputtering bonfires... the last chapter of that book... the girl staring out at you from the cover of a National Geographic... the way that certain fragrance will always remind you of a certain album...
And maybe...there won't be another Tuesday afternoon.
You're still a cynic, darling.
Just not tonight, it seems.
525,600 minutes- how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
...
How about love?
Measure in love.
p-u-r-g-e
Don't you see the charade is over?
Do you really know her, sweetheart?
Do you really know anyone?
All the messages and the letters and the conversations in the world are not enough for you to believe you have the key to her mind. Well...maybe you do believe you know what's going on inside her head as she looks at you.
Think again.
Oh, innocence!
Haven't you figured it out yet?
This is her playground...my playground...your playground...their playground...
Don't expect life to turn into love-fest simply because the time is ripe for you to fall in love.
Integrity?
What's that??
There are the fairy tales, and the blockbusters.
But this is the real world.
This can't be happening
Too many secrets.
So perhaps you'd rather not know. At all.
All right, then. I suppose ignorance is a valid choice.
But you don't need to go looking for disaster to find you...
4:00 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, a lone piece of lingerie in an incongruous setting, a photograph someone inadvertently posted on Picasa, a glance exchanged across a table... there are a million ways in which your world can fall apart.
And it will happen, you know.
A lightning shock of tears as you realize, once and for all, that you don't really know anyone at all.
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold... and broken hallelujah
Beaded curtains.
I see something beyond them.
Smoke and glinting glasses; I can hear laughter.
Knowledge is power.
At least I will go on and have a good time tonight.
So life swirls on... and it's easy to get lost in the maze of mojitos, madness and melancholy music.
Looking for a warning sign?
Waiting for a cue?
Look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigbys of the world. Testament to the fact that sometimes, there are no signs and no cues.
You wait and wait and wait... Life passes by... BAM- you're sixty-five, solitary, still waiting...
When you get what you want
But not what you need
Every now and then, there is a... moment?
The unexpected message, the headline, the winning catch, the blog-post, the kiss, the friend, the statement...
Secrets dissolve.
Flashpoints of honesty.
Things left unsaid turn into equations. Years are wandered through. Tongues that are tied and twisted finally speak. Dragons are reborn. Promises are made, and kept.
The world sparkles, and it looks like your Broadway musical has finally taken off.
Lights will guide you home
The Caprioshkas glimmer and the sunlight shimmers.
Carpe diem.
It's the kind of moment that will keep you going...
And when crossroads are arrived at, you will remember the hysterical laughter at that table... that stunning music video they aired in 1998... that unforgettable dance... the biting mountain air on a certain morning... your feet sinking into the dewy grass... grapes soaked in honey... sputtering bonfires... the last chapter of that book... the girl staring out at you from the cover of a National Geographic... the way that certain fragrance will always remind you of a certain album...
And maybe...there won't be another Tuesday afternoon.
You're still a cynic, darling.
Just not tonight, it seems.
525,600 minutes- how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
...
How about love?
Measure in love.
p-u-r-g-e
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Confusion: From the Emotional to the Chronological, and Beyond...
Take the time to make some sense
Of what you want to say
And cast your words away upon the waves
Oh… to try and start at the very beginning…
Chronology collapses.
So…which one came first? Laidback Waters? Kakoris? Which week was Shalom? And the second time? Serpico? Has it been fourteen days? Nineteen? How long ago was Hookah? Three-four-five months?
How long has this been coming? A couple of days? Months? A year? Or maybe many years…?
Who can begin to comprehend the connections that bind us and the tiniest acts that change the course of our lives…?
Because (let’s face it), it all began with Calvin and Hobbes (at least it was A beginning if not THE beginning). Lucky that I’m a fan…!
And the Butterfly Effect kicks in for all its worth.
Calvin and Hobbes… an inquiry… a tentative plan… Mocha and a millionmillion questions…
Quick addictions… endless conversations… ridiculous sleep cycles… Aladdin and rain…
A phone call. Is that a local code? Yes.
Run.
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
Silence.
Except for snatches of Coldplay, Incubus, Floyd…
My own, truly bizarre situation… I was surprised he didn’t walk away. For good.
“Coming back to Delhi? That’s great!”
Hookah.
And yes, Atlas shrugged. In some ways, more that night than any other.
Tumbling through easy conversation and too-many-drinks… Parents and movies and Islam and alcohol and stories… Collapsing onto the Laidback Waters sofa… “You’re a psycho”… Laughing so hard that we had to hold each other to not fall off…
Two statements. Intrinsically bound to each other, and intrinsically false.
I don’t do infidelity.
And marriages aren’t two week vacations.
Can’t help but wonder… who was the “weakness”? Or was it just me?
Hmmm… Anyway, shirt duly pulled down, moment effectively killed. Thank god we’ll always have that!
Bygones, as someone likes to say…
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
My pace…?
Fear.
I haven’t felt that in a long time…
Complex webs of nomenclature and explanations to curious friends. And each other!
“Will you go out with me?”
Oh well, what chance does ‘my pace’ stand against the inevitable?
Finally done with controversial terms used to describe our equation…
A love of the transience of everything. Reveling in it.
Really? Always??
Or is that transient too?
The answer's in the looking glass
There's four and twenty million doors
Down life's endless corridor
To echo the “possibility of eventuality”, yes, trying to second guess certain things is futile.
Full Circle.
The irony of it is almost Justin Timberlake-ish.
A heady acceleration and-waitaminute, where are the brakes??
Ohhh…. There aren’t any.
That explains all the freewheeling and spinning out of control…
Cheers to that, then.
As I chase the sun
Of what you want to say
And cast your words away upon the waves
Oh… to try and start at the very beginning…
Chronology collapses.
So…which one came first? Laidback Waters? Kakoris? Which week was Shalom? And the second time? Serpico? Has it been fourteen days? Nineteen? How long ago was Hookah? Three-four-five months?
How long has this been coming? A couple of days? Months? A year? Or maybe many years…?
Who can begin to comprehend the connections that bind us and the tiniest acts that change the course of our lives…?
Because (let’s face it), it all began with Calvin and Hobbes (at least it was A beginning if not THE beginning). Lucky that I’m a fan…!
And the Butterfly Effect kicks in for all its worth.
Calvin and Hobbes… an inquiry… a tentative plan… Mocha and a millionmillion questions…
Quick addictions… endless conversations… ridiculous sleep cycles… Aladdin and rain…
A phone call. Is that a local code? Yes.
Run.
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
Silence.
Except for snatches of Coldplay, Incubus, Floyd…
My own, truly bizarre situation… I was surprised he didn’t walk away. For good.
“Coming back to Delhi? That’s great!”
Hookah.
And yes, Atlas shrugged. In some ways, more that night than any other.
Tumbling through easy conversation and too-many-drinks… Parents and movies and Islam and alcohol and stories… Collapsing onto the Laidback Waters sofa… “You’re a psycho”… Laughing so hard that we had to hold each other to not fall off…
Two statements. Intrinsically bound to each other, and intrinsically false.
I don’t do infidelity.
And marriages aren’t two week vacations.
Can’t help but wonder… who was the “weakness”? Or was it just me?
Hmmm… Anyway, shirt duly pulled down, moment effectively killed. Thank god we’ll always have that!
Bygones, as someone likes to say…
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
My pace…?
Fear.
I haven’t felt that in a long time…
Complex webs of nomenclature and explanations to curious friends. And each other!
“Will you go out with me?”
Oh well, what chance does ‘my pace’ stand against the inevitable?
Finally done with controversial terms used to describe our equation…
A love of the transience of everything. Reveling in it.
Really? Always??
Or is that transient too?
The answer's in the looking glass
There's four and twenty million doors
Down life's endless corridor
To echo the “possibility of eventuality”, yes, trying to second guess certain things is futile.
Full Circle.
The irony of it is almost Justin Timberlake-ish.
A heady acceleration and-waitaminute, where are the brakes??
Ohhh…. There aren’t any.
That explains all the freewheeling and spinning out of control…
Cheers to that, then.
As I chase the sun
Thursday, August 16, 2007
5 Random Revelations
After TS tagged me last week (the week before?), here goes…
5 Random revelations:
I am a shoe-addict. At last count-ok, actually, I don’t think I’m going to write this down because if K. reads the figure he will never let me live it down!!
I despise champagne. It makes me want to throw up. Ugh.
I honestly think Sidney Sheldon’s books make for great reading.
I believe emotional stability is a habit. I’m sadly out of practice…
I live for Pink-ness.
Hmmmm..... Now that I've got that off my soul, I think I'm going to go get some tiramisu.
5 Random revelations:
I am a shoe-addict. At last count-ok, actually, I don’t think I’m going to write this down because if K. reads the figure he will never let me live it down!!
I despise champagne. It makes me want to throw up. Ugh.
I honestly think Sidney Sheldon’s books make for great reading.
I believe emotional stability is a habit. I’m sadly out of practice…
I live for Pink-ness.
Hmmmm..... Now that I've got that off my soul, I think I'm going to go get some tiramisu.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Everybody belongs somewhere.
“Everybody belongs somewhere.”
“Maybe everybody doesn’t. Maybe some people just get lost…”
“Last order guys! What will you have?”
The table is unbelievably crowded. Shot-glasses, beer bottles, mojitos, other assorted drinks, ashtrays, cigarette packs and the occasional purse.
Where were we?
I don’t even remember.
One long, alcoholic swirl.
With someone, getting with someone, getting over someone, being without someone.
Trying to be someone…??? God-knows-I’ve-read-too-many-identity-crisis-type-novels…
Bring on the tequila, then.
Do you get wasted? Unbelievably, ridiculously, unfathomably drunk??
What are you running from?
Or…maybe that’s the wrong question…
What are you running towards?
There is not much left to say.
You’ve held me together so many times. Without even knowing it.
You: my partner in crime, and in walking the dark side of the moon.
You: my strong, pure pillar of strength.
You: more my sister than my friend.
You: the Dragon.
You: with the jokes that only I will ever laugh at.
You: with love that made me truly feel ‘effortless’.
You: with the laughter and the beauty and the literature.
If there's anything to say
If there's anything to do
If there's any other way
I'll do anything for you
I don’t know what exactly it is I set out to write today. This post is going to be a terrible read… Heh.
Playing at charades…
“Hey! It’s been a while!”
“Yeah… Where did I see you last…? Agni, right?” (Actually, I saw you at Climax two weeks ago. But I want you to remember, and I want you to say it.)
“Yes, that must have been it.” (Tsk. I’ve been playing this game longer than you, sweetheart. I know you know that we met at Climax two weeks ago, and I’m not going to correct you. I’m a nonchalance-expert! You lose.)
“Ah. Right. Well. I’ll see you around then? Maybe we’ll catch up later at Elevate..?” (Bitch. Lose that guy on your arm though, and then bumping into you might actually be fruitful)
“Hopefully! Ta!” (In your dreams. You lose. Again.)
Hmmm… It gets a just a leeeetle bit tiring after a while.
Thankfully, I’ve partied a lot with many different categories of crowds these past few years. And many of them are: more fun, fewer games… Less Delhi, if you know what I mean.
I’m still exhausted though…
Even in bits and pieces…it is going to take its toll…
The plan was supposed to be sheesha and restraint, wasn’t it darling? But then…things have a way of happening with us, don’t they?
Oh, well. We shall see…
Is there some idea
To replace my life?
“Maybe everybody doesn’t. Maybe some people just get lost…”
“Last order guys! What will you have?”
The table is unbelievably crowded. Shot-glasses, beer bottles, mojitos, other assorted drinks, ashtrays, cigarette packs and the occasional purse.
Where were we?
I don’t even remember.
One long, alcoholic swirl.
With someone, getting with someone, getting over someone, being without someone.
Trying to be someone…??? God-knows-I’ve-read-too-many-identity-crisis-type-novels…
Bring on the tequila, then.
Do you get wasted? Unbelievably, ridiculously, unfathomably drunk??
What are you running from?
Or…maybe that’s the wrong question…
What are you running towards?
There is not much left to say.
You’ve held me together so many times. Without even knowing it.
You: my partner in crime, and in walking the dark side of the moon.
You: my strong, pure pillar of strength.
You: more my sister than my friend.
You: the Dragon.
You: with the jokes that only I will ever laugh at.
You: with love that made me truly feel ‘effortless’.
You: with the laughter and the beauty and the literature.
If there's anything to say
If there's anything to do
If there's any other way
I'll do anything for you
I don’t know what exactly it is I set out to write today. This post is going to be a terrible read… Heh.
Playing at charades…
“Hey! It’s been a while!”
“Yeah… Where did I see you last…? Agni, right?” (Actually, I saw you at Climax two weeks ago. But I want you to remember, and I want you to say it.)
“Yes, that must have been it.” (Tsk. I’ve been playing this game longer than you, sweetheart. I know you know that we met at Climax two weeks ago, and I’m not going to correct you. I’m a nonchalance-expert! You lose.)
“Ah. Right. Well. I’ll see you around then? Maybe we’ll catch up later at Elevate..?” (Bitch. Lose that guy on your arm though, and then bumping into you might actually be fruitful)
“Hopefully! Ta!” (In your dreams. You lose. Again.)
Hmmm… It gets a just a leeeetle bit tiring after a while.
Thankfully, I’ve partied a lot with many different categories of crowds these past few years. And many of them are: more fun, fewer games… Less Delhi, if you know what I mean.
I’m still exhausted though…
Even in bits and pieces…it is going to take its toll…
The plan was supposed to be sheesha and restraint, wasn’t it darling? But then…things have a way of happening with us, don’t they?
Oh, well. We shall see…
Is there some idea
To replace my life?
Monday, July 30, 2007
Hide and Seek- the Last
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
“Who was driving?”
The universe skipped a heartbeat. The skies spun in agony. The mountains lay heavy with grief.
For a moment, the players felt their souls contract…an involuntary twitch of the eye…a sudden desire to scream…an inexplicable clench of the fist…a wish to collapse. When one of the naturals leaves us, we all feel it. Even if we do not know.
And then... she was on her way.
She checked into a nearby inn first. Anything to postpone the moment when she would go and see him. Alone. And now she looked down at the pine needles and wondered whether she could even build those walls again… well, of course she could! A few days cannot change that much… can they? She did not owe them anything. She could leave enough money at the clinic to make sure they did all they could, and go back to Delhi, to her work, to her safe life. Even as she thought it, she knew she would never be able to leave without seeing him. And she knew she had lost…
A clinic.
A door.
A room.
A bed.
A broken man.
He lay there, unconscious, and she was defeated by her own love. She stayed there for hours, just sitting. She did not look at him. She did not cry. She simply stayed.
The caretaker had accompanied her. He was the one who made arrangements for the funeral. She told him that there was no one they needed to contact immediately. The older man had told her that his wife had walked out on them years ago and they had had no word from her ever since. The two of them had spoken proudly about how self-sufficient they were as a unit, with no family to speak of, in the country. She and the caretaker attended the funeral and she carried the ashes back to her room in an earthen pot that the cremation ground authorities had given her.
He woke up two days later. They did not have to tell him. He already knew. He held her hand and had the bland soup concocted by the clinic’s cook without a fuss. She asked him no questions, and he gave her no answers. The next morning brought her tears. She cried over her breakfast, and went for a walk. She did not want him to see her red-rimmed eyes. By the time she reached him it was early afternoon. That evening, he sent her back early, saying he was tired. He did not want her to see him cry. She went without a murmur. She had sensed tears all day, and thought they were her own. When he requested an early night, she realized they were his.
Neither of them seemed to be able to bring up the death that lay like a heavy fog over them in their waking hours. They would clasp their hands together and spend their time quietly. She rationalized the lack of conversation, reassuring herself that they were healing through silence, and through touch.
A few days and many walks later, the doctor had a few words with her, “You need to cheer him up a bit. He’s physically quite all right now but he’s still very depressed. Some music, some books maybe…”
The doctor had noticed something about his patient that she had not. He was not healing at all. He was wasting away in the silence.
He awoke to Fool’s Garden the next morning.
"I wonder how, I wonder why
Yesterday you told me about the blue, blue sky
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon tree"
He groaned, “That’s the most meaningless song in the world. You’ve given me a headache early in the morning, thanks a ton.”
“What? I love this song! It’s such a classic.”
“Crap. What is it even supposed to mean? ‘All that I can see is just another lemon tree.’ How pointless.”
“That’s the point, silly. The absurdity of life and all of that.”
He laughed, “I’m sure that’s the last thing they were thinking about when they wrote the song. Germans should stick to beer. They were probably sloshed when they came up with these lyrics anyway.”
It was the first time he had laughed in the week that he had been conscious. She had not expected success so easily. Just goes to show, she thought wryly, how we complicate matters far more than we need to. She laughed at his grimaces, and let the song play till the end. Then she opened the newspaper. “We’ve been cocooned in here way too long, right?” And she read out articles that she thought would interest him. Politics, the latest movies, George Bush’s latest antics, a new study that ‘revealed’ that loud noises are distracting (“like you need a billion dollar grant to figure that out...these Americans are crazy!”), the Balkan situation, Indo-Chinese bilateral trade agreements… After lunch, they both rested a while. Come evening and she popped in an album of Punjabi remixes and imitated one of the singers right down to the last detail. He laughed till he was exhausted, and she went back to the guesthouse still humming the catchy tune.
She took the urn to him a few days later. He held it in his hands as he lay on the bed. He stared out of the window for a few minutes and then put the urn down next to the bed. They held each other and he wept as she stroked his hair, saying nothing. He cried for a long time and she felt him trembling with the loss.
Then they talked. They celebrated his life, and they grieved his passing. They were angry at the unfairness of it all, and they were reconciled to the unpredictability of events. They missed his presence, and they felt his presence. They cried at losing him, and they laughed with his memories. They asked destiny a thousand questions, and they made their peace with kismat.
She took him back to the guesthouse a few days later. They sat on the porch till late that night, drinking their wine and looking at the clear sky.
The taxi to Delhi arrived the next morning. The caretaker blessed them both and she was grateful. Gusts of wind whipped her short hair around as they loaded their suitcases into the boot. She looked around one last time, before getting into the car. As she saw the guesthouse and the old caretaker, and the densely vegetated landscape that surrounded them, she felt an ache so strong that it was almost physically palpable. She felt vulnerable once again, frail in the face of the mighty mountains and the fierce wind.
And she laughed. Because she knew she had won.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
“Who was driving?”
The universe skipped a heartbeat. The skies spun in agony. The mountains lay heavy with grief.
For a moment, the players felt their souls contract…an involuntary twitch of the eye…a sudden desire to scream…an inexplicable clench of the fist…a wish to collapse. When one of the naturals leaves us, we all feel it. Even if we do not know.
And then... she was on her way.
She checked into a nearby inn first. Anything to postpone the moment when she would go and see him. Alone. And now she looked down at the pine needles and wondered whether she could even build those walls again… well, of course she could! A few days cannot change that much… can they? She did not owe them anything. She could leave enough money at the clinic to make sure they did all they could, and go back to Delhi, to her work, to her safe life. Even as she thought it, she knew she would never be able to leave without seeing him. And she knew she had lost…
A clinic.
A door.
A room.
A bed.
A broken man.
He lay there, unconscious, and she was defeated by her own love. She stayed there for hours, just sitting. She did not look at him. She did not cry. She simply stayed.
The caretaker had accompanied her. He was the one who made arrangements for the funeral. She told him that there was no one they needed to contact immediately. The older man had told her that his wife had walked out on them years ago and they had had no word from her ever since. The two of them had spoken proudly about how self-sufficient they were as a unit, with no family to speak of, in the country. She and the caretaker attended the funeral and she carried the ashes back to her room in an earthen pot that the cremation ground authorities had given her.
He woke up two days later. They did not have to tell him. He already knew. He held her hand and had the bland soup concocted by the clinic’s cook without a fuss. She asked him no questions, and he gave her no answers. The next morning brought her tears. She cried over her breakfast, and went for a walk. She did not want him to see her red-rimmed eyes. By the time she reached him it was early afternoon. That evening, he sent her back early, saying he was tired. He did not want her to see him cry. She went without a murmur. She had sensed tears all day, and thought they were her own. When he requested an early night, she realized they were his.
Neither of them seemed to be able to bring up the death that lay like a heavy fog over them in their waking hours. They would clasp their hands together and spend their time quietly. She rationalized the lack of conversation, reassuring herself that they were healing through silence, and through touch.
A few days and many walks later, the doctor had a few words with her, “You need to cheer him up a bit. He’s physically quite all right now but he’s still very depressed. Some music, some books maybe…”
The doctor had noticed something about his patient that she had not. He was not healing at all. He was wasting away in the silence.
He awoke to Fool’s Garden the next morning.
"I wonder how, I wonder why
Yesterday you told me about the blue, blue sky
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon tree"
He groaned, “That’s the most meaningless song in the world. You’ve given me a headache early in the morning, thanks a ton.”
“What? I love this song! It’s such a classic.”
“Crap. What is it even supposed to mean? ‘All that I can see is just another lemon tree.’ How pointless.”
“That’s the point, silly. The absurdity of life and all of that.”
He laughed, “I’m sure that’s the last thing they were thinking about when they wrote the song. Germans should stick to beer. They were probably sloshed when they came up with these lyrics anyway.”
It was the first time he had laughed in the week that he had been conscious. She had not expected success so easily. Just goes to show, she thought wryly, how we complicate matters far more than we need to. She laughed at his grimaces, and let the song play till the end. Then she opened the newspaper. “We’ve been cocooned in here way too long, right?” And she read out articles that she thought would interest him. Politics, the latest movies, George Bush’s latest antics, a new study that ‘revealed’ that loud noises are distracting (“like you need a billion dollar grant to figure that out...these Americans are crazy!”), the Balkan situation, Indo-Chinese bilateral trade agreements… After lunch, they both rested a while. Come evening and she popped in an album of Punjabi remixes and imitated one of the singers right down to the last detail. He laughed till he was exhausted, and she went back to the guesthouse still humming the catchy tune.
She took the urn to him a few days later. He held it in his hands as he lay on the bed. He stared out of the window for a few minutes and then put the urn down next to the bed. They held each other and he wept as she stroked his hair, saying nothing. He cried for a long time and she felt him trembling with the loss.
Then they talked. They celebrated his life, and they grieved his passing. They were angry at the unfairness of it all, and they were reconciled to the unpredictability of events. They missed his presence, and they felt his presence. They cried at losing him, and they laughed with his memories. They asked destiny a thousand questions, and they made their peace with kismat.
She took him back to the guesthouse a few days later. They sat on the porch till late that night, drinking their wine and looking at the clear sky.
The taxi to Delhi arrived the next morning. The caretaker blessed them both and she was grateful. Gusts of wind whipped her short hair around as they loaded their suitcases into the boot. She looked around one last time, before getting into the car. As she saw the guesthouse and the old caretaker, and the densely vegetated landscape that surrounded them, she felt an ache so strong that it was almost physically palpable. She felt vulnerable once again, frail in the face of the mighty mountains and the fierce wind.
And she laughed. Because she knew she had won.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Hide and Seek- the Third
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Now, she pushed herself up, trying to find traces of that day in the air, breathing in purposefully. In vain. The harsh afternoon sunrays hurt her eyes when she tried to look up at the clear skies. She bent her head forward to shelter behind the curtain of her long, straight hair. But no reassuring curtain fell in front of her eyes. Of course. They had robbed her of that as well…
“You should cut your hair.” the younger man was lounging on the bed in her room. He twinkled at her mischievously, almost looking like a boy.
“No.” she said firmly, well aware of the fact that he was well aware of the fact that she had hair- tampering phobia.
“Seriously!” he said, “It will give you a whole new look. Come on! You know it’s a silly, baseless fear. Why not?”
“Ha!” she said, for lack of a better retort.
“Couldn’t think of anything else to say, na?” he said knowingly.
She threw a cushion at him, “Certainly not. I don’t need to justify my reservations to you anyway. So give it up!”
He threw the cushion back at her, “Hey dad, help me convince her!”
“Sort it out kids.” his father said distractedly, absorbed in the book he was reading.
“Kids!?” the two of them shrieked and two cushions flew towards the offender.
“Ouch! What?” and he looked up, annoyed.
“Hey dad give her a haircut” and “Your worthless offspring is irritating me” were said simultaneously.
She turned to the younger man, “Did you just ask your father to cut my hair?”
He spoke at the same time, “Did you just call me worthless?”
“All right, break it up,” the older man put his book away, “yes, she did call you worthless, my progeny, as you undoubtedly are. And yes, I am going to cut your hair.”
Outrage from both sectors at this controversial statement. She started to giggle soon enough till she realized he was serious about his intentions regarding her hair.
“You don’t even know how to! What are you, a CEO who works weekends at the local parlour?”
“Don’t be daft. I was in the army.”
“The army?” incredulously.
“Yes, in addition to my military duties, I gave about a hundred haircuts a month. My own unit."
“Where did you serve? And how come you’re out now? You’re not old enough to have 'retired with distinction…' ”
“Israeli Army. Gulf War.”
“What?! But you’re Indian!”
“Yes… I was working there actually. When the Gulf War began, the government resorted to emergency recruitment. Almost all foreigners working in the country had to sign up. I signed up before they forced me to. I managed to get back to India a while after the war began. Managed to see a considerable amount of fighting before I left though.”
“But-but-“ she spluttered. Then she stopped short; a sneaking suspicion that he was joking occurred to her. She studied his face- he was dead serious. No, he was not fooling her. “But that’s ridiculous.” she finished weakly.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was not even your war. Not even your country!”
“Yes. Though I wonder if that would have made it considerably better.”
She paused, thinking about that and the ex-soldier’s son took the opportunity to stick his head out of the window and shout for a pair of scissors, which were promptly delivered by the gnarly caretaker. Her attention came back to the matter at hand.
“No haircut!” she squealed.
“Yes haircut. You need a new look young lady. Do not argue with your elders.” his mock anger was totally ineffective.
“I’m not some Israeli soldier! I’m a woman! In Delhi! In peacetime!!”
“I gave haircuts to a couple of women too. There are women in the Israeli army too you know. And trust me, you don’t trifle with the tresses of women who have loaded guns on them. Since I am alive and well, you can safely assume that my handiwork was not too bad. Not bad at all, if I may say so myself.” and he gave them a little bow.
A last ditch attempt to run out of her room…the doorway was blocked by the younger man…
That was how she wound up sitting in a chair an hour later, feeling naked. There were huge clumps of lifeless hair lying all around her on the floor.
Long, apprehensive space of time between the moment the last strand fell, and her personal moment of reckoning. Persuasion and flattery finally worked their charm and she stood before the mirror. Almost elfish. An intruder from Middle Earth. She turned her face, first one way, then another. Examining the angles of her face, her cheekbones. Her small ears! The long hair had been part of her for so long that she could not recollect the last time she had looked at her ears. They were quite pretty really. Perhaps a pair of diamond studs…
“Not bad.” she told the triumphant hairdresser, smiling happily.
“A toast to your new look, what say?”, this from the one who had started it all.
She said yes.
They drove down to the marketplace and picked up beer and ships. Father and son had had the foresight to bring red wine along with them, from Delhi. Goan red wine. She had had that wine in Goa, long ago, in another lifetime. And as she tasted it again that night, she tasted the other, long-ago nights infused with the crashing of waves and the swaying palm trees and she wanted to cry. But she did not. Instead, she laughed and opened a packet of Classic-Salted chips.
A couple of drinks later the ambience was pleasantly companionable. When the caretaker entered with the dinner they had ordered, the older man requested him to sing them something. “I heard you singing the other morning as you were making the beds. I have wanted to hear you again ever since. Please do oblige us.”
His son added that they would love to hear him, and she threw in an entreating “Please!”
The worn caretaker sat down on the floor, obligingly. He thought for a few minutes, probably going over the repertoire of songs in his head, selecting a suitable one. She thought abstractedly about how gracefully the older man had put across his wish. She had often winced when tactless friends had asked locals to perform (yes, it was like performing.) for them during trips many years ago. Like they were specimens or something. Really, she had thought back then, that urban Indians were as bad as the ignorant Americans who loudmouthed their way into the country and expected to find elephants on Delhi’s main roads, and snake charmers in Mumbai’s high-rises. But this, this was different- the CEO wanted to listen, not click a photograph and stash it in an album to be shown to all and sundry. And it showed.
So when the old man sang, he sang for someone who was truly listening.
That showed too.
She had often wondered what people meant when they said music took them to ‘a different world’. “I’m transported.” Her sister used to say whenever she listened to Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The caretaker’s rendition of the hilly folk song helped her to understand. She was not ‘transported’. But she was swept up with the notes that flowed from one line to the next, that tripped from stanza to stanza. It was a local song, probably. She could not slot it. It was not racy, but it was not slow either. Cheerful yes, but tragic too. Simple yes, but with a peculiar inflection in the voice. And intense. Wholly and completely absorbed in its own existence. The man sang and it was like the whole universe was just a singing man and an audience of three.
Was he singing of life? Death? What lies after? Love? Pain? Jealousy? Crops? Mountains? Family? Goats? Electricity? Shops?
It did not matter. She listened, and for that short period, she was totally and wonderfully aware- of the brilliant masterplan that governed all existence in its merry chaos.
She simply was.
“Thank you.” this softly, from the young man when the last word (word? Was it in a real language then? It had seemed transcendental) faded away. And the wrinkled person bowed his head in acknowledgement, and left the room. A trance like state (maybe she was just drunk…she did not think so though…). A few moments of silence as drinks were reclaimed and the experience was stored. But not to be relegated to the depths of oblivion. The shelves had glass doors, and you could look inside whenever you wanted.
Followed by ghazals. AR Rahman. The Beatles. Britney Spears’ ‘Oops’ (and she rediscovered her talent as a mimic…the last time she had used that had probably been back in College…Mr. Sharma’s desperate attempts to flirt with his prettiest student). Michael Jackson’s ‘Heal the World’. Ghalib. The older man’s laughable try at the moonwalk. They all cracked up at that and their laughter must have echoed deep and far in the valley that night. The wonderment spread its wings and leapt off the peak.
A comfortable exhaustion after a while. The older man excused himself, “I’m getting old. I need my sleep.” he yawned. Left.
Then it was just the two of them. Glimmering intimacy. They moved out into the porch. Pitch black night and a zillion stars in the sky. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Strains of music in her head. His hand strayed towards hers. The clasp brought fireworks in her soul and the last pillar lay in the dust, reduced to nothing.
Epiphany.
She found herself in the contours of his body. The chilly air pierced their beings, and their love warmed the mountainside. And they were one. With each other. With the wind. With the mountainside. No whispering, no murmuring…a complete and absolute silence that shook the world and she trembled with it. Treasuring the moment and letting it seep into every fibre. The universe exploded, and she was as free as the wind itself.
Later, a deep sleep in her room while they held each other hostage in their mutual embrace.
Still later, he got up and kissed her goodbye. He and his father were going to a nearby hill station for the day. To take photographs of the famous scenic forests there. She had declined to go; it would be nice for them to have some time together. And she wanted to finish her book too. He said they would be back in the evening. She smiled mistily at him, and went back to sleep once he had left. She got up only at lunchtime.
They were not back in the evening. Or at night. She was worried sick by midnight and the caretaker had to give her a talking-to before she realized that it was impossible to get to the forests until tomorrow morning. She tossed and turned for hours before drowning into troubled dreams. When she awoke the next morning, the old man was waiting outside her door. The morning greeted her with the news of death.
A wreck on the winding pot-holed road on the way to the forest. Their jeep mangled with a Maruti Van. Both drivers died instantly. The Maruti had no other passengers. The second occupant of the Jeep was critically injured and lay in a nearby clinic.
“Who was driving?”
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Now, she pushed herself up, trying to find traces of that day in the air, breathing in purposefully. In vain. The harsh afternoon sunrays hurt her eyes when she tried to look up at the clear skies. She bent her head forward to shelter behind the curtain of her long, straight hair. But no reassuring curtain fell in front of her eyes. Of course. They had robbed her of that as well…
“You should cut your hair.” the younger man was lounging on the bed in her room. He twinkled at her mischievously, almost looking like a boy.
“No.” she said firmly, well aware of the fact that he was well aware of the fact that she had hair- tampering phobia.
“Seriously!” he said, “It will give you a whole new look. Come on! You know it’s a silly, baseless fear. Why not?”
“Ha!” she said, for lack of a better retort.
“Couldn’t think of anything else to say, na?” he said knowingly.
She threw a cushion at him, “Certainly not. I don’t need to justify my reservations to you anyway. So give it up!”
He threw the cushion back at her, “Hey dad, help me convince her!”
“Sort it out kids.” his father said distractedly, absorbed in the book he was reading.
“Kids!?” the two of them shrieked and two cushions flew towards the offender.
“Ouch! What?” and he looked up, annoyed.
“Hey dad give her a haircut” and “Your worthless offspring is irritating me” were said simultaneously.
She turned to the younger man, “Did you just ask your father to cut my hair?”
He spoke at the same time, “Did you just call me worthless?”
“All right, break it up,” the older man put his book away, “yes, she did call you worthless, my progeny, as you undoubtedly are. And yes, I am going to cut your hair.”
Outrage from both sectors at this controversial statement. She started to giggle soon enough till she realized he was serious about his intentions regarding her hair.
“You don’t even know how to! What are you, a CEO who works weekends at the local parlour?”
“Don’t be daft. I was in the army.”
“The army?” incredulously.
“Yes, in addition to my military duties, I gave about a hundred haircuts a month. My own unit."
“Where did you serve? And how come you’re out now? You’re not old enough to have 'retired with distinction…' ”
“Israeli Army. Gulf War.”
“What?! But you’re Indian!”
“Yes… I was working there actually. When the Gulf War began, the government resorted to emergency recruitment. Almost all foreigners working in the country had to sign up. I signed up before they forced me to. I managed to get back to India a while after the war began. Managed to see a considerable amount of fighting before I left though.”
“But-but-“ she spluttered. Then she stopped short; a sneaking suspicion that he was joking occurred to her. She studied his face- he was dead serious. No, he was not fooling her. “But that’s ridiculous.” she finished weakly.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was not even your war. Not even your country!”
“Yes. Though I wonder if that would have made it considerably better.”
She paused, thinking about that and the ex-soldier’s son took the opportunity to stick his head out of the window and shout for a pair of scissors, which were promptly delivered by the gnarly caretaker. Her attention came back to the matter at hand.
“No haircut!” she squealed.
“Yes haircut. You need a new look young lady. Do not argue with your elders.” his mock anger was totally ineffective.
“I’m not some Israeli soldier! I’m a woman! In Delhi! In peacetime!!”
“I gave haircuts to a couple of women too. There are women in the Israeli army too you know. And trust me, you don’t trifle with the tresses of women who have loaded guns on them. Since I am alive and well, you can safely assume that my handiwork was not too bad. Not bad at all, if I may say so myself.” and he gave them a little bow.
A last ditch attempt to run out of her room…the doorway was blocked by the younger man…
That was how she wound up sitting in a chair an hour later, feeling naked. There were huge clumps of lifeless hair lying all around her on the floor.
Long, apprehensive space of time between the moment the last strand fell, and her personal moment of reckoning. Persuasion and flattery finally worked their charm and she stood before the mirror. Almost elfish. An intruder from Middle Earth. She turned her face, first one way, then another. Examining the angles of her face, her cheekbones. Her small ears! The long hair had been part of her for so long that she could not recollect the last time she had looked at her ears. They were quite pretty really. Perhaps a pair of diamond studs…
“Not bad.” she told the triumphant hairdresser, smiling happily.
“A toast to your new look, what say?”, this from the one who had started it all.
She said yes.
They drove down to the marketplace and picked up beer and ships. Father and son had had the foresight to bring red wine along with them, from Delhi. Goan red wine. She had had that wine in Goa, long ago, in another lifetime. And as she tasted it again that night, she tasted the other, long-ago nights infused with the crashing of waves and the swaying palm trees and she wanted to cry. But she did not. Instead, she laughed and opened a packet of Classic-Salted chips.
A couple of drinks later the ambience was pleasantly companionable. When the caretaker entered with the dinner they had ordered, the older man requested him to sing them something. “I heard you singing the other morning as you were making the beds. I have wanted to hear you again ever since. Please do oblige us.”
His son added that they would love to hear him, and she threw in an entreating “Please!”
The worn caretaker sat down on the floor, obligingly. He thought for a few minutes, probably going over the repertoire of songs in his head, selecting a suitable one. She thought abstractedly about how gracefully the older man had put across his wish. She had often winced when tactless friends had asked locals to perform (yes, it was like performing.) for them during trips many years ago. Like they were specimens or something. Really, she had thought back then, that urban Indians were as bad as the ignorant Americans who loudmouthed their way into the country and expected to find elephants on Delhi’s main roads, and snake charmers in Mumbai’s high-rises. But this, this was different- the CEO wanted to listen, not click a photograph and stash it in an album to be shown to all and sundry. And it showed.
So when the old man sang, he sang for someone who was truly listening.
That showed too.
She had often wondered what people meant when they said music took them to ‘a different world’. “I’m transported.” Her sister used to say whenever she listened to Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The caretaker’s rendition of the hilly folk song helped her to understand. She was not ‘transported’. But she was swept up with the notes that flowed from one line to the next, that tripped from stanza to stanza. It was a local song, probably. She could not slot it. It was not racy, but it was not slow either. Cheerful yes, but tragic too. Simple yes, but with a peculiar inflection in the voice. And intense. Wholly and completely absorbed in its own existence. The man sang and it was like the whole universe was just a singing man and an audience of three.
Was he singing of life? Death? What lies after? Love? Pain? Jealousy? Crops? Mountains? Family? Goats? Electricity? Shops?
It did not matter. She listened, and for that short period, she was totally and wonderfully aware- of the brilliant masterplan that governed all existence in its merry chaos.
She simply was.
“Thank you.” this softly, from the young man when the last word (word? Was it in a real language then? It had seemed transcendental) faded away. And the wrinkled person bowed his head in acknowledgement, and left the room. A trance like state (maybe she was just drunk…she did not think so though…). A few moments of silence as drinks were reclaimed and the experience was stored. But not to be relegated to the depths of oblivion. The shelves had glass doors, and you could look inside whenever you wanted.
Followed by ghazals. AR Rahman. The Beatles. Britney Spears’ ‘Oops’ (and she rediscovered her talent as a mimic…the last time she had used that had probably been back in College…Mr. Sharma’s desperate attempts to flirt with his prettiest student). Michael Jackson’s ‘Heal the World’. Ghalib. The older man’s laughable try at the moonwalk. They all cracked up at that and their laughter must have echoed deep and far in the valley that night. The wonderment spread its wings and leapt off the peak.
A comfortable exhaustion after a while. The older man excused himself, “I’m getting old. I need my sleep.” he yawned. Left.
Then it was just the two of them. Glimmering intimacy. They moved out into the porch. Pitch black night and a zillion stars in the sky. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Strains of music in her head. His hand strayed towards hers. The clasp brought fireworks in her soul and the last pillar lay in the dust, reduced to nothing.
Epiphany.
She found herself in the contours of his body. The chilly air pierced their beings, and their love warmed the mountainside. And they were one. With each other. With the wind. With the mountainside. No whispering, no murmuring…a complete and absolute silence that shook the world and she trembled with it. Treasuring the moment and letting it seep into every fibre. The universe exploded, and she was as free as the wind itself.
Later, a deep sleep in her room while they held each other hostage in their mutual embrace.
Still later, he got up and kissed her goodbye. He and his father were going to a nearby hill station for the day. To take photographs of the famous scenic forests there. She had declined to go; it would be nice for them to have some time together. And she wanted to finish her book too. He said they would be back in the evening. She smiled mistily at him, and went back to sleep once he had left. She got up only at lunchtime.
They were not back in the evening. Or at night. She was worried sick by midnight and the caretaker had to give her a talking-to before she realized that it was impossible to get to the forests until tomorrow morning. She tossed and turned for hours before drowning into troubled dreams. When she awoke the next morning, the old man was waiting outside her door. The morning greeted her with the news of death.
A wreck on the winding pot-holed road on the way to the forest. Their jeep mangled with a Maruti Van. Both drivers died instantly. The Maruti had no other passengers. The second occupant of the Jeep was critically injured and lay in a nearby clinic.
“Who was driving?”
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Hide and Seek- the Second
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
She had told herself that she would stop by their room and converse long enough to confirm their academic professions and then return to her book. When the younger man opened the door, he looked comfortably rumpled. She stared for a few seconds and then tugged her gaze away, embarrassed. It was such an odd unfamiliar sight! A man wearing his nightclothes; she could not recall the last time she had seen a man with his hair like that-sleep tossed!
As it turned out, they were not in the academic field. Neither were they artists or photographers. The father was the CEO of a company that had recently launched a new 24-hour news channel that claimed to be comprehensive and international in the true sense. Bilingual anchors. News from around the world, with an emphasis on Indian events. More than one version of the news.
“Garbled!” an acquaintance had labeled it, “How can they tell us that the Tokyo bomb blast were the work of Islamic fundamentalists, and then the very next minute spout some conspiracy theory bullshit about a local hairstylist being behind it?” She had agreed at the time. Sure, there were two sides to every story. But news coverage could simply not function like that. Why, there would be chaos! No one would know what to believe anymore.
Now however…well, she did not know what to believe anymore! The older man had told her about his work as the two of them sat having tea on the porch outside. The younger man was inside, getting dressed. Five minutes flowed into ten..into fifteen..twenty. And she still did not feel like getting up. The younger man joined them. He was a graphics designer. He freelanced; edited movies sometimes. Mainly parallel cinema projects. Though he had worked on a Shahrukh-Kajol starrer once. “Much better money than Nagesh Kukkunoor could ever pay me!” he chuckled.
“But…isn’t that like compromising your-” she searched for a word and came up with nothing better than “-craft?”
He looked at her searchingly. “Is it?” he asked softly.
She was at a loss for words. He must be offended. Of course he was. Such a personal question. What was she thinking? She had gotten carried away by the camaraderie and blurted out what she was thinking. “I’m sorry. I had no business to ask you that.” She mumbled.
“Why not? Don’t look so apologetic for Christ’s sake. I was just asking you why you thought that. Okay, I don’t see it as a compromise because I enjoy working on both kinds of projects. Certainly, I believe much more in a movie that’s not one big fantasy fiesta. But there’s nothing wrong with an out and out entertainer either. And like I said, it pays. Literally. I need to do a college romance type of movie every now and then, so that I can work on projects that are not lucrative but are definitely interesting.”
She understood what he was saying. He would not work for a movie that endorsed Nazism for sure-because he would be against that. But harmless entertainment was just that-harmless fun. No compromise involved. No clash of principles and all that jazz. Suddenly, she was confused. She had categorized them as pseudo-intellectuals. That did not seem to apply anymore. They were too eclectic to classify. And in that moment she gave up trying to classify them. Forever.
The older man enjoyed photography. Hence the destination with the breathtaking view. “I don’t care much for the view. Everything looks the same after five minutes. I did think a couple of days with Dad away from the city would be nice though. And here we are!” his son told her.
Breakfast. Then a visit to a nearby chapel. A short but steep walk. Beautiful, old stained glass windows. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews. And a priest! In a back of beyond Himalayan settlement! Lunch at the priest’s house. Roast chicken and potatoes. Surreal. A return to the guesthouse.
The three of them were too exhausted to go out anywhere for dinner so the older man requested the caretaker to organize dinner. “Whatever is available. Keep it simple.”
They were on the porch once again. Eating aloo paranthas sizzling with butter. In silence, with their shawls wrapped around them because the night air was chilly. The night melted into dawn, which brightened to noon and faded into twilight. A weekend turned into a few days and she spent most of her time with them…
Now, the whiff of pinecones crept up on her again as she tried to remember what the paranthas had tasted like. She could barely remember what it felt like to be hungry, what food tasted like. She had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Food! As if she would ever be able to think about it again. It seemed so trivial, compared with the fact that she had lost everything she had ever wanted to find…
Her mind took her back to the afternoon under the pine trees, in the woods just behind the guesthouse. The heady smell of pine needles filled the air. It was almost potent.
Amusing stories were being exchanged. She related an incident she had to dig out from the recesses of her hoarder memory. Her brain was like her nana’s trunks of clothes. Everything went in, but nothing was ever taken out to air or share. So it was hard. Her sentences were stilted at first. When she reached the part about getting her head stuck in the window grill, the two men burst out laughing. The rest of the story tumbled out easily- hysterical father, fire engines, electric saws, and an everlasting fear of putting her head through small openings.
Father and son regaled her with stories from the entertainment industry. Like the photographer who had an assignment for a photo-shoot with Amitabh Bacchan and told the superstar, “Now, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it! And you’ll look just fine, not to worry.” She cracked up at that one.
And about the colony where the son had an apartment, where Art of Living was the latest craze. He mimicked the advertiser who lived upstairs, and had enrolled for a course. He had talked about nothing but ‘the Universal Eye’ and ‘cleansing the soul’ for months afterwards. He had also taken to explaining the ‘Twenty Step Program to Inner Peace’ to anyone who was willing to listen. “An advertising guy through and through!” the older man guffawed. Then there was the couple on the ground floor that felt their children would benefit from the spiritual enrichment the programme offered. The children’s ages were yet to hit double digits…
She grinned, amused, but felt obliged to say something in favour of Sri Sri Ravishankar’s brainchild. “Well yes. It’s funny when people take the whole concept to such extremes. But come on, it has helped a lot of people, hasn’t it? It can’t all be a load of hogwash.”
“Of course it is. ‘Hold your partner’s hand and cry and all your problems will be solved.’ Ha! As if years and years of pent-up pain and sorrow can be released during one sobbing session. It’s temporary relief. Art of Living is no better than a quick fix at the local massage parlour. A transient high.” The younger man said with biting conviction.
Suddenly, she was angry. She had felt like they had been telling her not to make judgements these past few days-by setting an example of sympathetic objectivity. Then what was this? A balanced perspective? They were as hypocritical as anyone else was. Pots calling a kettle black. She retreated into herself and said icily, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because you’re irreligious or an atheist or whatever doesn’t mean all spirituality is fake and pretentious. I happen to know people who have discovered life all over again through Art of Living and other courses like that. Sure, once it becomes a fad it’s harder to see it as a holy, moving experience. But it is really stupid of you to run it down completely. It’s a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours with a sex-worker.” and she stopped, breathless.
“Is it?” skeptically.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you gone and discovered life again through it? Not exactly passionate about your existence, are you?”
She was stunned into silence. Oh, the impertinence! She stood up and walked off into the forest behind her. More like stomped off actually. How, how, how could he ask her a question like that? Like it was any of his bloody business. Presumptuous man! He though himself so much superior to her. But he was just another cynic. Funny, she had always thought of herself as cynical. He made her seem almost naïve by comparison! She knew she was not being naïve though. Her sister had gotten over her child’s death, largely because she did a ten-day Vipasana programme. Ten days of living in silence in an ashram. The heartbroken woman had found solace in it, and had come to terms with her loss. She did not come back home ready to laugh at sitcoms again- no, it certainly did not work like that. But she was at peace. Ready to pick up the threads again, with some idea of a pattern in mind. And this man had just thrown that beautiful, healing experience into filth.
She had stopped to think just a few minutes away from the clearing where they had been sitting. She stood there now, and thought about his question. Not that he had any right to ask her that. Still…she could answer it to herself. She did not enjoy her life, or leap enthusiastically out of bed to greet a new day each morning. Why then, had she not enrolled herself? It was certainly not due to a lack of encouragement. Her sister had recommended it at least as many times as her relatives had told her to get married- hundreds! She knew the answer of course. It was just not her style. Chanting mantras, practicing asanas, laughing and crying in a group, spilling deep, dark secrets to a room full of people, kundalini lessons-most people found it soothing and uplifting. She found it boring. And pointless.
“Hey.” it was the older man. He was standing behind her and she turned to face him.
“I haven’t done it because I think it’s silly.” she said simply.
He nodded, “He thinks the same way.”
“Okay. That’s acceptable. Great. A kindred spirit. But that does not mean-”
“I know, I know. Save it for the offender. Come on. You need to get back there and give him a piece of your mind. He can be pretty patronizing at times. Take him down a peg or two sweetheart.”
He led her back to the clearing. The young man was standing now. She stood a little distance away from him. He looked at her and held her gaze. He did not withdraw it as he said, “I had no right to tell you that you don’t love your life. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And I’m not exactly passionate about living. You were right about that.”
He took a deep breath, “About the spirituality scene-”
She interrupted, “I know. It’s not your cup of tea. It isn’t mine either. I just told your father. I think it’s silly. It doesn’t work. For me. But that’s not to say it’s silly for everyone. Trust me. I know.”
“I’m in agreement. I was- insensitive.”
“Yes, you were. Things are not black or white. Isn’t that what your ‘comprehensive, international channel’ tells us? Two or more sides to every story? And no single, absolute truth?” she was addressing the older man now.
He nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes strayed towards his son, as if waiting for him to say something. His son remained silent. He kept looking at her.
“Aren’t you envious of them?” she exclaimed, “Their quick fix solutions? Meet a guru and restart your life? Rediscover yourself through wearing saffron and swaying to the Gayatri mantra? Place a frog in your drawing room and change your fortune? I wish it was my cup of tea. I wish it did work for me.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I am not envious. I can understand why you are though. The thing is…I don’t think that’s the only way. I love my life. And I don’t need Deepak Chopra or Oprah Winfrey to tell me how great life is. I already know.”
“Then you are one lucky man. Because I don’t. I need someone to tell me. And I guess I’m not listening hard enough because no one has been able to get the message across.” Bitterness had seeped into her voice. She did not care. So she was whining. Big deal. The facades were already down. Might as well let them see her as she really was. Who cared? Who cared about anything really? She stood, careless of the presence of anyone else, and looked down at the pine needles and examined them. Long, sharp and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like to lie down naked on them and let them pierce her smooth skin.
The younger man's voice brought her back from the pleasurable pain that was suffusing her. “You can listen all you want. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can really love anything by hearing about it. You need to experience it. Shit, I know it sounds corny and new age, but I really do believe that. You have to live, really live. Laugh, cry, love, hate, be jealous, scream, dance, eat, sleep, fight, pray- whatever. It’s like a symphony. You can’t read it. You need to be involved and hum along and listen to every note and every instrument and gasp with awe at the end,” he stopped and threw his hands up helplessly, “I think I’m babbling now…must be incomprehensible. But let me just say this. I’m not being patronizing. Loving life did not come naturally to me. It doesn’t to most people. One has to work at it. Even the happiest marriages need to be worked at, right? The effortlessly blissful ones are rare. Very, very rare. So, I’m not trying to help you or anything like that. Only, well…I’ve been there. I still visit sometimes. So, I know. I know there is my way too.”
She felt a warm, firm hand clasping hers, and looked up into the older man’s face. And she knew she was looking at one of the rare, effortlessly blissful persons who are natural lovers of existence. They fit into the world and the world loves them. He held her hand and looked beyond her. “Too many walls…” he murmured.
She smiled. “ ‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel were right you know. ‘And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.’”
He broke into a grin at that, “Same chaps who wrote that song lamenting about people not communicating with one another? How does it go- ‘and the silence like a cancer grows…people talking without speaking…people hearing without listening’? And let’s not forget ‘like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down’. Bridges are hardly conducive to an islandic existence, don’t you think?”
She had to laugh. Outwitted by an obvious Simon and Garfunkel fan. She gripped his hand and looked at the sky. Then she looked the younger man. He was not smiling, just looking at her. “I know,” she said softly, “I know what you’re saying.”
It was enough. The wind swept their faces with its cool fingertips. It swirled at the ends of her long hair and breezed inside her sweater. The first drops of rain fell. The earthy smell of wet mud tangoed with the fragrance of pine trees, and the woods danced with the thunder…
Almost like...the elements playing hide and seek.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
This can't be happening
She had told herself that she would stop by their room and converse long enough to confirm their academic professions and then return to her book. When the younger man opened the door, he looked comfortably rumpled. She stared for a few seconds and then tugged her gaze away, embarrassed. It was such an odd unfamiliar sight! A man wearing his nightclothes; she could not recall the last time she had seen a man with his hair like that-sleep tossed!
As it turned out, they were not in the academic field. Neither were they artists or photographers. The father was the CEO of a company that had recently launched a new 24-hour news channel that claimed to be comprehensive and international in the true sense. Bilingual anchors. News from around the world, with an emphasis on Indian events. More than one version of the news.
“Garbled!” an acquaintance had labeled it, “How can they tell us that the Tokyo bomb blast were the work of Islamic fundamentalists, and then the very next minute spout some conspiracy theory bullshit about a local hairstylist being behind it?” She had agreed at the time. Sure, there were two sides to every story. But news coverage could simply not function like that. Why, there would be chaos! No one would know what to believe anymore.
Now however…well, she did not know what to believe anymore! The older man had told her about his work as the two of them sat having tea on the porch outside. The younger man was inside, getting dressed. Five minutes flowed into ten..into fifteen..twenty. And she still did not feel like getting up. The younger man joined them. He was a graphics designer. He freelanced; edited movies sometimes. Mainly parallel cinema projects. Though he had worked on a Shahrukh-Kajol starrer once. “Much better money than Nagesh Kukkunoor could ever pay me!” he chuckled.
“But…isn’t that like compromising your-” she searched for a word and came up with nothing better than “-craft?”
He looked at her searchingly. “Is it?” he asked softly.
She was at a loss for words. He must be offended. Of course he was. Such a personal question. What was she thinking? She had gotten carried away by the camaraderie and blurted out what she was thinking. “I’m sorry. I had no business to ask you that.” She mumbled.
“Why not? Don’t look so apologetic for Christ’s sake. I was just asking you why you thought that. Okay, I don’t see it as a compromise because I enjoy working on both kinds of projects. Certainly, I believe much more in a movie that’s not one big fantasy fiesta. But there’s nothing wrong with an out and out entertainer either. And like I said, it pays. Literally. I need to do a college romance type of movie every now and then, so that I can work on projects that are not lucrative but are definitely interesting.”
She understood what he was saying. He would not work for a movie that endorsed Nazism for sure-because he would be against that. But harmless entertainment was just that-harmless fun. No compromise involved. No clash of principles and all that jazz. Suddenly, she was confused. She had categorized them as pseudo-intellectuals. That did not seem to apply anymore. They were too eclectic to classify. And in that moment she gave up trying to classify them. Forever.
The older man enjoyed photography. Hence the destination with the breathtaking view. “I don’t care much for the view. Everything looks the same after five minutes. I did think a couple of days with Dad away from the city would be nice though. And here we are!” his son told her.
Breakfast. Then a visit to a nearby chapel. A short but steep walk. Beautiful, old stained glass windows. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews. And a priest! In a back of beyond Himalayan settlement! Lunch at the priest’s house. Roast chicken and potatoes. Surreal. A return to the guesthouse.
The three of them were too exhausted to go out anywhere for dinner so the older man requested the caretaker to organize dinner. “Whatever is available. Keep it simple.”
They were on the porch once again. Eating aloo paranthas sizzling with butter. In silence, with their shawls wrapped around them because the night air was chilly. The night melted into dawn, which brightened to noon and faded into twilight. A weekend turned into a few days and she spent most of her time with them…
Now, the whiff of pinecones crept up on her again as she tried to remember what the paranthas had tasted like. She could barely remember what it felt like to be hungry, what food tasted like. She had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Food! As if she would ever be able to think about it again. It seemed so trivial, compared with the fact that she had lost everything she had ever wanted to find…
Her mind took her back to the afternoon under the pine trees, in the woods just behind the guesthouse. The heady smell of pine needles filled the air. It was almost potent.
Amusing stories were being exchanged. She related an incident she had to dig out from the recesses of her hoarder memory. Her brain was like her nana’s trunks of clothes. Everything went in, but nothing was ever taken out to air or share. So it was hard. Her sentences were stilted at first. When she reached the part about getting her head stuck in the window grill, the two men burst out laughing. The rest of the story tumbled out easily- hysterical father, fire engines, electric saws, and an everlasting fear of putting her head through small openings.
Father and son regaled her with stories from the entertainment industry. Like the photographer who had an assignment for a photo-shoot with Amitabh Bacchan and told the superstar, “Now, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it! And you’ll look just fine, not to worry.” She cracked up at that one.
And about the colony where the son had an apartment, where Art of Living was the latest craze. He mimicked the advertiser who lived upstairs, and had enrolled for a course. He had talked about nothing but ‘the Universal Eye’ and ‘cleansing the soul’ for months afterwards. He had also taken to explaining the ‘Twenty Step Program to Inner Peace’ to anyone who was willing to listen. “An advertising guy through and through!” the older man guffawed. Then there was the couple on the ground floor that felt their children would benefit from the spiritual enrichment the programme offered. The children’s ages were yet to hit double digits…
She grinned, amused, but felt obliged to say something in favour of Sri Sri Ravishankar’s brainchild. “Well yes. It’s funny when people take the whole concept to such extremes. But come on, it has helped a lot of people, hasn’t it? It can’t all be a load of hogwash.”
“Of course it is. ‘Hold your partner’s hand and cry and all your problems will be solved.’ Ha! As if years and years of pent-up pain and sorrow can be released during one sobbing session. It’s temporary relief. Art of Living is no better than a quick fix at the local massage parlour. A transient high.” The younger man said with biting conviction.
Suddenly, she was angry. She had felt like they had been telling her not to make judgements these past few days-by setting an example of sympathetic objectivity. Then what was this? A balanced perspective? They were as hypocritical as anyone else was. Pots calling a kettle black. She retreated into herself and said icily, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because you’re irreligious or an atheist or whatever doesn’t mean all spirituality is fake and pretentious. I happen to know people who have discovered life all over again through Art of Living and other courses like that. Sure, once it becomes a fad it’s harder to see it as a holy, moving experience. But it is really stupid of you to run it down completely. It’s a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours with a sex-worker.” and she stopped, breathless.
“Is it?” skeptically.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you gone and discovered life again through it? Not exactly passionate about your existence, are you?”
She was stunned into silence. Oh, the impertinence! She stood up and walked off into the forest behind her. More like stomped off actually. How, how, how could he ask her a question like that? Like it was any of his bloody business. Presumptuous man! He though himself so much superior to her. But he was just another cynic. Funny, she had always thought of herself as cynical. He made her seem almost naïve by comparison! She knew she was not being naïve though. Her sister had gotten over her child’s death, largely because she did a ten-day Vipasana programme. Ten days of living in silence in an ashram. The heartbroken woman had found solace in it, and had come to terms with her loss. She did not come back home ready to laugh at sitcoms again- no, it certainly did not work like that. But she was at peace. Ready to pick up the threads again, with some idea of a pattern in mind. And this man had just thrown that beautiful, healing experience into filth.
She had stopped to think just a few minutes away from the clearing where they had been sitting. She stood there now, and thought about his question. Not that he had any right to ask her that. Still…she could answer it to herself. She did not enjoy her life, or leap enthusiastically out of bed to greet a new day each morning. Why then, had she not enrolled herself? It was certainly not due to a lack of encouragement. Her sister had recommended it at least as many times as her relatives had told her to get married- hundreds! She knew the answer of course. It was just not her style. Chanting mantras, practicing asanas, laughing and crying in a group, spilling deep, dark secrets to a room full of people, kundalini lessons-most people found it soothing and uplifting. She found it boring. And pointless.
“Hey.” it was the older man. He was standing behind her and she turned to face him.
“I haven’t done it because I think it’s silly.” she said simply.
He nodded, “He thinks the same way.”
“Okay. That’s acceptable. Great. A kindred spirit. But that does not mean-”
“I know, I know. Save it for the offender. Come on. You need to get back there and give him a piece of your mind. He can be pretty patronizing at times. Take him down a peg or two sweetheart.”
He led her back to the clearing. The young man was standing now. She stood a little distance away from him. He looked at her and held her gaze. He did not withdraw it as he said, “I had no right to tell you that you don’t love your life. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And I’m not exactly passionate about living. You were right about that.”
He took a deep breath, “About the spirituality scene-”
She interrupted, “I know. It’s not your cup of tea. It isn’t mine either. I just told your father. I think it’s silly. It doesn’t work. For me. But that’s not to say it’s silly for everyone. Trust me. I know.”
“I’m in agreement. I was- insensitive.”
“Yes, you were. Things are not black or white. Isn’t that what your ‘comprehensive, international channel’ tells us? Two or more sides to every story? And no single, absolute truth?” she was addressing the older man now.
He nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes strayed towards his son, as if waiting for him to say something. His son remained silent. He kept looking at her.
“Aren’t you envious of them?” she exclaimed, “Their quick fix solutions? Meet a guru and restart your life? Rediscover yourself through wearing saffron and swaying to the Gayatri mantra? Place a frog in your drawing room and change your fortune? I wish it was my cup of tea. I wish it did work for me.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I am not envious. I can understand why you are though. The thing is…I don’t think that’s the only way. I love my life. And I don’t need Deepak Chopra or Oprah Winfrey to tell me how great life is. I already know.”
“Then you are one lucky man. Because I don’t. I need someone to tell me. And I guess I’m not listening hard enough because no one has been able to get the message across.” Bitterness had seeped into her voice. She did not care. So she was whining. Big deal. The facades were already down. Might as well let them see her as she really was. Who cared? Who cared about anything really? She stood, careless of the presence of anyone else, and looked down at the pine needles and examined them. Long, sharp and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like to lie down naked on them and let them pierce her smooth skin.
The younger man's voice brought her back from the pleasurable pain that was suffusing her. “You can listen all you want. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can really love anything by hearing about it. You need to experience it. Shit, I know it sounds corny and new age, but I really do believe that. You have to live, really live. Laugh, cry, love, hate, be jealous, scream, dance, eat, sleep, fight, pray- whatever. It’s like a symphony. You can’t read it. You need to be involved and hum along and listen to every note and every instrument and gasp with awe at the end,” he stopped and threw his hands up helplessly, “I think I’m babbling now…must be incomprehensible. But let me just say this. I’m not being patronizing. Loving life did not come naturally to me. It doesn’t to most people. One has to work at it. Even the happiest marriages need to be worked at, right? The effortlessly blissful ones are rare. Very, very rare. So, I’m not trying to help you or anything like that. Only, well…I’ve been there. I still visit sometimes. So, I know. I know there is my way too.”
She felt a warm, firm hand clasping hers, and looked up into the older man’s face. And she knew she was looking at one of the rare, effortlessly blissful persons who are natural lovers of existence. They fit into the world and the world loves them. He held her hand and looked beyond her. “Too many walls…” he murmured.
She smiled. “ ‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel were right you know. ‘And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.’”
He broke into a grin at that, “Same chaps who wrote that song lamenting about people not communicating with one another? How does it go- ‘and the silence like a cancer grows…people talking without speaking…people hearing without listening’? And let’s not forget ‘like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down’. Bridges are hardly conducive to an islandic existence, don’t you think?”
She had to laugh. Outwitted by an obvious Simon and Garfunkel fan. She gripped his hand and looked at the sky. Then she looked the younger man. He was not smiling, just looking at her. “I know,” she said softly, “I know what you’re saying.”
It was enough. The wind swept their faces with its cool fingertips. It swirled at the ends of her long hair and breezed inside her sweater. The first drops of rain fell. The earthy smell of wet mud tangoed with the fragrance of pine trees, and the woods danced with the thunder…
Almost like...the elements playing hide and seek.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Hide and Seek - the First
Where are we? What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to form,
Crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling.
Start building the walls again. It is the only way. Whispers of advice.
She asked herself why she was not listening. Hadn’t her stringent rules kept her happy all her life?
Well…maybe ‘happy’ was an overstatement. She shook herself back to reality. Ha! Overstatement? More like a complete and total fabrication. Farther from the truth than a hippie from the Lok Sabha. She smiled wryly at the comparison. They had reminded her of hippies the first time she saw them, with their loose kurtas and well-worn jeans. Open sandals. Their hair was short and clean though. Unlike the flower children.
She smiled again at the memory. More than anything else it was the air of utter acceptance that they wore. Que sera sera. Worn with the same ease with which her mother wore a sari morning, afternoon and evening, day after day, year after year.
They fit into the jigsaw puzzle. Like correct pieces. Blended in effortlessly with their surroundings. Like they belonged. It was a belonging she had craved for what seemed like forever.
She had been sitting on a chair in the balcony-porch, looking at the floor when they had arrived. Kurtas, careless aura and all. The caretaker opened the room next to hers and showed them in. they were carrying their own luggage. Rucksacks and duffel bags. They looked at her while the old caretaker ceremoniously fitted the key in the lock. She looked back at them- disapprovingly. The older man looked old enough to be her father! And the younger one was certainly at least her own age. Why pretend to be like a couple of teenagers hitchhiking around the country?? It was just not proper. Therefore it was only logical that she barely nodded her head when they smiled at her.
She remembered cursing her mother at that moment. It had been she who had insisted that her daughter go to the mountains. The phrase ‘well-deserved break’ had been repeated like a mantra for many months on end till finally her daughter decided that she might as well take a weekend off and be done with it. She booked herself into a little known guesthouse upon the recommendation of a colleague. “It’s a marvelous place! A wonderful view and all the privacy that we from the corporate world could desire.” he had told her enthusiastically. She did not care much for the view but the solitude sounded appealing. Her mother was disappointed. She had been thinking more along the lines of a luxury resort where her all-too-busy daughter would find time to take a swim in the heated pool and perhaps get one of those therapeutic face packs that everyone was talking about nowadays. If only she had known what an aversion her daughter had to other people handling her body! She just about managed a hair trim every now and then. Just about!! Anyhow, reservations had been made at the place her colleague had suggested. Luxury resorts were just not her thing. There were too many people looking to please you all the time. It was embarrassing and irritating. She preferred to just be left alone.
And now it looked as if he perfectly realistic expectations of that desire were going to be seriously obstructed by these seemingly outgoing new arrivals. She slotted them immediately in her brain. Either unemployed, or struggling artists or photographers. Or academics (professors at JNU perhaps). Probably frequented art galleries. Watched street theatre plays on weekends. Shunned branded clothes (unless the label was FabIndia of course). Considered themselves leftist liberals (probably could not spell Lenin’s first name, but what the hell), intellectuals and bohemians. She tried to determine their relationship. Friends perhaps. Or colleagues. Or gay companions. They did not seem like homosexuals though, she thought. Then she chided herself. Like anyone can tell. Some of the most apparently straight men turned out to be leaning the other way. Who would have guessed about Rock Hudson?
When they came over in the evening and sat themselves down at her table on the porch, she sought to satisfy her curiousity. They turned out to be father and son. She blinked for a second, thrown off balance. Of course. They even looked similar. The same intense eyes. She felt sheepish. How come she hadn’t thought of the most obvious answer?
Her quest completed, and her curiousity satisfied, she quickly finished her tea and retreated into her room under the pretext of wanting to have a bath. When she emerged after what she considered the safe interval of half an hour, they were still sitting there.
“Oh good, you’re fresh and ready. We thought you might want to join us. We’re going to walk down to the market to have dinner.” said the older man genially. She looked at him incredulously. She had seen the town’s excuse for a marketplace on the way to the guesthouse in the morning. It barely qualified as a place of commercial activity. A bunch a mouldy old shops- the regular dhaba, a paan shop and the like. Not that she was being a snob, she reassured herself. There was nothing wrong with the market but…dinner over there!
“Oh come on. It’ll be fun. I know what you’re thinking. Not exactly the kind of place HT City covers in their Eating Out column in Delhi. Well, you can do all the regular eating out back in the cities. You know, when in Rome…” the younger man said.
Hobnobbing with the locals? Definitely leftist, she thought. Nevertheless, she contemplated. Contrary to what he implied about her dining out in the city, she could not remember the last time she had gone to a restaurant. McDonald’s yes-if that could really qualify as ‘eating out’. It was more like eating just enough to sustain herself and then running home. And alone. Always alone. It was a policy of hers to never interact with co-workers outside of the office building (not that she interacted much with them inside the office building either). Boring, boring, boring- as her saucy secretary put it to her once during what she fancied to be a female bonding session.
So she contemplated the invitation. And decided to accept. “All right,” she said, “just let me get changed.”
The two men looked at her and started laughing. “It’s not exactly the Taj honey. What you’re wearing is just perfect.” the older man chuckled. Warning bells went off in her head. Was she really going to go for dinner with someone who called her ‘honey’ after talking to her for barely five minutes? With two unknown men whose last name she did not even know? They could be thieves, rapists, serial killers…
But the marketplace was barely a five-minute walk away. And it was not like she had anything else to do. Once the darkness fell she would not even be able to see the view (it was rather splendid as she had silently acknowledged upon arriving). She looked down at her jeans, threw caution to the brisk evening wind and said, “All right then. Let’s go.”
Dinner turned out to be pakoras and Maggi at the dhaba. The food took ages to arrive. The older man informed the other two that because of the high altitude and rare atmosphere, food took far longer to cook than in the plains. And stoves were slow to begin with anyway.
Conversation carried on pleasantly for a while. The three of them discussed the deplorable state of the road between the last major hill-station and this little village-town. She wondered aloud what they did in cases of medical emergencies. The nearest big hospital was more than a two-hour drive away-assuming it was a lucky day and there were no hold-ups on the way due to landslides or flooding from the river. “I suppose they leave it to Fate, huh? If you’re lucky you reach in time. If not…well, there’s not much you can do about it.” she said, answering her own query. And she silently cursed the red tape and the insensitive Central government and the corrupt government machinery that reduce the locals to this helplessness. Then she caught herself, surprised. When was the last time she had whined about the government? It was not really her style. She had always believed that people are responsible for themselves. A caretaker government was a crutch. The locals here were probable a lazy lot in any case. Even if funds had been granted to build roads they would have been wasted because of inadequate planning, and inefficiency. Inferior material would have been used and they would have been ruined as soon as the monsoon arrived. As for medical emergencies…superstitions probably forbade the people from consulting educated doctors anyway. There was bound to be a local Ayurvedic quack or some crazy Tantric medical man.
Then she looked at the smooth skinned face and the weather beaten hands of the young adolescent girl who was serving them their first helping of pakoras, and she was shocked at her own callousness.
Now she lay prostrate, trying to recall what it was they had talked about. Oh yes, they had debated about the identity of the leafy vegetable used to make some of the pakoras. She was pretty sure it was a variant of spinach, while the older man said it was a different plant altogether- ‘jimisa’ was the local term for it. The younger man grinned and said, “Shove it you two. Just eat the damn thing. It’s delicious. A leaf is just as delicious by any other name!” she remembered being momentarily shocked (‘Shove it’! To his father!) and then laughing and slurping the soupy Maggi.
They walked back after that. She excused herself as soon as they reached. Yet it was with a twinge of regret that she closed and locked her door. God! What was the matter with her? Shunning company was hardly a new habit; she was an expert! It was just the change of scene, she reassured herself (reassured? Was it really that unpleasant a change?). She would be herself again tomorrow- aloof and detached. She would stay in her room and read a book. Yes, that’s what she would do.
It was only once she was in bed that she realized that they had not discussed work even once. “I bet they’re professors…JNU for sure…” and she fell asleep.
Why had the come into her life? Ignited her curiousity? Made her want to meet them again? Why?
Where are we? What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to form,
Crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling.
The dust has only just begun to form,
Crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling.
Start building the walls again. It is the only way. Whispers of advice.
She asked herself why she was not listening. Hadn’t her stringent rules kept her happy all her life?
Well…maybe ‘happy’ was an overstatement. She shook herself back to reality. Ha! Overstatement? More like a complete and total fabrication. Farther from the truth than a hippie from the Lok Sabha. She smiled wryly at the comparison. They had reminded her of hippies the first time she saw them, with their loose kurtas and well-worn jeans. Open sandals. Their hair was short and clean though. Unlike the flower children.
She smiled again at the memory. More than anything else it was the air of utter acceptance that they wore. Que sera sera. Worn with the same ease with which her mother wore a sari morning, afternoon and evening, day after day, year after year.
They fit into the jigsaw puzzle. Like correct pieces. Blended in effortlessly with their surroundings. Like they belonged. It was a belonging she had craved for what seemed like forever.
She had been sitting on a chair in the balcony-porch, looking at the floor when they had arrived. Kurtas, careless aura and all. The caretaker opened the room next to hers and showed them in. they were carrying their own luggage. Rucksacks and duffel bags. They looked at her while the old caretaker ceremoniously fitted the key in the lock. She looked back at them- disapprovingly. The older man looked old enough to be her father! And the younger one was certainly at least her own age. Why pretend to be like a couple of teenagers hitchhiking around the country?? It was just not proper. Therefore it was only logical that she barely nodded her head when they smiled at her.
She remembered cursing her mother at that moment. It had been she who had insisted that her daughter go to the mountains. The phrase ‘well-deserved break’ had been repeated like a mantra for many months on end till finally her daughter decided that she might as well take a weekend off and be done with it. She booked herself into a little known guesthouse upon the recommendation of a colleague. “It’s a marvelous place! A wonderful view and all the privacy that we from the corporate world could desire.” he had told her enthusiastically. She did not care much for the view but the solitude sounded appealing. Her mother was disappointed. She had been thinking more along the lines of a luxury resort where her all-too-busy daughter would find time to take a swim in the heated pool and perhaps get one of those therapeutic face packs that everyone was talking about nowadays. If only she had known what an aversion her daughter had to other people handling her body! She just about managed a hair trim every now and then. Just about!! Anyhow, reservations had been made at the place her colleague had suggested. Luxury resorts were just not her thing. There were too many people looking to please you all the time. It was embarrassing and irritating. She preferred to just be left alone.
And now it looked as if he perfectly realistic expectations of that desire were going to be seriously obstructed by these seemingly outgoing new arrivals. She slotted them immediately in her brain. Either unemployed, or struggling artists or photographers. Or academics (professors at JNU perhaps). Probably frequented art galleries. Watched street theatre plays on weekends. Shunned branded clothes (unless the label was FabIndia of course). Considered themselves leftist liberals (probably could not spell Lenin’s first name, but what the hell), intellectuals and bohemians. She tried to determine their relationship. Friends perhaps. Or colleagues. Or gay companions. They did not seem like homosexuals though, she thought. Then she chided herself. Like anyone can tell. Some of the most apparently straight men turned out to be leaning the other way. Who would have guessed about Rock Hudson?
When they came over in the evening and sat themselves down at her table on the porch, she sought to satisfy her curiousity. They turned out to be father and son. She blinked for a second, thrown off balance. Of course. They even looked similar. The same intense eyes. She felt sheepish. How come she hadn’t thought of the most obvious answer?
Her quest completed, and her curiousity satisfied, she quickly finished her tea and retreated into her room under the pretext of wanting to have a bath. When she emerged after what she considered the safe interval of half an hour, they were still sitting there.
“Oh good, you’re fresh and ready. We thought you might want to join us. We’re going to walk down to the market to have dinner.” said the older man genially. She looked at him incredulously. She had seen the town’s excuse for a marketplace on the way to the guesthouse in the morning. It barely qualified as a place of commercial activity. A bunch a mouldy old shops- the regular dhaba, a paan shop and the like. Not that she was being a snob, she reassured herself. There was nothing wrong with the market but…dinner over there!
“Oh come on. It’ll be fun. I know what you’re thinking. Not exactly the kind of place HT City covers in their Eating Out column in Delhi. Well, you can do all the regular eating out back in the cities. You know, when in Rome…” the younger man said.
Hobnobbing with the locals? Definitely leftist, she thought. Nevertheless, she contemplated. Contrary to what he implied about her dining out in the city, she could not remember the last time she had gone to a restaurant. McDonald’s yes-if that could really qualify as ‘eating out’. It was more like eating just enough to sustain herself and then running home. And alone. Always alone. It was a policy of hers to never interact with co-workers outside of the office building (not that she interacted much with them inside the office building either). Boring, boring, boring- as her saucy secretary put it to her once during what she fancied to be a female bonding session.
So she contemplated the invitation. And decided to accept. “All right,” she said, “just let me get changed.”
The two men looked at her and started laughing. “It’s not exactly the Taj honey. What you’re wearing is just perfect.” the older man chuckled. Warning bells went off in her head. Was she really going to go for dinner with someone who called her ‘honey’ after talking to her for barely five minutes? With two unknown men whose last name she did not even know? They could be thieves, rapists, serial killers…
But the marketplace was barely a five-minute walk away. And it was not like she had anything else to do. Once the darkness fell she would not even be able to see the view (it was rather splendid as she had silently acknowledged upon arriving). She looked down at her jeans, threw caution to the brisk evening wind and said, “All right then. Let’s go.”
Dinner turned out to be pakoras and Maggi at the dhaba. The food took ages to arrive. The older man informed the other two that because of the high altitude and rare atmosphere, food took far longer to cook than in the plains. And stoves were slow to begin with anyway.
Conversation carried on pleasantly for a while. The three of them discussed the deplorable state of the road between the last major hill-station and this little village-town. She wondered aloud what they did in cases of medical emergencies. The nearest big hospital was more than a two-hour drive away-assuming it was a lucky day and there were no hold-ups on the way due to landslides or flooding from the river. “I suppose they leave it to Fate, huh? If you’re lucky you reach in time. If not…well, there’s not much you can do about it.” she said, answering her own query. And she silently cursed the red tape and the insensitive Central government and the corrupt government machinery that reduce the locals to this helplessness. Then she caught herself, surprised. When was the last time she had whined about the government? It was not really her style. She had always believed that people are responsible for themselves. A caretaker government was a crutch. The locals here were probable a lazy lot in any case. Even if funds had been granted to build roads they would have been wasted because of inadequate planning, and inefficiency. Inferior material would have been used and they would have been ruined as soon as the monsoon arrived. As for medical emergencies…superstitions probably forbade the people from consulting educated doctors anyway. There was bound to be a local Ayurvedic quack or some crazy Tantric medical man.
Then she looked at the smooth skinned face and the weather beaten hands of the young adolescent girl who was serving them their first helping of pakoras, and she was shocked at her own callousness.
Now she lay prostrate, trying to recall what it was they had talked about. Oh yes, they had debated about the identity of the leafy vegetable used to make some of the pakoras. She was pretty sure it was a variant of spinach, while the older man said it was a different plant altogether- ‘jimisa’ was the local term for it. The younger man grinned and said, “Shove it you two. Just eat the damn thing. It’s delicious. A leaf is just as delicious by any other name!” she remembered being momentarily shocked (‘Shove it’! To his father!) and then laughing and slurping the soupy Maggi.
They walked back after that. She excused herself as soon as they reached. Yet it was with a twinge of regret that she closed and locked her door. God! What was the matter with her? Shunning company was hardly a new habit; she was an expert! It was just the change of scene, she reassured herself (reassured? Was it really that unpleasant a change?). She would be herself again tomorrow- aloof and detached. She would stay in her room and read a book. Yes, that’s what she would do.
It was only once she was in bed that she realized that they had not discussed work even once. “I bet they’re professors…JNU for sure…” and she fell asleep.
Why had the come into her life? Ignited her curiousity? Made her want to meet them again? Why?
Where are we? What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to form,
Crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Night of February --nth
Location: outside -- Mall, Gurgaon
Time: 5:00 PM
Why don't you ask the kids at Tiananmen Square...
... the reason why they were there??
We hear the screech of the tyres and feel the crash before we actually hear it. Our heads spin towards the other side of the road.
A rickshaw.
A woman.
A young boy.
The Qualis screeches away before anyone can move.
People start crowding around and we watch from the other side of the road.
One very high iron fence separates us from the scene and we know- or we tell ourselves we know- that they are being helped out by one of the fifty-odd people standing there, that we can do no good by standing around, that we should stop staring at this tragedy because it is rapidly turning into a travesty.
And yet we stand. And we try to see whether the boy is okay, whether the woman is okay but it's nearly impossible to tell and finally, after an undetermined length of time, we turn to each other.
We know what we need to do.
Snap out of it.
After a few minutes of reassuring each other that they're all right, we return to The Plan.
Dramatis Personae:
Women- N, V, P
Men- K, Stoned, Elvis
N: So... are we heading to Staying Alive?
P: What is it like anyway?
V: Oh, very shady...
K: Good enough for a shady exploit like this!
P: Yeah... it's still light outside... this really is kind of shady. And it's a weekday!
N: Hmmm... we are being rather debauched aren't we?
V: Aren't you always? (cracks a disapproving yet sparkling grin)
P and N look at one another rather sheepishly. K has gone off to buy cigarettes.
The four traipse into Staying Alive at 5:15 PM. The only people there.
Waiter-with-the-Elvis-Presley-Hairstyle: Oh bhenchod, it's a Tuesday! I thought we wouldn't need to work for another few hours. Moronic kids...
Waiter-who-looks-stoned: Erm... yeah........
P: Ooh is that a frickin BIKE in here?
K: Yeah! Isn't that great? It's a K-344567 with 48 GHZ and lots of horsepower and gear-thingies and a kenchunking capacity that even the likes of Ralph Jiggeryhurtz and Jemengen Dyooz would envy!
(ok, that's what it sounded like. I've forgotten the precise details and things)
V and P: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..................
N: Hey, this corner table is free! Let's grab it!
V: Ummmm... sweetie, every table is free. Relax.
The four debauchees seat themselves.
K: What are you guys having?
P: Beer.
N: Beer.
V: (peering intently at the menu) Something vegetariannnnn.....
P: Hey! You have to drink!
V: No baba, I really just want to eat something.
N and K and P: Noooo!!! You HAVE to drink!
V: Okayyy....calm down. I'll have a breezer.
(and that ladies and gentlemen, is called Peer Pressure)
K: No, you have to have REAL alcohol.
V: Don't push your luck.
K: Okay, okay. Excuse me!
Waiter-who-looks-stoned comes over to the table (and I'm going to just called him Stoned henceforth).
Stoned: Yes?
K: Okay, we'll have two beers, one breezer and two large vodka shots.
P and N: VODKA SHOTS??
K: (with a withering, silencing look) Yes.
V: Uffff....
Stoned: Sorry, sir? (looks confused)
K: (slowly and articulately) Two beers. One breezer. Two large vodka shots.
Stoned: Which beer sir?
N: Foster's?
P: Okie.
N: (to Stoned) We'll have Foster's.
Stoned: (refusing to look at N or P) So, Foster's, sir?
K: Yes.
Stoned: And... ummm.... ummm..... errrr.... (looks confused)
K: (biting his words out) And. One. Breezer. Which flavour do you want, V?
V: (to Stoned) I want Cranberry.
Stoned: (refusing to look at V) So, Cranberry, sir?
K: Yes.
Stoned: And... (racks his brains) and.... 2 large vodka shots!! (looks at K proudly) Imported or domestic, sir?
K: Smirnoff.
Stoned: Yessir, yessir. Anything else?
N: Yes can we have jacket potatoes with the minced chicken?
Stoned: (addressing K) Sorry sir, we have nothing with potatoes today.
V: What? Oh no! I wanted the vegetarian version of that! Ok, I'll have a vegetarian platter.
P: And we'll have the non-vegetarian platter...?
N: Cool.
Stoned: Of course, sir. (withdraws)
Stoned: Nice chap, that boy.
Elvis: Hmph. With three girls. Looks like a kanhaiya. These girls nowadays... And look at that! Smoking also now... Tsk tsk...
Back at the table...
N: He didn't look at the women once!! What a guy...
P: I know! He was persistently acting as if we didn't exist.
The drinks arrive and so do the platters.
A rapid demolition of both.
More vodka shots. More beer.
The tables spin and the music is louder now.
P: Take it easy babe... I think that's quite enough.
N: Hey... I NEVER get drunk.
Famouslastwords.
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget
It's a cliche by now, but it's ridiculously true.
By now...complete chaos.
V and P decide to dance, and N and K decide to have a serious conversation.
Then N and V decide to hug each other for about 15 minutes while K and P exchange confidences and then begin to laugh hysterically about something.
Then V decides to message someone furiously and K smokes furiously and N and P talk to each other.
Then N decides to lie down on the sofa in K's lap and V and P start cracking up about something.
Stoned: What the hell is going on?
Elvis: I'm just trying to work out their relationships. Who is the sister, who is the girlfriend... Who are the best friends...
Stoned: Very hard to say. They keep changing partners too quickly.
Elvis: Oh see... that one's started to cry now... They've drunk too much as usual. Stupid youngsters.
Stoned: Arre! The other one's also started off...
Elvis: Now he's holding her...
Stoned: But she's holding someone else...
Elvis: And that one's dancing alone...
Stoned: But now she's gone and she 's holding his hand!
Elvis: I give up.
Stoned: So do I.
Everywhere people stare each and every day
I can see them laugh at me and I hear them say...
Hey, you've got to hide your love away
Holding on.
Conversations. Promises.
Tears. Laughter.
Cigarette burns. The searing taste of vodka.
Holding on.
Give me your hand. Give me your heart.
Let us help.
Please help me.
Love and support.
Holding on.
The bill has been paid but P has not cried yet.
N, V and P go to the bathroom and while V goes inside, P decides to dispense a bit of advice to a very, very drunk N.
P: ........all right then?
N: (very slowly and deliberately) Fuck off.
P: (after a long, long pause) Ummm.... what?
N: Fuck off.
P: Do you mean that?
N: (nods) Fuck. Off.
P bursts into tears and when V comes out, P is nearly inconsolable.
V: Arre baba, you know she didn't mean it.
P: She did.
V: She's sozzled.
P: When people are drunk, they speak the truth.
V: Not always. You know that.
P: (sniffs) I guess so...
P, V and N link arms and walk to the entrance where K is waiting.
K: All good?
V: Of course.
P: Shall we go then?
N: Glug.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me
But we get by, and we get high, with a little help from our friends.
And that's just the way it is.
Time: 5:00 PM
Why don't you ask the kids at Tiananmen Square...
... the reason why they were there??
We hear the screech of the tyres and feel the crash before we actually hear it. Our heads spin towards the other side of the road.
A rickshaw.
A woman.
A young boy.
The Qualis screeches away before anyone can move.
People start crowding around and we watch from the other side of the road.
One very high iron fence separates us from the scene and we know- or we tell ourselves we know- that they are being helped out by one of the fifty-odd people standing there, that we can do no good by standing around, that we should stop staring at this tragedy because it is rapidly turning into a travesty.
And yet we stand. And we try to see whether the boy is okay, whether the woman is okay but it's nearly impossible to tell and finally, after an undetermined length of time, we turn to each other.
We know what we need to do.
Snap out of it.
After a few minutes of reassuring each other that they're all right, we return to The Plan.
Dramatis Personae:
Women- N, V, P
Men- K, Stoned, Elvis
N: So... are we heading to Staying Alive?
P: What is it like anyway?
V: Oh, very shady...
K: Good enough for a shady exploit like this!
P: Yeah... it's still light outside... this really is kind of shady. And it's a weekday!
N: Hmmm... we are being rather debauched aren't we?
V: Aren't you always? (cracks a disapproving yet sparkling grin)
P and N look at one another rather sheepishly. K has gone off to buy cigarettes.
The four traipse into Staying Alive at 5:15 PM. The only people there.
Waiter-with-the-Elvis-Presley-Hairstyle: Oh bhenchod, it's a Tuesday! I thought we wouldn't need to work for another few hours. Moronic kids...
Waiter-who-looks-stoned: Erm... yeah........
P: Ooh is that a frickin BIKE in here?
K: Yeah! Isn't that great? It's a K-344567 with 48 GHZ and lots of horsepower and gear-thingies and a kenchunking capacity that even the likes of Ralph Jiggeryhurtz and Jemengen Dyooz would envy!
(ok, that's what it sounded like. I've forgotten the precise details and things)
V and P: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..................
N: Hey, this corner table is free! Let's grab it!
V: Ummmm... sweetie, every table is free. Relax.
The four debauchees seat themselves.
K: What are you guys having?
P: Beer.
N: Beer.
V: (peering intently at the menu) Something vegetariannnnn.....
P: Hey! You have to drink!
V: No baba, I really just want to eat something.
N and K and P: Noooo!!! You HAVE to drink!
V: Okayyy....calm down. I'll have a breezer.
(and that ladies and gentlemen, is called Peer Pressure)
K: No, you have to have REAL alcohol.
V: Don't push your luck.
K: Okay, okay. Excuse me!
Waiter-who-looks-stoned comes over to the table (and I'm going to just called him Stoned henceforth).
Stoned: Yes?
K: Okay, we'll have two beers, one breezer and two large vodka shots.
P and N: VODKA SHOTS??
K: (with a withering, silencing look) Yes.
V: Uffff....
Stoned: Sorry, sir? (looks confused)
K: (slowly and articulately) Two beers. One breezer. Two large vodka shots.
Stoned: Which beer sir?
N: Foster's?
P: Okie.
N: (to Stoned) We'll have Foster's.
Stoned: (refusing to look at N or P) So, Foster's, sir?
K: Yes.
Stoned: And... ummm.... ummm..... errrr.... (looks confused)
K: (biting his words out) And. One. Breezer. Which flavour do you want, V?
V: (to Stoned) I want Cranberry.
Stoned: (refusing to look at V) So, Cranberry, sir?
K: Yes.
Stoned: And... (racks his brains) and.... 2 large vodka shots!! (looks at K proudly) Imported or domestic, sir?
K: Smirnoff.
Stoned: Yessir, yessir. Anything else?
N: Yes can we have jacket potatoes with the minced chicken?
Stoned: (addressing K) Sorry sir, we have nothing with potatoes today.
V: What? Oh no! I wanted the vegetarian version of that! Ok, I'll have a vegetarian platter.
P: And we'll have the non-vegetarian platter...?
N: Cool.
Stoned: Of course, sir. (withdraws)
Stoned: Nice chap, that boy.
Elvis: Hmph. With three girls. Looks like a kanhaiya. These girls nowadays... And look at that! Smoking also now... Tsk tsk...
Back at the table...
N: He didn't look at the women once!! What a guy...
P: I know! He was persistently acting as if we didn't exist.
The drinks arrive and so do the platters.
A rapid demolition of both.
More vodka shots. More beer.
The tables spin and the music is louder now.
P: Take it easy babe... I think that's quite enough.
N: Hey... I NEVER get drunk.
Famouslastwords.
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget
It's a cliche by now, but it's ridiculously true.
By now...complete chaos.
V and P decide to dance, and N and K decide to have a serious conversation.
Then N and V decide to hug each other for about 15 minutes while K and P exchange confidences and then begin to laugh hysterically about something.
Then V decides to message someone furiously and K smokes furiously and N and P talk to each other.
Then N decides to lie down on the sofa in K's lap and V and P start cracking up about something.
Stoned: What the hell is going on?
Elvis: I'm just trying to work out their relationships. Who is the sister, who is the girlfriend... Who are the best friends...
Stoned: Very hard to say. They keep changing partners too quickly.
Elvis: Oh see... that one's started to cry now... They've drunk too much as usual. Stupid youngsters.
Stoned: Arre! The other one's also started off...
Elvis: Now he's holding her...
Stoned: But she's holding someone else...
Elvis: And that one's dancing alone...
Stoned: But now she's gone and she 's holding his hand!
Elvis: I give up.
Stoned: So do I.
Everywhere people stare each and every day
I can see them laugh at me and I hear them say...
Hey, you've got to hide your love away
Holding on.
Conversations. Promises.
Tears. Laughter.
Cigarette burns. The searing taste of vodka.
Holding on.
Give me your hand. Give me your heart.
Let us help.
Please help me.
Love and support.
Holding on.
The bill has been paid but P has not cried yet.
N, V and P go to the bathroom and while V goes inside, P decides to dispense a bit of advice to a very, very drunk N.
P: ........all right then?
N: (very slowly and deliberately) Fuck off.
P: (after a long, long pause) Ummm.... what?
N: Fuck off.
P: Do you mean that?
N: (nods) Fuck. Off.
P bursts into tears and when V comes out, P is nearly inconsolable.
V: Arre baba, you know she didn't mean it.
P: She did.
V: She's sozzled.
P: When people are drunk, they speak the truth.
V: Not always. You know that.
P: (sniffs) I guess so...
P, V and N link arms and walk to the entrance where K is waiting.
K: All good?
V: Of course.
P: Shall we go then?
N: Glug.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me
But we get by, and we get high, with a little help from our friends.
And that's just the way it is.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
An Interruption
I am trying to think of the correct song.
I cannot.
You are a name from my childhood.
You are a conversation I can barely remember.
"So, you like reading?"
"Yes Uncle."
"Good, good. Keep reading."
And I did.
You are hidden in the black and white photographs from times before I was born.
You are a fragment of my father's management days and crazy Corbett trips.
You were twenty-two, and you were his best friend.
Brothers-in-arms.
As old as I am now. And I have a best friend too...
You are a voice I have heard all my life.
Your story is our story.
My story is your story.
"So, you like writing?"
"Yes Uncle."
"Good, good. Keep writing."
And I did.
There is only one story in the end, isn't there?
Pen pals with your daughter.
Hearing about the big, old house in Calcutta.
Books, books and more books.
Dinner and good times in Delhi.
I am still desperately trying to think of a song that will fit.
I can't seem to find it at the moment.
This is an interruption.
There will be fables yet.
We will write them together.
Someday.
I know it.
I cannot.
You are a name from my childhood.
You are a conversation I can barely remember.
"So, you like reading?"
"Yes Uncle."
"Good, good. Keep reading."
And I did.
You are hidden in the black and white photographs from times before I was born.
You are a fragment of my father's management days and crazy Corbett trips.
You were twenty-two, and you were his best friend.
Brothers-in-arms.
As old as I am now. And I have a best friend too...
You are a voice I have heard all my life.
Your story is our story.
My story is your story.
"So, you like writing?"
"Yes Uncle."
"Good, good. Keep writing."
And I did.
There is only one story in the end, isn't there?
Pen pals with your daughter.
Hearing about the big, old house in Calcutta.
Books, books and more books.
Dinner and good times in Delhi.
I am still desperately trying to think of a song that will fit.
I can't seem to find it at the moment.
This is an interruption.
There will be fables yet.
We will write them together.
Someday.
I know it.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
How long...?
How long 'til the world will be completed?
How many times will history be repeated?
How long 'til the words fall to the pages?
How many times 'til all we can say is save us?
How many times will you look back at that one night? And wish that you had thought more and had just one drink less than you did?
How many times will you remember that car-wreck with shame and shock at your own callousness? And wish that you had stopped and checked whether the occupants were okay?
How many times will you tremble when you recall that betrayal? And wish that you had not done the things that led to an endless estrangement?
How many times will you recall the glass as you decidedly threw its contents at his face? And wish that you had controlled your temper?
How many times will you curse your fate and regret your decisions and apologize to the numerous people whose lives you've helped to screw up just a little bit more? And wish that you were a better person?
Climb on top of all you despise
It's a better view from the lies
Two steps behind before I've begun
Time stops to tell me all I could have done
If I want things to be different now, and forever afterward, will you hold on to me, like you have all these years?
I know where I'm supposed to be.
Finally.
I want to go
Will you show me the way?
How many times will history be repeated?
How long 'til the words fall to the pages?
How many times 'til all we can say is save us?
How many times will you look back at that one night? And wish that you had thought more and had just one drink less than you did?
How many times will you remember that car-wreck with shame and shock at your own callousness? And wish that you had stopped and checked whether the occupants were okay?
How many times will you tremble when you recall that betrayal? And wish that you had not done the things that led to an endless estrangement?
How many times will you recall the glass as you decidedly threw its contents at his face? And wish that you had controlled your temper?
How many times will you curse your fate and regret your decisions and apologize to the numerous people whose lives you've helped to screw up just a little bit more? And wish that you were a better person?
Climb on top of all you despise
It's a better view from the lies
Two steps behind before I've begun
Time stops to tell me all I could have done
If I want things to be different now, and forever afterward, will you hold on to me, like you have all these years?
I know where I'm supposed to be.
Finally.
I want to go
Will you show me the way?
Saturday, May 19, 2007
On crashing an intellectual gathering...
It was not a party we were invited to. Well, not directly invited at any rate. But a friend of ours was asked to it, and we tagged along. Free food and free alcohol? Come on, that’s an irresistible combination. Stop judging me. I’m sure you would have done the same when you weren’t making money!
Anyway, so the five of us walk in and look around a little sheepishly. It’s not a very big party and people are scattered all over the house. We feel conspicuous, and huddle together. The host (or some pseudo-host) dawdles over and offers us drinks.
“Sure!” beams out truly-and-directly-invited-friend.
“Sure!” we echo, rather weakly.
Once we’ve settled down with our vodka-and-Cokes and a bowl of chips, we begin to look around. And realize we’ve been provided with free entertainment as well.
There are a whole lot of people from a certain architecture school, famous for- well... actually, I’m not sure it’s famous for anything in particular but its students sure seem to think it’s a great place. I’m just going to take their word for it; sometimes you’ve got to have a little faith in people and what they say, you know?
So anyway, there are a number of women in cotton, ethnic-printed, Fabindia/ Anokhi saris and an equal number in Levi’s jeans and cotton, ethnic-printed, Fabindia/ Anokhi kurtis. Now, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE Fabindia and Anokhi. And I adore cotton, ethnic-prints. But it gets a little tiresome if that’s all you see. A bit like those identically dressed, plasticky, mini-skirted girl-gangs that we all love to hate in Hollywood high-school flicks. A little bit of variety is nice, you know, be it in the midst of high-school-drama or drawing-room-conversation…
The men are equally clone-ish. Raggedy kurtas, dirty-ragged-jeans (why is intellect necessarily synonymous with dirt and lack of maintenance and upkeep?) and (hold your breath-) French beards. Voila! If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
And worse still, if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.
The-Woman-With-The-Dramatic-Snaky-Bindi-Creeping-Around-On-Her-Forehead: “You see, the premise of Chandralekha is that it’s vertically conceptualized, rather than horizontally. Then, obviously, when you see it, you must view it vertically because to do so horizontally is to lose the otherness inherent in the form!”
G. ventures a question: “Chandralekha? Which part of the country is that from?”
Snaky-Bindi shoots him a look of utter contempt: “It’s a post-colonial-style, three-minute documentary about the hallucinatory madness of an Ethiopian monkey. Made by a friend of ours in Andhra Pradesh. It will tell the world about the sufferings of the Ethiopians.”
G. looks confused, and ventures to ask a second question: “The sufferings of Ethiopian monkeys?”
Snaky-Bindi’s eyes now shoot Rajasthani-heritage-daggers at G: “Are you trying to be funny? Because it’s not funny you know. The Ethiopian situation is encapsulated in the monkey’s descent into madness. Even as we speak, the documentary is being shown at various film festivals in Mongolia. And R. has already got an offer to shoot the Mongolian royal family’s palace. He's going to be tied up with that now, for the next few months.”
G. decides to work up enough courage for one last question: “But then, what about the Ethiopian people? I thought the movie was going to give rise to a movement, maybe some charity events…?”
Snaky-Bindi has had enough: “You are just revealing your narrowness of vision. It’s about a movement in the mind, don’t you see? You must transcend this necessity to see everything translate into concrete terms. The otherness of insanity must be transformed into a holistic unity and that’s the only way to deal with the madness of modern civilization!”
G. has also had enough. We walk off, collapsing into laughter as G. downs his drink… “What the fuck…? Otherness? Vertical? Horizontal? Why can’t people speak in plain fricking English?”
Ah well... At the best of times, critical terminology is a wonderful thing. It allows us to conjure up entire systems of thought with one word or one phrase. But critical terminology should not obscure what you’re trying to say! It should make your point clearer, shouldn’t it? Unless, of course, you’re hiding the fact that you don’t really have a point to make at all…
“Shall we go have the kakoris? They’re yummy.”
“Yes, let’s. And let’s stuff a couple into Snaky-Bindi’s mouth as well. Then maybe the room will stop resounding with her "otherness"!”
We stuff ourselves with kakori kebabs, swig a couple of drinks, and flee the party. There’s only so much erudition us mere mortals can take in one night.
I know, I know. We’re horrible people. We crash people’s parties and drink their alcohol and eat their food, and then laugh at them! We’re simply awful. But I wouldn’t trade places for the world. Being on this side of the fence is way too much fun...!
Anyway, so the five of us walk in and look around a little sheepishly. It’s not a very big party and people are scattered all over the house. We feel conspicuous, and huddle together. The host (or some pseudo-host) dawdles over and offers us drinks.
“Sure!” beams out truly-and-directly-invited-friend.
“Sure!” we echo, rather weakly.
Once we’ve settled down with our vodka-and-Cokes and a bowl of chips, we begin to look around. And realize we’ve been provided with free entertainment as well.
There are a whole lot of people from a certain architecture school, famous for- well... actually, I’m not sure it’s famous for anything in particular but its students sure seem to think it’s a great place. I’m just going to take their word for it; sometimes you’ve got to have a little faith in people and what they say, you know?
So anyway, there are a number of women in cotton, ethnic-printed, Fabindia/ Anokhi saris and an equal number in Levi’s jeans and cotton, ethnic-printed, Fabindia/ Anokhi kurtis. Now, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE Fabindia and Anokhi. And I adore cotton, ethnic-prints. But it gets a little tiresome if that’s all you see. A bit like those identically dressed, plasticky, mini-skirted girl-gangs that we all love to hate in Hollywood high-school flicks. A little bit of variety is nice, you know, be it in the midst of high-school-drama or drawing-room-conversation…
The men are equally clone-ish. Raggedy kurtas, dirty-ragged-jeans (why is intellect necessarily synonymous with dirt and lack of maintenance and upkeep?) and (hold your breath-) French beards. Voila! If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
And worse still, if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.
The-Woman-With-The-Dramatic-Snaky-Bindi-Creeping-Around-On-Her-Forehead: “You see, the premise of Chandralekha is that it’s vertically conceptualized, rather than horizontally. Then, obviously, when you see it, you must view it vertically because to do so horizontally is to lose the otherness inherent in the form!”
G. ventures a question: “Chandralekha? Which part of the country is that from?”
Snaky-Bindi shoots him a look of utter contempt: “It’s a post-colonial-style, three-minute documentary about the hallucinatory madness of an Ethiopian monkey. Made by a friend of ours in Andhra Pradesh. It will tell the world about the sufferings of the Ethiopians.”
G. looks confused, and ventures to ask a second question: “The sufferings of Ethiopian monkeys?”
Snaky-Bindi’s eyes now shoot Rajasthani-heritage-daggers at G: “Are you trying to be funny? Because it’s not funny you know. The Ethiopian situation is encapsulated in the monkey’s descent into madness. Even as we speak, the documentary is being shown at various film festivals in Mongolia. And R. has already got an offer to shoot the Mongolian royal family’s palace. He's going to be tied up with that now, for the next few months.”
G. decides to work up enough courage for one last question: “But then, what about the Ethiopian people? I thought the movie was going to give rise to a movement, maybe some charity events…?”
Snaky-Bindi has had enough: “You are just revealing your narrowness of vision. It’s about a movement in the mind, don’t you see? You must transcend this necessity to see everything translate into concrete terms. The otherness of insanity must be transformed into a holistic unity and that’s the only way to deal with the madness of modern civilization!”
G. has also had enough. We walk off, collapsing into laughter as G. downs his drink… “What the fuck…? Otherness? Vertical? Horizontal? Why can’t people speak in plain fricking English?”
Ah well... At the best of times, critical terminology is a wonderful thing. It allows us to conjure up entire systems of thought with one word or one phrase. But critical terminology should not obscure what you’re trying to say! It should make your point clearer, shouldn’t it? Unless, of course, you’re hiding the fact that you don’t really have a point to make at all…
“Shall we go have the kakoris? They’re yummy.”
“Yes, let’s. And let’s stuff a couple into Snaky-Bindi’s mouth as well. Then maybe the room will stop resounding with her "otherness"!”
We stuff ourselves with kakori kebabs, swig a couple of drinks, and flee the party. There’s only so much erudition us mere mortals can take in one night.
I know, I know. We’re horrible people. We crash people’s parties and drink their alcohol and eat their food, and then laugh at them! We’re simply awful. But I wouldn’t trade places for the world. Being on this side of the fence is way too much fun...!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
*snip*
According to Greek Mythology, the three Fates are Goddesses who supervise destiny by controlling each person’s “thread of life”. Clotho selects the thread, Lachesis measures it, and Atropos cuts this thread to signify the end of a person's existence.
What does that sound like, I wonder? The end of a person’s life? If I were making a movie about these whimsical Fates, I know what sound-effect I would use at the moment that Atropos cuts that slender thread. It would be a clear, simple, razor sharp-
*snip*
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Ranjana Bose looks out of her office window. What a beautiful day! The sky is overcast and it looks like it’s going to rain. A welcome respite from the recent heat wave in Delhi. Ranjana looks down at the paperwork on her desk. Is there time for a quick cigarette? Probably not, she tells herself hurriedly, recalling guiltily that she is supposed to be in the process of quitting. And the documents need to be turned in by the end of the day anyway. Ranjana looks out again. Is it drizzling? People seem to be scurrying under that bus-stand.
The landscape lurches.
Her hands are clammy.
A shooting pain.
*snip*
Young Corporate Whiz Kid Succumbs to Untimely Heart Attack
Bill Malkovich trips down the steps from the lobby onto the sidewalk. Oh my god, it’s already 2:00 pm? He curses himself for losing all track of time in the young girl’s room. While one can easily call Bill Malkovich a cradle-snatcher, one can just as easily see that he is a fantastic father. The divorce hasn’t stopped him from attending Parents’ Day Meetings or taking Jenny out regularly for pizza and movies and story-telling sessions. Today is an exception. He should have been at the school right now. His gaze rakes the parking-lot on the other side of the road. Where is that damn car? Oh, there it is! He steps off the kerb as the pedestrian-signal turns green.
The horns blare.
He is momentarily blinded.
Screeching to a halt.
*snip*
Successful Publicist Fatally Run Over As Speeding Bus Turns Corner
Jenell Morrison leans over his Physics textbook. The jingle-jangle of the lecturing professor’s silver bangles is un-fucking-bearable. He wants to crawl back into bed but he knows the test tomorrow will include material from the lecture today. He sighs and glances at Abid, who is glancing at Maria. Jenell tries to suppress a grin. Abid is truly hopeless when it comes to Maria. All his charm and arrogance melt into awkwardness when that girl looks at him. Jenell appraises Abid carefully. Is he really dedicated enough to become a permanent member of Jenell’s beloved band? Well, he did write that great song last week… Jenell looks up at the whiteboard.
The door crashes open.
Something whizzes toward his collarbone.
The room tumbles into chaos.
*snip*
School Student Goes On Arbitrary Killing Spree
Melanie Costa walks in and sits down in the train, comfortably sated after the delicious Italian meal with Gabriella. She rummages in her backpack. Where is that I-Pod gone? She often thinks that perhaps buying the Nano was not such a good idea. So easy to lose! Especially with her messy bag and careless ways. Ah, there it is! Melanie settles back onto the seat. Hmmm… She feels indecisive and there is an inter-generational, musical conflict. Cat Stevens or James Blunt? She thinks about Idan all of a sudden. Good-looking, witty Idan with his sharp cheekbones and crooked smile. Okay, James Blunt it is. “You are beautiful...” the singer’s voice croons into her ears.
A loud, grinding explosion.
She smashes into iron and steel.
Flames towering high.
*snip*
London Underground Rocked By Terror Attacks
Chonburi Sopon tosses the fish up expertly, one last time. It falls into the plate and he takes it to the lone customer sitting outside in the sun. Chonburi smiles at the Australian woman as he hands her the fish, and then decides to take a walk down the beach. He is calmly content today. Thankfully, the loan has been approved and he can finally open the club on the beachside. He is still hesitant about the colour scheme of the interiors though. He is rather partial towards a deep green but Annie has her heart set on a dusky shade of pink. “It’s more vibrant! More club-like!” Chonburi can almost her slightly high-pitched voice over the crashing waves. Are the waves a little more powerful than usual today? He turns to look at the Australian woman who is enjoying her meal.
The waves gather force.
His eyes widen.
The furious water crashes.
*snip*
Asian Tsunami Disaster’s Final Death Toll Over 300000
***
I have been told that bank-balances and moderation and career plans and health insurance and stable relationships are excellent things to possess because they give us:
security and stability.
Except that I’m pretty sure that security and stability are fairly fragile castles.
At that *snip* moment, I do not want to regret the things I did not do- however trite that might sound.
Which just makes me think that Horace got it right, back in 23 BC, when he declared:
Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.
Take hold of the day.
After all, one never knows when Atropos might decide to slit the thread.
What does that sound like, I wonder? The end of a person’s life? If I were making a movie about these whimsical Fates, I know what sound-effect I would use at the moment that Atropos cuts that slender thread. It would be a clear, simple, razor sharp-
*snip*
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Ranjana Bose looks out of her office window. What a beautiful day! The sky is overcast and it looks like it’s going to rain. A welcome respite from the recent heat wave in Delhi. Ranjana looks down at the paperwork on her desk. Is there time for a quick cigarette? Probably not, she tells herself hurriedly, recalling guiltily that she is supposed to be in the process of quitting. And the documents need to be turned in by the end of the day anyway. Ranjana looks out again. Is it drizzling? People seem to be scurrying under that bus-stand.
The landscape lurches.
Her hands are clammy.
A shooting pain.
*snip*
Young Corporate Whiz Kid Succumbs to Untimely Heart Attack
Bill Malkovich trips down the steps from the lobby onto the sidewalk. Oh my god, it’s already 2:00 pm? He curses himself for losing all track of time in the young girl’s room. While one can easily call Bill Malkovich a cradle-snatcher, one can just as easily see that he is a fantastic father. The divorce hasn’t stopped him from attending Parents’ Day Meetings or taking Jenny out regularly for pizza and movies and story-telling sessions. Today is an exception. He should have been at the school right now. His gaze rakes the parking-lot on the other side of the road. Where is that damn car? Oh, there it is! He steps off the kerb as the pedestrian-signal turns green.
The horns blare.
He is momentarily blinded.
Screeching to a halt.
*snip*
Successful Publicist Fatally Run Over As Speeding Bus Turns Corner
Jenell Morrison leans over his Physics textbook. The jingle-jangle of the lecturing professor’s silver bangles is un-fucking-bearable. He wants to crawl back into bed but he knows the test tomorrow will include material from the lecture today. He sighs and glances at Abid, who is glancing at Maria. Jenell tries to suppress a grin. Abid is truly hopeless when it comes to Maria. All his charm and arrogance melt into awkwardness when that girl looks at him. Jenell appraises Abid carefully. Is he really dedicated enough to become a permanent member of Jenell’s beloved band? Well, he did write that great song last week… Jenell looks up at the whiteboard.
The door crashes open.
Something whizzes toward his collarbone.
The room tumbles into chaos.
*snip*
School Student Goes On Arbitrary Killing Spree
Melanie Costa walks in and sits down in the train, comfortably sated after the delicious Italian meal with Gabriella. She rummages in her backpack. Where is that I-Pod gone? She often thinks that perhaps buying the Nano was not such a good idea. So easy to lose! Especially with her messy bag and careless ways. Ah, there it is! Melanie settles back onto the seat. Hmmm… She feels indecisive and there is an inter-generational, musical conflict. Cat Stevens or James Blunt? She thinks about Idan all of a sudden. Good-looking, witty Idan with his sharp cheekbones and crooked smile. Okay, James Blunt it is. “You are beautiful...” the singer’s voice croons into her ears.
A loud, grinding explosion.
She smashes into iron and steel.
Flames towering high.
*snip*
London Underground Rocked By Terror Attacks
Chonburi Sopon tosses the fish up expertly, one last time. It falls into the plate and he takes it to the lone customer sitting outside in the sun. Chonburi smiles at the Australian woman as he hands her the fish, and then decides to take a walk down the beach. He is calmly content today. Thankfully, the loan has been approved and he can finally open the club on the beachside. He is still hesitant about the colour scheme of the interiors though. He is rather partial towards a deep green but Annie has her heart set on a dusky shade of pink. “It’s more vibrant! More club-like!” Chonburi can almost her slightly high-pitched voice over the crashing waves. Are the waves a little more powerful than usual today? He turns to look at the Australian woman who is enjoying her meal.
The waves gather force.
His eyes widen.
The furious water crashes.
*snip*
Asian Tsunami Disaster’s Final Death Toll Over 300000
***
I have been told that bank-balances and moderation and career plans and health insurance and stable relationships are excellent things to possess because they give us:
security and stability.
Except that I’m pretty sure that security and stability are fairly fragile castles.
At that *snip* moment, I do not want to regret the things I did not do- however trite that might sound.
Which just makes me think that Horace got it right, back in 23 BC, when he declared:
Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.
Take hold of the day.
After all, one never knows when Atropos might decide to slit the thread.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Snapshots- the Third
The concluding chapter:
Third year, St. Stephen's College.
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
Falling out of love.(Or so we thought)
What's love got to do with it, anyway?
Weeks of... tasting dead roses every time you walk into the starred gates of College.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to sweet delight
And some are born to endless night
A very wise Middle-earth resident once told me, "Love is not enough. Sometimes, a relationship just loses its energy, its drive... And it comes to a natural end. It's still love; but not the kind that will make you make an effort."
Don't we all wish we had listened to well-meant advice??? :)
Falling in love is so hard on the knees...
McLeodGanj.
Tiny theatres with makeshift seating and owners who bring you tea during the movie if you have just come in from the rain.
McLlo's terrace restaurant. Red wine and Godfather and a dreadlocked-hymn-chanting-foreign-hippy-woman who would generously give you herbs that would knock you out for hours and make you lose all memory of conversations with French-Canadian men and of tripping, dancing and swaying through the main McLeod Street market, all the way to the hotel.
"Yesterday was just a few hours long"
Tibetan freedom bands that play awful music but give the 200 odd people standing in the square an odd sense of brotherhood.
Running through the town to make it in time for the "Wednesday only-Korean Sushi" we tasted in the afternoon. Trekking up to Shiva Cafe and meeting the King and the Queen on the way (two chappal and pyjama clad foreigners surrounded by paintings on slabs of stone).
Israeli salads and fried eggs and sandwiches that were impossible for us to finish!
Delaying a friend's early scheduled departure by convincing him to tear up his ticket and scatter it all over the McLlo's lantern-lit terrace.
Dharamsala shawls- warm and fuzzy and bright purple-orange-green.
Tibetan shopkeepers that give you "Thank you India" bookmarks.
Redemption.
The Foreign Exchange Apartment.
Amazement the first time we peeked into their refrigerator. Everyone has separate milk cartons, separate butter boxes- marked with name tags!!
Heated political discussions- George Bush and Iraq and cultural clashes.
Insane terrace top parties where we whirled and twirled to trance and learnt what it feels like to betray other people.
Breaking down in a bathroom and leaning on a white person. Globalization does not lie in movie-making and ambassadors. It lies in beer, cigarettes and moments of weakness.
Darling, darling
Stand by me
Losing friends.
To drugs. To depression. To betrayal. To indifference.
Dealing with it.
Coming to terms with it.
Realising that we shall never really completely come to terms with losing friends.
It hurts for a long, long time.
Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be so hard.
Let's take it back to the start
Making new friends days before College was to end.
Lamenting lost time, making plans to visit Erithrea (look it up lazy!), bonding over a bong, discovering the understated magnificence of The Power and The Glory, trying very hard to make Ngugi interesting by reading the play aloud-only to have L. fall asleep in the middle of a line, smoking Camel cigarettes, dragging N. out to all sorts of parties till 6 AM, watching O. slowly lose her heart (and her mind!), devotedly taking the Metro to Chandni Chowk to eat kebabs and roomali rotis, dancing between the old and the new at the Graduation Party and laughing so hard that we thought we would collapse under the stars.
Complete and utter emotional chaos: enjoy the rollercoaster ride.
Oscar Epidemic.
A moment of pride when they screened Brokeback Mountain in College and no-one hooted or laughed when Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal sweated provocatively on the screen together.
Movie Marathon at G.'s place.
Capote and cigarettes.
Transamerica and tetra-packs of juice.
Munich and Maggi.
Allnightlong till the Oscar-red-carpet-freakish-costume-extravaganza began at 6:30 AM.
Fighting fate. Fighting change. Fighting inevitability. Fighting the process of letting go.
fightingfightingfighting
The Night of January 16th: the Shakespeare Society's Annual Production-2006.
A very drunk final performance with impromptu lines that only "the insiders" understood.
Countless games of Mafia.
Hours before the show, the sound system in the auditorium blasts the Sutta song.
Ah...university!!
We know I'm going away
How I wish....wish it weren't so
Take this wine & drink with me
Let's delay our misery
Save tonight
And fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow
Tomorrow I'll be gone
Save tonight
Third year, St. Stephen's College.
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
Falling out of love.(Or so we thought)
What's love got to do with it, anyway?
Weeks of... tasting dead roses every time you walk into the starred gates of College.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to sweet delight
And some are born to endless night
A very wise Middle-earth resident once told me, "Love is not enough. Sometimes, a relationship just loses its energy, its drive... And it comes to a natural end. It's still love; but not the kind that will make you make an effort."
Don't we all wish we had listened to well-meant advice??? :)
Falling in love is so hard on the knees...
McLeodGanj.
Tiny theatres with makeshift seating and owners who bring you tea during the movie if you have just come in from the rain.
McLlo's terrace restaurant. Red wine and Godfather and a dreadlocked-hymn-chanting-foreign-hippy-woman who would generously give you herbs that would knock you out for hours and make you lose all memory of conversations with French-Canadian men and of tripping, dancing and swaying through the main McLeod Street market, all the way to the hotel.
"Yesterday was just a few hours long"
Tibetan freedom bands that play awful music but give the 200 odd people standing in the square an odd sense of brotherhood.
Running through the town to make it in time for the "Wednesday only-Korean Sushi" we tasted in the afternoon. Trekking up to Shiva Cafe and meeting the King and the Queen on the way (two chappal and pyjama clad foreigners surrounded by paintings on slabs of stone).
Israeli salads and fried eggs and sandwiches that were impossible for us to finish!
Delaying a friend's early scheduled departure by convincing him to tear up his ticket and scatter it all over the McLlo's lantern-lit terrace.
Dharamsala shawls- warm and fuzzy and bright purple-orange-green.
Tibetan shopkeepers that give you "Thank you India" bookmarks.
Redemption.
The Foreign Exchange Apartment.
Amazement the first time we peeked into their refrigerator. Everyone has separate milk cartons, separate butter boxes- marked with name tags!!
Heated political discussions- George Bush and Iraq and cultural clashes.
Insane terrace top parties where we whirled and twirled to trance and learnt what it feels like to betray other people.
Breaking down in a bathroom and leaning on a white person. Globalization does not lie in movie-making and ambassadors. It lies in beer, cigarettes and moments of weakness.
Darling, darling
Stand by me
Losing friends.
To drugs. To depression. To betrayal. To indifference.
Dealing with it.
Coming to terms with it.
Realising that we shall never really completely come to terms with losing friends.
It hurts for a long, long time.
Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be so hard.
Let's take it back to the start
Making new friends days before College was to end.
Lamenting lost time, making plans to visit Erithrea (look it up lazy!), bonding over a bong, discovering the understated magnificence of The Power and The Glory, trying very hard to make Ngugi interesting by reading the play aloud-only to have L. fall asleep in the middle of a line, smoking Camel cigarettes, dragging N. out to all sorts of parties till 6 AM, watching O. slowly lose her heart (and her mind!), devotedly taking the Metro to Chandni Chowk to eat kebabs and roomali rotis, dancing between the old and the new at the Graduation Party and laughing so hard that we thought we would collapse under the stars.
Complete and utter emotional chaos: enjoy the rollercoaster ride.
Oscar Epidemic.
A moment of pride when they screened Brokeback Mountain in College and no-one hooted or laughed when Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal sweated provocatively on the screen together.
Movie Marathon at G.'s place.
Capote and cigarettes.
Transamerica and tetra-packs of juice.
Munich and Maggi.
Allnightlong till the Oscar-red-carpet-freakish-costume-extravaganza began at 6:30 AM.
Fighting fate. Fighting change. Fighting inevitability. Fighting the process of letting go.
fightingfightingfighting
The Night of January 16th: the Shakespeare Society's Annual Production-2006.
A very drunk final performance with impromptu lines that only "the insiders" understood.
Countless games of Mafia.
Hours before the show, the sound system in the auditorium blasts the Sutta song.
Ah...university!!
We know I'm going away
How I wish....wish it weren't so
Take this wine & drink with me
Let's delay our misery
Save tonight
And fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow
Tomorrow I'll be gone
Save tonight
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Snapshots- the Second
Second year, St. Stephen's College.
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
--falling in love--
Lay down your arms.
And surrender to me
Parking lots and elevators and lobbies and bedrooms and bathrooms and dance floors and apartments and car-rides and... you get the point...
That kind of lovin'
Makes me wanna pull
Down the shade, yeah
That kind of lovin'
Yeah now I'm never, never, never, never gonna be the same
^friendship^
Brilliant, sparkling, sunlit.
Sneaking alcohol into the college premises in a bottle of Coke and drinking it blatantly on the SCR lawns.
Traipsing through College- drunk out of our minds.
Cribbing. Whining. Complaining.
ALL. THE. TIME.
and then...
Laughing. Giggling. Grinning.
ALL. THE. TIME.
Give me a problem and I shall show you how to humour yourself.
Thank you College.
Boring Sundays turned into hours of card-games and King's Beer. Shakespearan declamations in the middle of the street at 3 o'clock in the morning (thank you O.). R and N bring out the guitars and we spend all night singing everything we can possibly think of. Countless nights spent at H. Lines. One explosive couple and many slammed doors. Navy Cuts turn up under clothes, in books, in pillow covers, and on one memorable occasion, in the fridge! Emergency stash... Always prepared...
N-A-G-I-N-I
A small village a few hours short of Manali, with 2 shops (primarily stocking Pine cigarettes and Coke) and 2 trout-fishing resorts. Well... 'resort' is really an overstatement. Scattered tents on an incline. Cubicles on the upper slopes which were used as showers. Telling the helpers that we needed hot water at least half an hour before we wanted to bathe.
Days of doing nothing at all. Nothing productive anyway! Fishing, walking, playing cards, walking, smoking, walking, debating, walking... Bonfires and Pearl Jam and guitars and Euphoria and alcohol and the craziest, most ridiculous Hindi songs ever invented.
Kaise bhoolegi mera naam?
CM (the owner), generously doling out charas (he smokes from the moment he wakes up till he falls asleep). SM (his wife) doling out the pasta and fried chicken.
The river.
Gushing and frothy and infinitely entertaining. L. hopping like a goat across the rocks and stumbling in her overconfidence: splashes of laughter. Nearly losing a family shawl to the river. CM's precise instructions about the bait and the angle and pressure with which to throw the line out. Accidentally tangling the hook into D.'s hair while tossing the line. Inexplicable skeletons on the riverbank.
Going to explore the village on the other side of the river- no bridges! Only a dicey trolley that could take 2 people at a time... The guide pulling us to the other side with ropes that looked uncertain and frayed. Dangling above the sharp rocks and wondering whether we'd die immediately or in a painful, long drawn out manner, if we fell.
The temple on the other side. A small room with an idol in one corner and posters of Karisma Kapoor and Sonali Bendre on the other walls. Incredible.
An argument about reservation. Passion and zest and cynisism and idealism and resignation and anger and apathy and pragmatism and love.
A Canadian Punjabi who defied compartmentalization with a vengeance. Stories about her dedicatedly Buddhist group back in Canada which gathered for a spiritual weekend at a bungalow which was stocked with "every possible drug available in the world". Her religious faith and belief in God and incidents about her crazy dog that insisted on "humping" every guest who entered her house. Her loud, raucous laughter and her quiet, shy lady 'companion'.
Being ridiculously scared to go up to the bathrooms after a ghost story session one night. Working our way up the mountain slope with torches in a tight knot. Brushing our teeth in fear over the washbasins in the open air, fearing an attack by a psychotic killer any second (for as K. put it in a well-timed remark- "Psychos are easier to believe in than ghosts. Our guide could be one!").
The days flew by.
A holiday so perfect that no other will ever match up to it.
It raised the bar.
Forever.
alcohol
DV8 and Blues and Hash and RPM and F-Bar and Mantra and Elevate.
Again.
And again.
And then again...
And coffee at The Imperial when we were feeling extravagant.
the epics
The Iliad.
Sing, goddess, the deadly wrath of Achilles son of Peleus,
That brought countless woes for the Achaeans,
and sent forth many strong souls of heroes to Hades,
making they themselves spoils for dogs and
feasts for birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished.
Sheer magnificence.
A sense of loss.
We shall never live in times where glory is everything, where it is the sole motivation, where it is enough.
G. reading Homer with Metallica blaring in the background.
Master of puppets, I'm pulling your strings
Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
Blinded by me, you can't see a thing
Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream
Zeus.
Master of Puppets.
The Mahabharata.
Unravelling its secrets.
Like a treasure hunt!
Like scrabbling about in a dying bonfire and finding a few, scattered golden embers.
The joy of discovery; like Cortez in Mesoamerica.
Triumphing over a text.
Realising that we can never really triumph.
Faustian arrogance; hubris?
Being humbled by the awesome complexity and immortality of the work.
Regretting our 21st century existence.
Damn.
*love*
It defies description.
Shall I try anyway?
John Donne's 'The Sun Rising':
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Suddenly... poetry makes a whole lot of sense....
.a.r.b.i.t.r.a.r.i.n.e.s.s.
R.'s guttural mumblings about Shakespeare.
Clashes with the Dean about sheltering puppies in a Rez room in the wintry cruelty of North Campus.
Arriving one morning to find all the benches round the dhaba tree uprooted. Speculation about the mysterious forces who had carried out this despicable act in the mystery and anonymity of the night.
Monkeys dancing devilishly and scattering the rezzies' laundry all over the College grounds.
AM's fantastic excuses to wriggle out of lecturing us: ear surgery ("I can barely hear"), hand surgery ("I can barely move"), eye surgery ("I can barely see"), abdominal surgery ("I can barely digest anything") and general surgery ("I'm on my deathbed").
Paharganj.
Flowy skirts, the cheapest drinks in town at Chandni Bar (respectably known as Vikram Hotel), and the nicest lasagna and slowest service in town at the terrace-top old-Manali-esque Sam's Cafe. Dappled sunlight filters through hanging scarves and rickety balconies and oxidized silver earrings and Tibetan style ponchos...
Your cool suburban sun
You're foolin' every one
You win some you lose some
To be continued...
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
--falling in love--
Lay down your arms.
And surrender to me
Parking lots and elevators and lobbies and bedrooms and bathrooms and dance floors and apartments and car-rides and... you get the point...
That kind of lovin'
Makes me wanna pull
Down the shade, yeah
That kind of lovin'
Yeah now I'm never, never, never, never gonna be the same
^friendship^
Brilliant, sparkling, sunlit.
Sneaking alcohol into the college premises in a bottle of Coke and drinking it blatantly on the SCR lawns.
Traipsing through College- drunk out of our minds.
Cribbing. Whining. Complaining.
ALL. THE. TIME.
and then...
Laughing. Giggling. Grinning.
ALL. THE. TIME.
Give me a problem and I shall show you how to humour yourself.
Thank you College.
Boring Sundays turned into hours of card-games and King's Beer. Shakespearan declamations in the middle of the street at 3 o'clock in the morning (thank you O.). R and N bring out the guitars and we spend all night singing everything we can possibly think of. Countless nights spent at H. Lines. One explosive couple and many slammed doors. Navy Cuts turn up under clothes, in books, in pillow covers, and on one memorable occasion, in the fridge! Emergency stash... Always prepared...
N-A-G-I-N-I
A small village a few hours short of Manali, with 2 shops (primarily stocking Pine cigarettes and Coke) and 2 trout-fishing resorts. Well... 'resort' is really an overstatement. Scattered tents on an incline. Cubicles on the upper slopes which were used as showers. Telling the helpers that we needed hot water at least half an hour before we wanted to bathe.
Days of doing nothing at all. Nothing productive anyway! Fishing, walking, playing cards, walking, smoking, walking, debating, walking... Bonfires and Pearl Jam and guitars and Euphoria and alcohol and the craziest, most ridiculous Hindi songs ever invented.
Kaise bhoolegi mera naam?
CM (the owner), generously doling out charas (he smokes from the moment he wakes up till he falls asleep). SM (his wife) doling out the pasta and fried chicken.
The river.
Gushing and frothy and infinitely entertaining. L. hopping like a goat across the rocks and stumbling in her overconfidence: splashes of laughter. Nearly losing a family shawl to the river. CM's precise instructions about the bait and the angle and pressure with which to throw the line out. Accidentally tangling the hook into D.'s hair while tossing the line. Inexplicable skeletons on the riverbank.
Going to explore the village on the other side of the river- no bridges! Only a dicey trolley that could take 2 people at a time... The guide pulling us to the other side with ropes that looked uncertain and frayed. Dangling above the sharp rocks and wondering whether we'd die immediately or in a painful, long drawn out manner, if we fell.
The temple on the other side. A small room with an idol in one corner and posters of Karisma Kapoor and Sonali Bendre on the other walls. Incredible.
An argument about reservation. Passion and zest and cynisism and idealism and resignation and anger and apathy and pragmatism and love.
A Canadian Punjabi who defied compartmentalization with a vengeance. Stories about her dedicatedly Buddhist group back in Canada which gathered for a spiritual weekend at a bungalow which was stocked with "every possible drug available in the world". Her religious faith and belief in God and incidents about her crazy dog that insisted on "humping" every guest who entered her house. Her loud, raucous laughter and her quiet, shy lady 'companion'.
Being ridiculously scared to go up to the bathrooms after a ghost story session one night. Working our way up the mountain slope with torches in a tight knot. Brushing our teeth in fear over the washbasins in the open air, fearing an attack by a psychotic killer any second (for as K. put it in a well-timed remark- "Psychos are easier to believe in than ghosts. Our guide could be one!").
The days flew by.
A holiday so perfect that no other will ever match up to it.
It raised the bar.
Forever.
alcohol
DV8 and Blues and Hash and RPM and F-Bar and Mantra and Elevate.
Again.
And again.
And then again...
And coffee at The Imperial when we were feeling extravagant.
the epics
The Iliad.
Sing, goddess, the deadly wrath of Achilles son of Peleus,
That brought countless woes for the Achaeans,
and sent forth many strong souls of heroes to Hades,
making they themselves spoils for dogs and
feasts for birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished.
Sheer magnificence.
A sense of loss.
We shall never live in times where glory is everything, where it is the sole motivation, where it is enough.
G. reading Homer with Metallica blaring in the background.
Master of puppets, I'm pulling your strings
Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
Blinded by me, you can't see a thing
Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream
Zeus.
Master of Puppets.
The Mahabharata.
Unravelling its secrets.
Like a treasure hunt!
Like scrabbling about in a dying bonfire and finding a few, scattered golden embers.
The joy of discovery; like Cortez in Mesoamerica.
Triumphing over a text.
Realising that we can never really triumph.
Faustian arrogance; hubris?
Being humbled by the awesome complexity and immortality of the work.
Regretting our 21st century existence.
Damn.
*love*
It defies description.
Shall I try anyway?
John Donne's 'The Sun Rising':
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Suddenly... poetry makes a whole lot of sense....
.a.r.b.i.t.r.a.r.i.n.e.s.s.
R.'s guttural mumblings about Shakespeare.
Clashes with the Dean about sheltering puppies in a Rez room in the wintry cruelty of North Campus.
Arriving one morning to find all the benches round the dhaba tree uprooted. Speculation about the mysterious forces who had carried out this despicable act in the mystery and anonymity of the night.
Monkeys dancing devilishly and scattering the rezzies' laundry all over the College grounds.
AM's fantastic excuses to wriggle out of lecturing us: ear surgery ("I can barely hear"), hand surgery ("I can barely move"), eye surgery ("I can barely see"), abdominal surgery ("I can barely digest anything") and general surgery ("I'm on my deathbed").
Paharganj.
Flowy skirts, the cheapest drinks in town at Chandni Bar (respectably known as Vikram Hotel), and the nicest lasagna and slowest service in town at the terrace-top old-Manali-esque Sam's Cafe. Dappled sunlight filters through hanging scarves and rickety balconies and oxidized silver earrings and Tibetan style ponchos...
Your cool suburban sun
You're foolin' every one
You win some you lose some
To be continued...
Friday, February 16, 2007
Snapshots- the First
Snapshots:
First year, St.Stephen's College.
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
Innocence blended with guitars blended with Robert Browning blended with cigarette smoke blended with Kamala Nagar blended with assembly speeches.
Free falling
The Gang of Five. Pasta and iced-tea and Big Chill. The larger circle of College acquaintances. Kebab rolls at the Hindu canteen; looks like a railways station: multi-coloured railings, a juice-stall, 102.6 MHz and bathrooms right next to the counter. But the kebab rolls were worth it.
The Shakespeare Society.
Theatre games and theatre politics. Green room conversations- random and generally accompanied by a Navy Cut. Tinted with nostalgia even as we sat talking; we were so aware that this would be one of our defining memories of College Life. The first post-production party. Crazy. The alcohol was loud and the music was flowing.
Yes.
Exactly that.
Culture shock?? We thought we knew it all... :)
Heated political issues. To vote or not to vote? Presumptuous statements, cafe walkouts, SMS arguments...
Nainital.
English departmental trip. Comfortable silences, video game parlours, one hotel room with 15 people, guitars and whisky, midnight walks, mountain climbing, an unexpected dragon, boating on Naukuchiyatal, sizzling aloo paranthas and mountain-tea. The induction was complete.
Hash, Buzz, RPM, TGIF, Ruby Tuesday's. Dancing on the tables. Shot after shot after shot after shot. Tequila... Bailey's... Vodka... What's that? Who cares? Bring it on... Blowing up a week's allowance in one night. Broke. Tanking up in the car for a hundred bucks and then heading to Hash, ordering one drink and dancing the night away. LC tap dances on the bar, OB is constantly worried about her eye-brows and R is convinced he has left his car open.
Aaisha, Aaisha
Passing me by
Parallel cinema, the world of Latin American stardust, small-budget movies, foreign films, Bengali cinema. Afternoons in the auditorium. Laughing and crying with Alfredo in Cinema Paradiso. Drooling over Gabriel Garcia Bernal. Watching City of God and wondering whether life would ever be the same again. Intense discussions in the Sarai coffe shop about the German Nazi propoganda film. Terminology being tossed all over the room. The same way you'd say 'Espresso!' or 'Cappucchino!". Except here it was 'Leftist' and 'Marxist' and 'Nazi' and 'Capitalist'. No-one said pseudo-intellectual. I wonder why. There were enough of them around.
Understanding a text.
Really?? Can one line mean all that?? Bullshit. That line cannot be analyzed in 20 different ways. It means what it says. Really?? Can one line mean that little??
Give me a word and I shall show you the universe.
Sitting in the cafe from the moment we arrived till Mohan and Bhaiyyan would literally push us out at 2:00 pm. Endless cups of tea and coffee, cheese toasts, Maggis, cigarettes (that would be suitably stubbed out when Wilson/ any other Threats were approaching), cards, tutes, conversations with each other and Mohan (Bhaiyyan's a bit of a grouch!), nimbupaani... Like the post-office of a small village, The Cafe: our very own community centre. Coming and going, coming and going... the Hub of all the drama, and the news.
Learning. Learning how to be your own person. In the midst of people and groups that told you something other than what you believed all your life.
Realising that they are not always right.
Realising that you are not always right either.
One phone call. Goa to Delhi. 4:00 AM, 1st January.
The beginning of an era.
Vascillating for weeks.
Resorting to good old cellphones in order to flirt.
15th February. Clinched the deal.
BD- the Queen of Slaps: "let them echo forevermore"
Sunny afternoons outside the chapel.
Endless days and endless nights.
Maqbool and momos and mellow madness.
A summer full of vodka and hip-hop.
Football matches and sweaty bear-hugs.
Laughter.
Laage tumse mann ki lagan
Nescafe.
Pink sweaters and Christmas.
General Insanity at the Grad Di party.
Partying so hard that we learnt the art (there is one...).
Winter's cold spring erases
And the calm away by the storm is chasen
Everything good needs replacing
Look up, look down, all around
Satellite
To be continued...
First year, St.Stephen's College.
Brick-red, stone-grey, leaf-green.
Innocence blended with guitars blended with Robert Browning blended with cigarette smoke blended with Kamala Nagar blended with assembly speeches.
Free falling
The Gang of Five. Pasta and iced-tea and Big Chill. The larger circle of College acquaintances. Kebab rolls at the Hindu canteen; looks like a railways station: multi-coloured railings, a juice-stall, 102.6 MHz and bathrooms right next to the counter. But the kebab rolls were worth it.
The Shakespeare Society.
Theatre games and theatre politics. Green room conversations- random and generally accompanied by a Navy Cut. Tinted with nostalgia even as we sat talking; we were so aware that this would be one of our defining memories of College Life. The first post-production party. Crazy. The alcohol was loud and the music was flowing.
Yes.
Exactly that.
Culture shock?? We thought we knew it all... :)
Heated political issues. To vote or not to vote? Presumptuous statements, cafe walkouts, SMS arguments...
Nainital.
English departmental trip. Comfortable silences, video game parlours, one hotel room with 15 people, guitars and whisky, midnight walks, mountain climbing, an unexpected dragon, boating on Naukuchiyatal, sizzling aloo paranthas and mountain-tea. The induction was complete.
Hash, Buzz, RPM, TGIF, Ruby Tuesday's. Dancing on the tables. Shot after shot after shot after shot. Tequila... Bailey's... Vodka... What's that? Who cares? Bring it on... Blowing up a week's allowance in one night. Broke. Tanking up in the car for a hundred bucks and then heading to Hash, ordering one drink and dancing the night away. LC tap dances on the bar, OB is constantly worried about her eye-brows and R is convinced he has left his car open.
Aaisha, Aaisha
Passing me by
Parallel cinema, the world of Latin American stardust, small-budget movies, foreign films, Bengali cinema. Afternoons in the auditorium. Laughing and crying with Alfredo in Cinema Paradiso. Drooling over Gabriel Garcia Bernal. Watching City of God and wondering whether life would ever be the same again. Intense discussions in the Sarai coffe shop about the German Nazi propoganda film. Terminology being tossed all over the room. The same way you'd say 'Espresso!' or 'Cappucchino!". Except here it was 'Leftist' and 'Marxist' and 'Nazi' and 'Capitalist'. No-one said pseudo-intellectual. I wonder why. There were enough of them around.
Understanding a text.
Really?? Can one line mean all that?? Bullshit. That line cannot be analyzed in 20 different ways. It means what it says. Really?? Can one line mean that little??
Give me a word and I shall show you the universe.
Sitting in the cafe from the moment we arrived till Mohan and Bhaiyyan would literally push us out at 2:00 pm. Endless cups of tea and coffee, cheese toasts, Maggis, cigarettes (that would be suitably stubbed out when Wilson/ any other Threats were approaching), cards, tutes, conversations with each other and Mohan (Bhaiyyan's a bit of a grouch!), nimbupaani... Like the post-office of a small village, The Cafe: our very own community centre. Coming and going, coming and going... the Hub of all the drama, and the news.
Learning. Learning how to be your own person. In the midst of people and groups that told you something other than what you believed all your life.
Realising that they are not always right.
Realising that you are not always right either.
One phone call. Goa to Delhi. 4:00 AM, 1st January.
The beginning of an era.
Vascillating for weeks.
Resorting to good old cellphones in order to flirt.
15th February. Clinched the deal.
BD- the Queen of Slaps: "let them echo forevermore"
Sunny afternoons outside the chapel.
Endless days and endless nights.
Maqbool and momos and mellow madness.
A summer full of vodka and hip-hop.
Football matches and sweaty bear-hugs.
Laughter.
Laage tumse mann ki lagan
Nescafe.
Pink sweaters and Christmas.
General Insanity at the Grad Di party.
Partying so hard that we learnt the art (there is one...).
Winter's cold spring erases
And the calm away by the storm is chasen
Everything good needs replacing
Look up, look down, all around
Satellite
To be continued...
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