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...!
Saturday, May 19, 2007
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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