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.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
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...!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)