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...
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
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...
Friday, November 17, 2006
Teresa...
 |
| Image: sas |
Oh Teresa, it was not too late...
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.
In a hole in the universe there lived a Teresa.
A lonely, neverending tunnel of Espressos, littered with scraps of verse, and lit up at intervals with half-smoked Marlboros.
Did you not know the way out?
Were you too scared to make your way to the surface?
Or were you simply lazy?
Were you angry?
Or just tired?
Oh Teresa...
I remember the time you flitted in and out of our lives. An ethereal butterfly! Shimmering flowing skirts and magical bronze shadows that tantalized every man in sight.
We were enchanted.
Laughter. Deep throated and free spirited. You belonged to Almost Famous, without the cynisism. Penny Lane. Pure joy.
Our very own gypsy.
Why Teresa?
I do not understand. I have tried. But I cannot.
How do you solve a problem like Maria?
How do you solve a problem like Teresa?
Wizardry!
I loved you.
We loved you.
Teresa in the mirror, laughing at the appalling decor of the Mirage restrooms. Teresa at the bar, charming the bartender into giving us Baileys shooters on the house. Teresa dancing to old-school hip hop with the New Yorkers on the dance floor. Teresa collapsing with laughter in the parking-lot while attempting to sing 'Cecilia'.
You're breaking my heart, you're shaking my confidence daily.
It is the incomprehension that has scarred us.
I am defeated.
Gandalf would appear when least expected. Fireworks! Great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire.
Teresa would appear when least expected. Fireworks! Great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire.
A regular prosaic Saturday night transformed intp a collage of mystery, truth and camaraderie.
"To be ordinary is a fate worse than death."
Was that your own line or did you borrow it from someone else?
There was so much we did not know about you but the incomprehension did not bother me back then. You were...like an optical illusion. Meant to be enjoyed, not understood.
Teresa on the terrace, reciting Robert Browning's 'My Last Duchess'. I think two people out of twenty were familiar with the poem. It didn't matter. Only Teresa mattered.
Teresa in the garden, barefoot in the dew.
Pied Piper?
Well, we all followed you that night.
Twenty pairs of shoes on the porch.
Where on earth did you go?
Insubstantial whispers through the Delhi grapevine. We heard...
Reams of poetry that we did not read.
Countless nights when you did not meet us.
Endless tears that you refused to let us see.
Packets of cigarettes that we did not share.
Our Teresa... no more?
We looked.
I am a rock, I am an island
And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.
Butterfly turned to stone. Lost in the gravel. Impossible to locate.
Sometimes I think you might come back. And if you do, we have the mountains and the sunlight to escape to. I am guessing you would like the sunshine. I don't know. We never met you in the daytime, remember?
Oh Teresa, it was not too late...
Why did you not let us save you?
You saved us.
You changed our lives.
Delhi sparkles with stardust because of you Tinker Bell... Our very own Neverland.
Eighteen more people on this planet know and love Robert Browning.
'Cecilia' means laughter at 2:00 AM in a parking-lot.
Bronze is magic.
And the magic has touched us.
"Good-bye!" said Gandalf, "And good-bye to all of you, good-bye! And I am not going to allow you to back out now. I am ashamed of you for thinking of it."
"Good-bye!" said Teresa, "And good-bye to all of you, good-bye! And I am not going to allow you to back out now. I am ashamed of you for thinking of it."
You have denied us all access to your reality. We do not know. We cannot follow.
Pied Piper's betrayal- reversed.
Oh Teresa it was not too late...
Now I understand what you tried to say to me. How you suffered for your sanity.
No, I don't.
They would not listen, they're not listening still. Perhaps they never will.
You made sure we won't, Teresa.
Did you know what you were doing? Did you realize?
We had vertigo. And then we glimpsed your world. The fantastic heights, the proximity to the stars, the rush of joy, the sheer abandonment of fear- moments of intoxication.
It is hard to think clearly on the 51st floor of a building.
Less oxygen.
Too much freedom.
Solitude.
I have tried to imagine the Baileys bottle in your hands. And the song that you might have been singing. And the thoughts that you might have been thinking.
Perhaps you were right.
Vertigo is scary.
The complete absence of vertigo is even scarier.
They gazed and wondered; but they were no nearer understanding it, when the first cold stars came out.
Perhaps it was too late.
Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.
Teresa is in my ears and in my eyes.
Let's drink to that.
Make it Baileys.
Cheers
Epilogue:
The world is divided into those who have read Tolkien and those who are going to read him.
The world is divided into those who have met Teresa and those who are going to meet her.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Rules of Revelry
A party that lasts 3 years teaches you a lot of things.
February Fantasy:
Everybody on the dance floor
It is hard to remember how many bottles of alcohol were consumed. It is also hard for most people to remember the events of that night. The terrace, the bedroom, the dance floor and yes, the bathroom, had all been taken over by the music. No-one remembers how it began but at some point, the dirty dancing crackled and spiralled.
Come on baby, light my fire...
The body-count per individual ranged from none at all to 6. Most people were somewhere in between. Could have had something to do with the fact that the party was one day after Valentine's Day, which seems to be designed by Hallmark and Archies to make everyone feel inadequate.
Or maybe everyone was just drunk beyond belief. Drunk on the vodka and the whisky and the gin and the beer. High on the beautiful weather that night- Delhi winter's last lap. On College. On each other. On Madonna and The Beatles and Punjabi remixes. Sloshed because of the sense of the ridiculously safe anonymity on a dark dance floor where it is nearly impossible to tell who you've wrapped your arms around and are dancing with. High on the fact that maybe you don't even want to know who you're dancing with. High on love, or the possibility of it. And wasted on an occasional shot of infidelity; most potent of all in my opinion (also leads to the worst hangover but that's besides the point). And, most of all, drunk on the fact that there is no impending judgement.
----Remember, 'the morning after' is just like any other morning and ought to be treated as such.
Smoky September:
Last day of the fest. No Escape.
I get knocked down, but I get up again
"Can I bum a cigarette off you please?"
"Sure. It's a Navy Cut though."
*smiles*
"That's my brand too. Thanks."
*smiles back*
The cigarette is lit and the two of them stand together smoking.
Pull-hold-puff-pause-pull-hold-puff-pause
"Crazy scene tonight huh?"
"Yeah... Look at them going at it on the dance floor!"
"Why aren't you with them?"
"Need a breather."
"I see... Beer?"
"Sure."
Sharing a drink.
sip-pause-sip-pause-sip-pause
I drink a whisky drink, I drink a vodka drink
I drink a lager drink, I drink a cider drink
They never make it back to the dance floor. The conversation at the bar carries on. Inconsequential, regular stuff. Right uptil 2:00 AM when the place finally closes down.
Nah, don't worry. It doesn't turn predictable and they don't end up best friends for life/ get married to each other. But every time they meet after that, they share a smoke and a drink, and the No-Escape-night sparkles in the fizz and glows in the embers of the Classic Mild/ Benson and Hedges/ whatever (brands change with economic prosperity!).
Nostalgia in tobacco and alcohol.
I sing the songs that remind me of the good times
I sing the songs that remind me of the better times
----Sharing a cigarette or a drink is a quasi-religous experience.
Yes.
It is.
March madness:
Party in Ghaziabad. We're in North Campus. A one-hour drive away.
"Are we going?"
"Too far ya... Too much of an effort. Let's just chill at home."
"Cool. What are we eating? Chinese?"
"Hmmm... Momos and fried rice."
The College boys arrive alongwith the delivery boy.
"Come ON women. Let's go! All the third years are going... It's a full on third year scene. And the Maths guys have bought an insane number of beers."
We hesitate. What finally decides the matter is that it's easier to go than to spend half an hour making excuses.
Leave at midnight. Get there at 1:00. The party's just getting started.
A massive garden with beer bongs placed in strategic spots. General camaraderie. The music is loud and EVERYONE is dancing. People being thrust up on the table one by one. Cheers and beers and no-more-tears...
The electricity lets us down A general protest. One smart cookie drives his car onto the lawn and puts on the music- full blast. Never say die.
We wind up at 5:30 AM. The cops have arrived. Flee the scene!! The cars screech out of the driveway past the police vans.
Three cars driving side by side on the highway. The last few cigarettes and bottles of vodka being passed from car to car, while driving. Laughing at the madness.
Driving up the ridge. It's a winding road and contrary to the popular perception of crazy, drunk college kids, all three cars slow down and drive carefully. Blind turn coming up. We're in the first car and we take the turn.
screech-skid-crash-silence
A Maruti van, speeding in the opposite direction on a one-way road has crashed into the car behind us. We park on a side and suddenly there are 20 people on the road. The Maruti driver has already fled into the forest before anyone could react. He must have known he had crashed into a car full of Sports players (who also happened to be Jats). The two passengers weren't quite as smart. The College crowd loses its temper. When you're high and still driving carefully, an accident really hurts. The Maruti-men are hauled out and bashed up. We (that is- the girls) protest feebly but there isn't much point.
K. walks around in a trance and comes up to us.
"Have you seen my shoes guys?"
He's been walking around barefoot.
"Nope. Just go sit down in the car please."
The cops are a 100 metres down the road and have arrived. They stand around, enjoying the show. For those of you who are unfamiliar with North India's social dynamics... Jats and cops are brothers, kindred spirits...
The frustration has finally been vented. The passengers pay up to cover the cost of the damage.
The cops see us off with strict, paternal-style instructions to drive carefully and get some sleep.
"Thank you ji! Bye!"
Home sweet home. N. had left the party earlier. He took the keys and is now sleeping inside.
ringing-the-bell
ring-ring-ring-ring
Crap.
"Call him."
dial-no answer-dial-no answer-dial-no answer
Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Banging on the door, screaming his name together on the count of three. Six voices shout in unison. Our knocking is bringing the damn house down.
N. has evidently passed out good and proper.
The neighbours are now screaming at us. Bedlam in the building.
We give up. Drive to another friend's place and collapse into bed at 8:00 AM.
----Every night is a potential adventure and holds the possibility of a memory you will recall with fondness.
Also, don't mess with Jat footballers and hockey players.
December Disaster:
A birthday party. Beautifully done up. Waiters and expensive food and lush green lawns and a DJ. Vintage airplanes in the backyard.
'Cos i try and try to forget you girl
But it's just so hard to do
Everytime you do that thing you do
A hand up a skirt is all it takes to ruin a night.
She was wearing a very pretty skirt. Short and shimmery and green. He was talking to her when suddenly, without preamble or permission, he thrust his hand under the flimsy fabric.
What an idiot.
I don't ask a lot girl, but I know one thing for sure
It's the love I haven't got girl, and I just can't take it anymore
Her boyfriend was livid with rage (yes, there was a boyfriend in the picture) and I think he would have killed the offender if he hadn't been held back by friends. She was sobbing in the corner. Some of the guys slapped him around. A couple of his friends attempted to defend him.
"He's very drunk yaar. He's had too many."
The host realized that the party could easily turn into a war-zone and it nearly did. A couple of people got beaten up. They weren't involved in the episode but that hardly matters when tempers are running high and there's a girl involved. Blood on the dance floor.
"Take him away guys. We'll deal with it later."
They do. He doesn't come to College the next day. Only after 30 days and repeated apologies does he step into the hallowed halls once again.
----Don't be an asshole.
Alcohol is not a reason or a valid excuse. You only do the things you really want to do.
January Joint-
Sitting around in the sun.
rolling rolling rolling rolling rolling
Boom Shankar
Memories of Malana and Manali. Someone's got a friend along whose sitting with us.
Take three hits and pass it on. The group is large and there are only 2 'J's. The new chap's turn.
1...2...3...4...5...6...!!!
The old-timers look at one another. Obviously a rookie. Hostility is growing in the circle.
7...8...9...
Someone takes pity on the poor chap.
"Dude...pass it on. There are a lot of people left."
"Oh sure, sure.. Sorry!"
5 minutes later, it reaches him again.
1...2...3...4...5...!!
6...7...8...9...!!
----Every social activity involving more than 3 people is a ritual and has its own rules.
And some people never learn...
February Fantasy:
Everybody on the dance floor
It is hard to remember how many bottles of alcohol were consumed. It is also hard for most people to remember the events of that night. The terrace, the bedroom, the dance floor and yes, the bathroom, had all been taken over by the music. No-one remembers how it began but at some point, the dirty dancing crackled and spiralled.
Come on baby, light my fire...
The body-count per individual ranged from none at all to 6. Most people were somewhere in between. Could have had something to do with the fact that the party was one day after Valentine's Day, which seems to be designed by Hallmark and Archies to make everyone feel inadequate.
Or maybe everyone was just drunk beyond belief. Drunk on the vodka and the whisky and the gin and the beer. High on the beautiful weather that night- Delhi winter's last lap. On College. On each other. On Madonna and The Beatles and Punjabi remixes. Sloshed because of the sense of the ridiculously safe anonymity on a dark dance floor where it is nearly impossible to tell who you've wrapped your arms around and are dancing with. High on the fact that maybe you don't even want to know who you're dancing with. High on love, or the possibility of it. And wasted on an occasional shot of infidelity; most potent of all in my opinion (also leads to the worst hangover but that's besides the point). And, most of all, drunk on the fact that there is no impending judgement.
----Remember, 'the morning after' is just like any other morning and ought to be treated as such.
Smoky September:
Last day of the fest. No Escape.
I get knocked down, but I get up again
"Can I bum a cigarette off you please?"
"Sure. It's a Navy Cut though."
*smiles*
"That's my brand too. Thanks."
*smiles back*
The cigarette is lit and the two of them stand together smoking.
Pull-hold-puff-pause-pull-hold-puff-pause
"Crazy scene tonight huh?"
"Yeah... Look at them going at it on the dance floor!"
"Why aren't you with them?"
"Need a breather."
"I see... Beer?"
"Sure."
Sharing a drink.
sip-pause-sip-pause-sip-pause
I drink a whisky drink, I drink a vodka drink
I drink a lager drink, I drink a cider drink
They never make it back to the dance floor. The conversation at the bar carries on. Inconsequential, regular stuff. Right uptil 2:00 AM when the place finally closes down.
Nah, don't worry. It doesn't turn predictable and they don't end up best friends for life/ get married to each other. But every time they meet after that, they share a smoke and a drink, and the No-Escape-night sparkles in the fizz and glows in the embers of the Classic Mild/ Benson and Hedges/ whatever (brands change with economic prosperity!).
Nostalgia in tobacco and alcohol.
I sing the songs that remind me of the good times
I sing the songs that remind me of the better times
----Sharing a cigarette or a drink is a quasi-religous experience.
Yes.
It is.
March madness:
Party in Ghaziabad. We're in North Campus. A one-hour drive away.
"Are we going?"
"Too far ya... Too much of an effort. Let's just chill at home."
"Cool. What are we eating? Chinese?"
"Hmmm... Momos and fried rice."
The College boys arrive alongwith the delivery boy.
"Come ON women. Let's go! All the third years are going... It's a full on third year scene. And the Maths guys have bought an insane number of beers."
We hesitate. What finally decides the matter is that it's easier to go than to spend half an hour making excuses.
Leave at midnight. Get there at 1:00. The party's just getting started.
A massive garden with beer bongs placed in strategic spots. General camaraderie. The music is loud and EVERYONE is dancing. People being thrust up on the table one by one. Cheers and beers and no-more-tears...
The electricity lets us down A general protest. One smart cookie drives his car onto the lawn and puts on the music- full blast. Never say die.
We wind up at 5:30 AM. The cops have arrived. Flee the scene!! The cars screech out of the driveway past the police vans.
Three cars driving side by side on the highway. The last few cigarettes and bottles of vodka being passed from car to car, while driving. Laughing at the madness.
Driving up the ridge. It's a winding road and contrary to the popular perception of crazy, drunk college kids, all three cars slow down and drive carefully. Blind turn coming up. We're in the first car and we take the turn.
screech-skid-crash-silence
A Maruti van, speeding in the opposite direction on a one-way road has crashed into the car behind us. We park on a side and suddenly there are 20 people on the road. The Maruti driver has already fled into the forest before anyone could react. He must have known he had crashed into a car full of Sports players (who also happened to be Jats). The two passengers weren't quite as smart. The College crowd loses its temper. When you're high and still driving carefully, an accident really hurts. The Maruti-men are hauled out and bashed up. We (that is- the girls) protest feebly but there isn't much point.
K. walks around in a trance and comes up to us.
"Have you seen my shoes guys?"
He's been walking around barefoot.
"Nope. Just go sit down in the car please."
The cops are a 100 metres down the road and have arrived. They stand around, enjoying the show. For those of you who are unfamiliar with North India's social dynamics... Jats and cops are brothers, kindred spirits...
The frustration has finally been vented. The passengers pay up to cover the cost of the damage.
The cops see us off with strict, paternal-style instructions to drive carefully and get some sleep.
"Thank you ji! Bye!"
Home sweet home. N. had left the party earlier. He took the keys and is now sleeping inside.
ringing-the-bell
ring-ring-ring-ring
Crap.
"Call him."
dial-no answer-dial-no answer-dial-no answer
Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Banging on the door, screaming his name together on the count of three. Six voices shout in unison. Our knocking is bringing the damn house down.
N. has evidently passed out good and proper.
The neighbours are now screaming at us. Bedlam in the building.
We give up. Drive to another friend's place and collapse into bed at 8:00 AM.
----Every night is a potential adventure and holds the possibility of a memory you will recall with fondness.
Also, don't mess with Jat footballers and hockey players.
December Disaster:
A birthday party. Beautifully done up. Waiters and expensive food and lush green lawns and a DJ. Vintage airplanes in the backyard.
'Cos i try and try to forget you girl
But it's just so hard to do
Everytime you do that thing you do
A hand up a skirt is all it takes to ruin a night.
She was wearing a very pretty skirt. Short and shimmery and green. He was talking to her when suddenly, without preamble or permission, he thrust his hand under the flimsy fabric.
What an idiot.
I don't ask a lot girl, but I know one thing for sure
It's the love I haven't got girl, and I just can't take it anymore
Her boyfriend was livid with rage (yes, there was a boyfriend in the picture) and I think he would have killed the offender if he hadn't been held back by friends. She was sobbing in the corner. Some of the guys slapped him around. A couple of his friends attempted to defend him.
"He's very drunk yaar. He's had too many."
The host realized that the party could easily turn into a war-zone and it nearly did. A couple of people got beaten up. They weren't involved in the episode but that hardly matters when tempers are running high and there's a girl involved. Blood on the dance floor.
"Take him away guys. We'll deal with it later."
They do. He doesn't come to College the next day. Only after 30 days and repeated apologies does he step into the hallowed halls once again.
----Don't be an asshole.
Alcohol is not a reason or a valid excuse. You only do the things you really want to do.
January Joint-
Sitting around in the sun.
rolling rolling rolling rolling rolling
Boom Shankar
Memories of Malana and Manali. Someone's got a friend along whose sitting with us.
Take three hits and pass it on. The group is large and there are only 2 'J's. The new chap's turn.
1...2...3...4...5...6...!!!
The old-timers look at one another. Obviously a rookie. Hostility is growing in the circle.
7...8...9...
Someone takes pity on the poor chap.
"Dude...pass it on. There are a lot of people left."
"Oh sure, sure.. Sorry!"
5 minutes later, it reaches him again.
1...2...3...4...5...!!
6...7...8...9...!!
----Every social activity involving more than 3 people is a ritual and has its own rules.
And some people never learn...
Monday, October 09, 2006
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
She remembers the weight. The sheer weight of insecurity. Walking down the corridor alone and a group of people bursting into peals of laughter right as she passes by them. Of course they were laughing at her. Weren't they? Insistently telling herself, "You are as tall as you think you, as beautiful as you think you are, as smart as you think you are, as cool…"
Bullshit.
You are only as much as they want you too be. YOU need to be validated by someone else. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, remember??
She tries anyway, and strides swiftly past the snickering, giggling gaggle.
ARROGANT
A way with words. That didn't help her much. Writing as a means of cathartic release is overrated. Pages and pages of lucid, lyrical diary-entries are rendered irrelevant when you wake up in the middle of the night during a slumber party and overhear your 'best friends' trashing the way you dress. "Her bra-straps show when she wears those spaghettis!" When you pretend to still be asleep. When it takes a colossal effort to reign in the sobs that threaten to wrack your body. When you wake up and have breakfast together the next day- sausages and eggs and toast. When you never talk about it. Never. When u hesitate the next time you have to decide what to wear to a party. When, for reasons you do not know and cannot fathom, you choose to wear defiance and black straps.
S--L--U--T
An afternoon in the school canteen. Dosas and idlis. A Frooti squirted in your face by the harbinger of your doom- the boy who used to be a pillar of support. Whatever happened to that?? Rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, and collapsing on the floor. Your 'best friends' follow and calm you down. A ludicrous sense of gratitude. At least they still care a little bit- or pretend to. Who cares? The pretence of friendship is better than complete solitude. The truth is not all that it's made out to be. Illusions sustain her. Illusions sustain you. ‘The Matrix’ be damned.
hysterical
A party. Terrace-top. The advent of slow, romantic songs. Pairing up. "May I have a dance?" An awkward teenage attempt to align herself to the rhythm, though she can feel people staring-staring-staring. The moonlight reveals far too much. The morning after- rumours.
"She accused him of trying to kiss her!"
"No she did not!"
"Yes, she did."
Bewilderment. Kiss? What kiss?? Just a dance. Realization. No such thing as 'just a dance'. Hearsay.
"I'm sure she led him on."
"He would never have done that!"
"Well, she’s quite a bitch anyway. Maybe she just made it up to get attention."
"Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
Is there always? Really? The memory of that night... A ruin in the landscape of your life.
You are only what they say about you. The grapevine is your identity.
Gossip is The Gospel Truth.
*TEASE*
Academic excellence. Voices. Insinuations of competetiveness, the need to be better than anyone else. She stopped attending Chemistry. Would invariably walk in late with a 'friend' so that they would get thrown out of class.
Going home and picking up ‘The Fountainhead’. Howard Roark’s voice in your head. "Second-rater" Ringing, ringing, ringing till you hurl the book in rage. Angry at them and angry with yourself. Because you’re just-not-strong-enough.
pridepridepride
Thank god she has her family. Loving, caring, laughing, supportive, regular. Oblivious. How could they know? You are Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a hundred others besides. Because you are secure where you are free. A different person at home, she builds walls and towers and fences. Your home is your fortress. Her own world-the one that matters. But her fortress collapses in the fraction of a second when her eyelids flutter opening the morning. Another day has begun. She cannot escape the sunlight that streams in through her window. The same shards of light that will invade the school bus, the field, the classroom.
Family is simply. not. enough.
And you sidle into the classroom. Feeling small but not small enough. The battle has started. You want to go home because every evening is a temporary reprieve, a period of relief. Keyword- temporary.
l.o.s.e.r
‘Life-changing moment’. The phrase is the oxymoron of her life. People say their lives changed when they saw/read/heard/thought something. A defining moment. She is unable to pinpoint that instant. She is almost jealous of the fact that she is unable to recall the moment of transition.
It would have made a good story.
ATLAS SHRUGGED
The sunlight is rich and mellow.
A million friends- including the spaghetti-trashers. Real friendship. Undiluted by the past.
Gossip is inevitable and irrelevant.
Love.
She is part of the laughter.
Breaking other people’s hearts.
Joy.
The boy-who-tried-to-kiss-her is a close buddy; they go out for dinner and drinks.
Home is more of an open-house. People dropping by all the time.
Walls? Security from the awful crime rate. That’s all.
Knowledge.
Academic brilliance- again.
The world is her fantasyland.
High.
Lay down your arms. And surrender to me.
The truth does set you free. She is free.
She still loves illusions though.
Does not try to carve up the universe into black and white anymore.
Binaries are pointless.
Enjoy the chaos.
Forgiven.
Not forgotten.
Bullshit.
You are only as much as they want you too be. YOU need to be validated by someone else. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, remember??
She tries anyway, and strides swiftly past the snickering, giggling gaggle.
ARROGANT
A way with words. That didn't help her much. Writing as a means of cathartic release is overrated. Pages and pages of lucid, lyrical diary-entries are rendered irrelevant when you wake up in the middle of the night during a slumber party and overhear your 'best friends' trashing the way you dress. "Her bra-straps show when she wears those spaghettis!" When you pretend to still be asleep. When it takes a colossal effort to reign in the sobs that threaten to wrack your body. When you wake up and have breakfast together the next day- sausages and eggs and toast. When you never talk about it. Never. When u hesitate the next time you have to decide what to wear to a party. When, for reasons you do not know and cannot fathom, you choose to wear defiance and black straps.
S--L--U--T
An afternoon in the school canteen. Dosas and idlis. A Frooti squirted in your face by the harbinger of your doom- the boy who used to be a pillar of support. Whatever happened to that?? Rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, and collapsing on the floor. Your 'best friends' follow and calm you down. A ludicrous sense of gratitude. At least they still care a little bit- or pretend to. Who cares? The pretence of friendship is better than complete solitude. The truth is not all that it's made out to be. Illusions sustain her. Illusions sustain you. ‘The Matrix’ be damned.
hysterical
A party. Terrace-top. The advent of slow, romantic songs. Pairing up. "May I have a dance?" An awkward teenage attempt to align herself to the rhythm, though she can feel people staring-staring-staring. The moonlight reveals far too much. The morning after- rumours.
"She accused him of trying to kiss her!"
"No she did not!"
"Yes, she did."
Bewilderment. Kiss? What kiss?? Just a dance. Realization. No such thing as 'just a dance'. Hearsay.
"I'm sure she led him on."
"He would never have done that!"
"Well, she’s quite a bitch anyway. Maybe she just made it up to get attention."
"Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
Is there always? Really? The memory of that night... A ruin in the landscape of your life.
You are only what they say about you. The grapevine is your identity.
Gossip is The Gospel Truth.
*TEASE*
Academic excellence. Voices. Insinuations of competetiveness, the need to be better than anyone else. She stopped attending Chemistry. Would invariably walk in late with a 'friend' so that they would get thrown out of class.
Going home and picking up ‘The Fountainhead’. Howard Roark’s voice in your head. "Second-rater" Ringing, ringing, ringing till you hurl the book in rage. Angry at them and angry with yourself. Because you’re just-not-strong-enough.
pridepridepride
Thank god she has her family. Loving, caring, laughing, supportive, regular. Oblivious. How could they know? You are Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a hundred others besides. Because you are secure where you are free. A different person at home, she builds walls and towers and fences. Your home is your fortress. Her own world-the one that matters. But her fortress collapses in the fraction of a second when her eyelids flutter opening the morning. Another day has begun. She cannot escape the sunlight that streams in through her window. The same shards of light that will invade the school bus, the field, the classroom.
Family is simply. not. enough.
And you sidle into the classroom. Feeling small but not small enough. The battle has started. You want to go home because every evening is a temporary reprieve, a period of relief. Keyword- temporary.
l.o.s.e.r
‘Life-changing moment’. The phrase is the oxymoron of her life. People say their lives changed when they saw/read/heard/thought something. A defining moment. She is unable to pinpoint that instant. She is almost jealous of the fact that she is unable to recall the moment of transition.
It would have made a good story.
ATLAS SHRUGGED
The sunlight is rich and mellow.
A million friends- including the spaghetti-trashers. Real friendship. Undiluted by the past.
Gossip is inevitable and irrelevant.
Love.
She is part of the laughter.
Breaking other people’s hearts.
Joy.
The boy-who-tried-to-kiss-her is a close buddy; they go out for dinner and drinks.
Home is more of an open-house. People dropping by all the time.
Walls? Security from the awful crime rate. That’s all.
Knowledge.
Academic brilliance- again.
The world is her fantasyland.
High.
Lay down your arms. And surrender to me.
The truth does set you free. She is free.
She still loves illusions though.
Does not try to carve up the universe into black and white anymore.
Binaries are pointless.
Enjoy the chaos.
Forgiven.
Not forgotten.
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