People in villages have a lot of time on their hands. As well as a lot of curiosity in their stomachs.
I say this with experience - whenever I have gone to any village, I have had at least eighty percent of the population which is sitting or lounging around on the streets and in corners, come and surround me and my colleagues and stare at us like we were fish inside an aquarium.
Imagine talking to a dukaandaar about Lux and Knorr and having fifteen men standing around listening keenly, almost expectantly, like you were demonstrating to them how to turn monopoly money into the real stuff. They really do listen, and they don't shy of making their approval and concurrence audible, when the situation so demands.
Today I also encountered a rural balak - a smudgy-faced, rotund little fellow tugging at his father's kurta and pointing at something in the shop, all the while whining for him to buy it. He had to keep at it for a solid five minutes before his father, engrossed by the exciting products that my salesmen were brandishing, paid any heed.
Turns out he was raising hell for a toy gaadi - a square little plasticky thing, nothing like the sleek gizmos from hotwheels and more that his urban compatriots waste their time with. But a car it was nonetheless. This must be something programmed by the Gods - boys and cars. It would be an interesting experiment to see whether a boy kept isolated from the influence of advertisements which show great dare-devilry performed by other boys in fancy cars and also any movies which are pretty much advertisements for similar stuff on wheels, would still crave these toys like they were one inside the womb.
By the way, did you know that the government appoints some families in each village who are in-charge of distributing rationed and subsidized atta, chawal and shakkar to other BPL folks in the village? These dudes have a license and even make paltry margins. The government surprises me from time to time, by some rare display of efficiency.
So, as you may have guessed, I did some village hopping today. And our villages are something else.
Poultry and Cattle
For space they battle
A family of fifteen
Is considered pretty lean
The oldies have time
Their stories as easy as dimes
Their children did stay on
Tilling land on which they were born
But the grand-kids are not so stable
They dream big and think they are more able
They study and then they go away
Life in a big city - seems glamorous any day
As clerks in courts and teachers in schools
No doubt they do write their very own rules
But who will sow the crop now and who will till
Leaving us hungry or footing a huge import bill
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Fourth
Raju was running late. It was the 4th of the month.
Flying through the by-lanes of Kalbadevi, dodging tempos and thelas, the occasional car, and people - vendors, pedestrians, people generally passing time on the road - he would have looked at his watch every two seconds, had he had one.
Watching his light-as-a-feather, bony little self almost glide the air currents, one would think he was no more than five or six years old. He would actually turn eleven this year, or so Anees chacha said. He and his family of three begums and seven children then had been around when Raju's pregnant mother had been picked up by a local NGO coming once a month to round up severely ill slum-residents needing urgent medical care and taking them to the nearest municipality hospital. His mother had disappeared after his birth, and the NGO volunteer had delivered him to the neighbor - Anees chacha's doorstep. Chacha had accepted him as a gift from Allah and the newest member of his ever-expanding family.
That was eleven years ago and here he was now. A rag-picker/scavenger by day and waiter-boy at the Good-fun bar in the evenings. Sometimes, the lala at General kirana used him as a delivery boy and sent him to some of the affluent neighborhoods in the vicinity with parcels of atta and tel.
As Raju passed lala's dukaan, he waved out to the portly figure sitting behind the counter. Lala looked at his flying form and shouted - "Abbe kidhar bhaag raha hai be, bawla hai ka!". Further on, as he neared the police thana, his urgency to immediately be someplace else become much more acute, but he slowed his frenzied pace to a brisk trot, so as to not attract attention. As a young urchin around this area he already knew that getting in trouble with the police was as easy as one of them noticing his seemingly purposeless existence.
As he turned that last corner without incident and came within sight of his destination, his feet grew wings again and with the single-minded focus of an Olympian near the finish line, he sprinted the last twenty meters faster than Usain Bolt, just as the clock struck one and the gates to the Hanuman temple started to shut. He flew in and sat down, just in time to have a man put a plate in front of him and another ladle out a huge portion of freshly made, piping hot, deliciously aromatic - khichdi onto it.
Flying through the by-lanes of Kalbadevi, dodging tempos and thelas, the occasional car, and people - vendors, pedestrians, people generally passing time on the road - he would have looked at his watch every two seconds, had he had one.
Watching his light-as-a-feather, bony little self almost glide the air currents, one would think he was no more than five or six years old. He would actually turn eleven this year, or so Anees chacha said. He and his family of three begums and seven children then had been around when Raju's pregnant mother had been picked up by a local NGO coming once a month to round up severely ill slum-residents needing urgent medical care and taking them to the nearest municipality hospital. His mother had disappeared after his birth, and the NGO volunteer had delivered him to the neighbor - Anees chacha's doorstep. Chacha had accepted him as a gift from Allah and the newest member of his ever-expanding family.
That was eleven years ago and here he was now. A rag-picker/scavenger by day and waiter-boy at the Good-fun bar in the evenings. Sometimes, the lala at General kirana used him as a delivery boy and sent him to some of the affluent neighborhoods in the vicinity with parcels of atta and tel.
As Raju passed lala's dukaan, he waved out to the portly figure sitting behind the counter. Lala looked at his flying form and shouted - "Abbe kidhar bhaag raha hai be, bawla hai ka!". Further on, as he neared the police thana, his urgency to immediately be someplace else become much more acute, but he slowed his frenzied pace to a brisk trot, so as to not attract attention. As a young urchin around this area he already knew that getting in trouble with the police was as easy as one of them noticing his seemingly purposeless existence.
As he turned that last corner without incident and came within sight of his destination, his feet grew wings again and with the single-minded focus of an Olympian near the finish line, he sprinted the last twenty meters faster than Usain Bolt, just as the clock struck one and the gates to the Hanuman temple started to shut. He flew in and sat down, just in time to have a man put a plate in front of him and another ladle out a huge portion of freshly made, piping hot, deliciously aromatic - khichdi onto it.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Crazy Beautiful
The Terminal. A movie about a man who spent nine months at an airport terminal in NYC, waiting to be allowed to pass into the city so that he could collect the signature of one of the greatest Jazz legends in the world, something that he had promised his dead father he would.
When was the last time you did something like this?
When was the last time you did something like this?
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Pages from my Diary?
An episode of my life which I view with a lot of amusement now and what had seemed to be the biggest sorrow of my life at the time - When I was a kid, I underwent some trauma. My mother was fond of having my hair cut really short - the style used to be called a 'Boy's Cut', no less. Saying she was fond of it, is actually camouflaging the true intentions.She was just not into taking care of long hair - the oiling, washing, combing, braiding, delousing that 7-year-old hair demands. It's another thing that I hated that look and would cry every time a reflection happened to fall upon my eyes or imagination. I thought it made me look like a boy, a rather pudgy, nonathletic one at that. And like all self-respecting 7-year-olds, I hated boys.
When my sister grew up a little bit and become the shining star that she is, I would always be compared to her - on her willingness to get up and start dancing, on her happiness and cheeriness in general, talkativeness. Nearly half my family prides itself on the words per minute they can chalk up, and are also very culturally inclined - singing, dancing - and actually very well - every time somebody sneezes. So a high premium was laid on such abilities and more importantly, inclinations. I, on the other hand, was into being left alone, watching from a safe distance. Not much of a talker, and thinking that I was too fat to stand up and display to people all my wobbly bits, I would fight tooth and nail to not be made to do that. This sort of stuck, this image of me being a quiet little thing. More so in my mind that anybody else's I think. And it also kind of led me to develop an alter-ego. I was uproariously gregarious with friends around - the bubble in the champagne and the rocker in the house. It is only over the past few years that a sort of merging of the two has happened.
At 15, I did not know any boys. Of course, I thought about them. I was interested. But just didn't know any. So it was really interesting going to these coaching classes where I encountered boys for the first time. There was so much talk those days about who likes whom, who said what to whom and about whom, who looked at whom - you get it. I found it deliriously fascinating - building mammoth situations around these exciting happenings in my head. Of course I also found the time to study, hard. That was the other thing I did.
Somewhere along in the next couple of years, K happened. My first love, or so I believed. He was the romantic, edgy, SRK-lookalike who would make my silly heart race at the time. And so passed three years. I did have fun. But I do not remember any of that. What remained is what took over five years to heal after it crashed. For the latter two of those three years, I kept it from my parents, assuring them that it was over. And when I finally came to them distraught that it had actually ended, all my father said to my mother was - I am glad that it is finally over now. I don't think I learned anything from that experience immediately. In fact, I went over to the other extreme of being terribly cautious and introspective about what I actually wanted and felt. Today though, I am a strong advocate of co-education schooling, of snapping children out of excessive day dreaming and of welcoming them back when they stray.
Due to all of this drama, I have this one regret - I did not spend as much time or thought on my graduation schooling. I could have done more. I feel I did not utilize the resources at my disposal well enough - both internal and external.
Life is made up of a million mistakes - misplaced notions and wrong actions, things which seemed life-threatening then and only bring up that warm glow of nostalgia now. I thought I was absolutely right and knew everything at 15, at 17, at 21. Thoroughly confused at 25, I knew I was wrong. Here I am now, at 28. Having been through the veil to the other side - where there is no love and no friendship, getting back just in time. Hanging on to the few solid friendships I have for dear life now - nothing can come in the way - no missed birthdays, no non-appearances on important occasions - nothing. In love - understanding the true implications of that word - to let some battles pass, to let some habits die hard, to embrace some wrongs, to work up some excitement at the end of a long hard day, and most importantly, to let kindness win over righteousness.
When my sister grew up a little bit and become the shining star that she is, I would always be compared to her - on her willingness to get up and start dancing, on her happiness and cheeriness in general, talkativeness. Nearly half my family prides itself on the words per minute they can chalk up, and are also very culturally inclined - singing, dancing - and actually very well - every time somebody sneezes. So a high premium was laid on such abilities and more importantly, inclinations. I, on the other hand, was into being left alone, watching from a safe distance. Not much of a talker, and thinking that I was too fat to stand up and display to people all my wobbly bits, I would fight tooth and nail to not be made to do that. This sort of stuck, this image of me being a quiet little thing. More so in my mind that anybody else's I think. And it also kind of led me to develop an alter-ego. I was uproariously gregarious with friends around - the bubble in the champagne and the rocker in the house. It is only over the past few years that a sort of merging of the two has happened.
At 15, I did not know any boys. Of course, I thought about them. I was interested. But just didn't know any. So it was really interesting going to these coaching classes where I encountered boys for the first time. There was so much talk those days about who likes whom, who said what to whom and about whom, who looked at whom - you get it. I found it deliriously fascinating - building mammoth situations around these exciting happenings in my head. Of course I also found the time to study, hard. That was the other thing I did.
Somewhere along in the next couple of years, K happened. My first love, or so I believed. He was the romantic, edgy, SRK-lookalike who would make my silly heart race at the time. And so passed three years. I did have fun. But I do not remember any of that. What remained is what took over five years to heal after it crashed. For the latter two of those three years, I kept it from my parents, assuring them that it was over. And when I finally came to them distraught that it had actually ended, all my father said to my mother was - I am glad that it is finally over now. I don't think I learned anything from that experience immediately. In fact, I went over to the other extreme of being terribly cautious and introspective about what I actually wanted and felt. Today though, I am a strong advocate of co-education schooling, of snapping children out of excessive day dreaming and of welcoming them back when they stray.
Due to all of this drama, I have this one regret - I did not spend as much time or thought on my graduation schooling. I could have done more. I feel I did not utilize the resources at my disposal well enough - both internal and external.
Life is made up of a million mistakes - misplaced notions and wrong actions, things which seemed life-threatening then and only bring up that warm glow of nostalgia now. I thought I was absolutely right and knew everything at 15, at 17, at 21. Thoroughly confused at 25, I knew I was wrong. Here I am now, at 28. Having been through the veil to the other side - where there is no love and no friendship, getting back just in time. Hanging on to the few solid friendships I have for dear life now - nothing can come in the way - no missed birthdays, no non-appearances on important occasions - nothing. In love - understanding the true implications of that word - to let some battles pass, to let some habits die hard, to embrace some wrongs, to work up some excitement at the end of a long hard day, and most importantly, to let kindness win over righteousness.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Long due and completely true
It has been long
Since I wrote a song
A streak of love sublime
On the vast canvas of time
When it entered my life
I was fraught with strife
Watching myself with a wary eye
Wrestling with demons of years gone by
But it was insistent and patient
It came at a good time too - perfectly stationed
I forgot to look back
Under its persevering attack
A year, two - under the sun
Enough for me to know it was the one
So I bound it to me more tight than anything
And now I wear it on my hand in the shape of a ring
Since I wrote a song
A streak of love sublime
On the vast canvas of time
When it entered my life
I was fraught with strife
Watching myself with a wary eye
Wrestling with demons of years gone by
But it was insistent and patient
It came at a good time too - perfectly stationed
I forgot to look back
Under its persevering attack
A year, two - under the sun
Enough for me to know it was the one
So I bound it to me more tight than anything
And now I wear it on my hand in the shape of a ring
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Women, ah!
Last weekend I went and watched The Vagina Monologues and I must say it felt weird. I will also say at some point in this post that it was brave and new age (it has been around since the past eight years too) but the first thing that struck me about it was that it felt - weird.
Note that I do not say it was weird, but that it felt weird. Hearing the word being said out loud, so many times, like it was a perfectly legitimate word, insinuating that the utterer of such a word was neither deranged nor an incorrigible pervert. What a notion!
On a serious note, it was a series of monologues, dialogues - all stories depicting a certain theme. An exasperated housewife, an elderly lady, a young girl, a sex-worker, a victim of rape. And needless to say all these themes had something to do with sex and the V-word.
The acting was immense. It was unconscious and funny, the imitations were awesome - the dialects, tones, accents - Parsi, Marathi, Punjabi, Brooklyn - all perfect.
I do recommend it to you ladies and yes, to you too, boys.
On a different note, Marilyn Monroe once famously said - I don't mind living in a man's world as long as I can be a woman in it.
As a working woman, I find myself trying to be a man sometimes. Not a lot, but it's there - the consciousness of the corporate world being a man's playground and of me - being a spade among clubs. Some people would put a different spin on it - in this age of everybody wanting to play the diversity card, a woman has a better and brighter chance of climbing the ladder etc. I am thinking it all boils down to celebrating the differences - I may not be able to joke with my boys, my team, with the same rambunctiousness and raunchiness as the average guy, but there are ways in which my unique womanly touch does manifest itself. I guess it is about recognizing that and being comfortable with it.
Some good news though. The CEO of a consulting company just recently commented on a study that his firm has done on the strength of the female economy and its influencing power on major purchasing decisions, saying that companies that are ignoring the woman consumer are digging their own graves.
That's right, Mister. You don't put an online payment option for the electricity bill, being Neanderthal enough to think that women nowadays have the time to ferret out post boxes and drop boxes and such like to deposit payments, then I will not purchase electricity from you ever.
Note that I do not say it was weird, but that it felt weird. Hearing the word being said out loud, so many times, like it was a perfectly legitimate word, insinuating that the utterer of such a word was neither deranged nor an incorrigible pervert. What a notion!
On a serious note, it was a series of monologues, dialogues - all stories depicting a certain theme. An exasperated housewife, an elderly lady, a young girl, a sex-worker, a victim of rape. And needless to say all these themes had something to do with sex and the V-word.
The acting was immense. It was unconscious and funny, the imitations were awesome - the dialects, tones, accents - Parsi, Marathi, Punjabi, Brooklyn - all perfect.
I do recommend it to you ladies and yes, to you too, boys.
On a different note, Marilyn Monroe once famously said - I don't mind living in a man's world as long as I can be a woman in it.
As a working woman, I find myself trying to be a man sometimes. Not a lot, but it's there - the consciousness of the corporate world being a man's playground and of me - being a spade among clubs. Some people would put a different spin on it - in this age of everybody wanting to play the diversity card, a woman has a better and brighter chance of climbing the ladder etc. I am thinking it all boils down to celebrating the differences - I may not be able to joke with my boys, my team, with the same rambunctiousness and raunchiness as the average guy, but there are ways in which my unique womanly touch does manifest itself. I guess it is about recognizing that and being comfortable with it.
Some good news though. The CEO of a consulting company just recently commented on a study that his firm has done on the strength of the female economy and its influencing power on major purchasing decisions, saying that companies that are ignoring the woman consumer are digging their own graves.
That's right, Mister. You don't put an online payment option for the electricity bill, being Neanderthal enough to think that women nowadays have the time to ferret out post boxes and drop boxes and such like to deposit payments, then I will not purchase electricity from you ever.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A new beginning
She ran into the building, only just managing to register how impossibly tall it was. Last she had been in this part of the world, structures that stretched a 1000 feet into the stratosphere, were a rarity.
She came abreast a bank of ten tall high-powered elevators - opening-shutting-beeping, making the world aware of their super-tech presence.
Immediately stepping into the one that opened up, she looked around for the floor buttons and could not find any. And then out of nowhere, a flap clicked open in the wall to her left and a head sprang out. Yes, a head. After her heart had crawled all the way back from the back of her throat to the chest area, she noticed that it was not a human head.
"I am the lift genie. Which floor please". Trilled the head in what can only be described as a robot's version of a sing and a song.
Shaily was stunned. Admittedly, she had spent the last five years in Motihari, trying to teach advanced and efficient techniques of breeding cows to farmers, but she had no idea that the world had transformed so much. And this was Bombay, Mumbai. The city she had mostly grown up in. The city which she claimed to know like the back of her hand. The city which she had thought would never be 'India's Shanghai' in her lifetime at least. And here it seemed to be making Shanghai's high-rises look like caves..
"Don't worry, I am here to help. Which floor please".
At this statement, Shaily looked around trying to locate a camera perhaps, through which some person someplace might be monitoring her reactions and accordingly feeding in speech to the robot. Anyway, she was getting late, so she looked at the head and said - thirty-five.
"Thank-you. We will have you there in no time at all".
The lift gave a lurch and started ascending speedily and suddenly like somebody had set its rear-end on fire. She looked at the mirror and saw a weather-beaten, but still attractive thirty-five year old face. Maybe slightly disoriented at the moment. But the determination shone through nevertheless, to clinch this one.
She came abreast a bank of ten tall high-powered elevators - opening-shutting-beeping, making the world aware of their super-tech presence.
Immediately stepping into the one that opened up, she looked around for the floor buttons and could not find any. And then out of nowhere, a flap clicked open in the wall to her left and a head sprang out. Yes, a head. After her heart had crawled all the way back from the back of her throat to the chest area, she noticed that it was not a human head.
"I am the lift genie. Which floor please". Trilled the head in what can only be described as a robot's version of a sing and a song.
Shaily was stunned. Admittedly, she had spent the last five years in Motihari, trying to teach advanced and efficient techniques of breeding cows to farmers, but she had no idea that the world had transformed so much. And this was Bombay, Mumbai. The city she had mostly grown up in. The city which she claimed to know like the back of her hand. The city which she had thought would never be 'India's Shanghai' in her lifetime at least. And here it seemed to be making Shanghai's high-rises look like caves..
"Don't worry, I am here to help. Which floor please".
At this statement, Shaily looked around trying to locate a camera perhaps, through which some person someplace might be monitoring her reactions and accordingly feeding in speech to the robot. Anyway, she was getting late, so she looked at the head and said - thirty-five.
"Thank-you. We will have you there in no time at all".
The lift gave a lurch and started ascending speedily and suddenly like somebody had set its rear-end on fire. She looked at the mirror and saw a weather-beaten, but still attractive thirty-five year old face. Maybe slightly disoriented at the moment. But the determination shone through nevertheless, to clinch this one.
A talk
It's a tough time my love
I fear I will melt away
Under the strong gaze of the sun
During these round the clock days
The mind is fiddling
With doubts anew
Peace is a bird
That long since flew
I need some fearlessness
Or at least some devil-may-care
To get back to strength
And go where eagles dare
I fear I will melt away
Under the strong gaze of the sun
During these round the clock days
The mind is fiddling
With doubts anew
Peace is a bird
That long since flew
I need some fearlessness
Or at least some devil-may-care
To get back to strength
And go where eagles dare
Monday, September 13, 2010
Play - One on One
Today I went to watch a play called - One on One at the Tata Experimental Theater, Nariman Point.
This experimental theater is a smallish one with maximum seating of around a hundred people. Which is probably enough. The ticket prices are reasonable, the crowd is well-behaved and the plays vary from being serious bringers-on of Why-did-I-subject-myself-to-this to This-is-exquisite-and-I-want-to-marry-it.
The play today was one of the later variety. The concept itself was delicious - a collage of ten minute acts written by Mumbai's best playwrights on topics which intrigue/annoy/delight them about the India we live in today. To top that, the acting and no doubt - direction was superb, in some cases rising above the material.
Some of the notable performances were by Anand Tiwari, who is the guy from the Tata Tea Jaago Re commercial and some motley roles in various movies, Rajit Kapur aka Byomkesh Bakshi, who has come a long way since his cycle-riding-dhoti-wearing days and Amit Mistry, who plays a timorous terrorist-batchmate of Kasab's going through a crisis of identity.
The transitions between the pieces were made swiftly and silently and the actors seemed to know the audience well, successfully manipulating it into laughing and clapping at all the right places.
I highly recommend it, not only for its obvious artistic brilliance but also the high entertainment value. Who says artsy stuff, that too the very niche experimental kind, cannot be paisa-vasool? Who, really, needs a Dabangg?
This experimental theater is a smallish one with maximum seating of around a hundred people. Which is probably enough. The ticket prices are reasonable, the crowd is well-behaved and the plays vary from being serious bringers-on of Why-did-I-subject-myself-to-this to This-is-exquisite-and-I-want-to-marry-it.
The play today was one of the later variety. The concept itself was delicious - a collage of ten minute acts written by Mumbai's best playwrights on topics which intrigue/annoy/delight them about the India we live in today. To top that, the acting and no doubt - direction was superb, in some cases rising above the material.
Some of the notable performances were by Anand Tiwari, who is the guy from the Tata Tea Jaago Re commercial and some motley roles in various movies, Rajit Kapur aka Byomkesh Bakshi, who has come a long way since his cycle-riding-dhoti-wearing days and Amit Mistry, who plays a timorous terrorist-batchmate of Kasab's going through a crisis of identity.
The transitions between the pieces were made swiftly and silently and the actors seemed to know the audience well, successfully manipulating it into laughing and clapping at all the right places.
I highly recommend it, not only for its obvious artistic brilliance but also the high entertainment value. Who says artsy stuff, that too the very niche experimental kind, cannot be paisa-vasool? Who, really, needs a Dabangg?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A tribute to Piano Man
Her eyes are on me
I know it, o I do
My fingers tremble slightly
Remembering playing for her too
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
She sits with a vodka in her hand
In a tiny red dress
I am belting out the notes
I couldn't care less
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know she knows
I know everyone knows
I laugh with the old man at the bar
He is me, in another time, in younger clothes
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
The room is dark
And her presence the only glow
She finishes her drink and gets up to leave
I wink at good ol' Jerry, getting on with the show
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I sing there every night
And they all sing along
There are new old men
Living their lives in my song
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
There are waitresses, pretty ones
And many other princesses
But there never is her again
My girl in the tiny red dress
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know it, o I do
My fingers tremble slightly
Remembering playing for her too
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
She sits with a vodka in her hand
In a tiny red dress
I am belting out the notes
I couldn't care less
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know she knows
I know everyone knows
I laugh with the old man at the bar
He is me, in another time, in younger clothes
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
The room is dark
And her presence the only glow
She finishes her drink and gets up to leave
I wink at good ol' Jerry, getting on with the show
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I sing there every night
And they all sing along
There are new old men
Living their lives in my song
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
There are waitresses, pretty ones
And many other princesses
But there never is her again
My girl in the tiny red dress
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Independence Day
Do waqt ki roti nahi, toh ek baar hi sahi
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Third
Armaity Dilliwala looked incredulously at her report card again. No, there was no mistaking it. There it was.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Playgirl
The way to my heart
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Second
He already had a best friend. How could he have another?
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
First
It was the first day and her stomach definitely knew it. She had put up a brave face while being dropped off at the gate, but now as the great blue building loomed up frighteningly stark, she stood rooted to the spot.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
Friday, July 30, 2010
A dream
The car goes thump-a-bump
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sheroo
I read Alec the other day and something she said made me realize that I have not yet intimated junta about one of the most amusing displays of weird human behaviour I have seen.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Patna and then some
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about work. It's gets grimmer when I reveal that that also happens while I am on leave.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The heat is on
Delhi is radiating heat. I, one who spends close to one-third of the month in the burning haze of Northern Maharashtra (places like Jalgaon etc, where the Jal in Jalgaon can be interpreted as burn and also ironically as water), bow down to the Surya dev and plead with him to leave this city alone. Yes, even if it peoples folks such as it does.
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Glee
Things are looking wonderful. (Almost). My parents are getting here tomorrow, we are attending Bua's and Chhote Papa's 25th wedding anniversary and then I am heading off with them to Delhi. But that is not all. From there, I shall go to Patna for a few days. After eleven years. Hard to believe it has been that long. I can picture that place in my head like it was just yesterday.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
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