Kingdom of Estarra

Everything's Going to Be Alright

2011-12-13T20:25:00.004+05:30

Soprano voices rising together in harmony, echoing across the railway tracks, far enough to sound other-worldly, close enough to warm this chill.

Hot baths, clean water, freshly washed hair.

Music sharing, the old fashioned way. As old-fashioned as syncing an iPod can be.

Movies to watch. So many movies to watch.

Endorphins from running a little extra everyday.

Telling stories-real, made-up, written, oral, imagined and lived.

Dreaming. Tomorrow will be bigger, better and alright.

Wow this Kolaveri...

2011-12-02T23:35:00.011+05:30

No, it's not just because I am a known Dhanush fan. Or maybe it is. Been a fan ever since I met him almost 8 years ago at Landmark where he was serenely browsing for music and I went all, oohh I know you. He signed my first (and so far only) autograph ("Be Yourself!"). I think this was just after his second or third film had released and he was becoming this quiet sensation, with this huge Metro Plus article out about him.

He's a brilliant actor (I want to write a movie for him!) Among all his films, the madcap 'Mappillai' included, loved 'Aadukalam' (more so for the first half of it though). 'Pudhupettai' too. But what makes me a fan and so Dhanush-wannabeish are also the facts that he's so Chennai-ly charismatic and charming and funny and watchable and how his face wears perfectly all those songs and emotions and expressions that one rarely gets to display out loud. Like those rage-filled looks he gives people onscreen (probably not the best idea- all those broken bottles in 'Mayakkam Enna'). Like those dreamy, blissful, gleeful smiles he gives himself in 'Yathe Yathe' as he cycles ever so slowly behind the heroine. Like that totally absurd Chinese costume and dance in 'Theriyaama Parthu'. Like dancing with abandon to 'Otha Solaala'. I want to do that on Mount Road.

Anyway, this song or rather anthem (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR12Z8f1Dh8), seems to define our day and age. It feels so Madras-Chennai-Madras, the Tanglish confusion of words describing our state of mind. When I listen to the song, I think beyond love failure. I dedicate this song to Chetpet bridge traffic, N.H. Road potholes (approx 7 at last count), Mylapore's beautiful chaos, Valluvar Kottam road's crests and troughs-more troughs than crests, the weird sounds that my car's been making and yet braving through it all, to that sewage water that's almost reaching my doorstep and mixing with my bath water so I have to take baths in my gym, to my friends' bad romances, bad blood and bad judgement, to my desperation to see movies after long crazy days, to seeing a friend's ex and genuinely wishing her well but wondering what to tell him, to my best friend's disco fever which has been wet blanketed by the new 11 pm curfew and thus driving us to perform impromptu 'Kilimanjaro' dances, to fiscal issues, to hours at the pavement shop 'taking xerox', to my troubles, my peoples' troubles, to the big heavy issues and the little tiny scratches . These tholas might not induce kolaveri but they make me want to laconically sing along to these supposedly 'misogynistic', self-deprecating, peter-making fun of lyrics that are often so nonsensical in places that they make absolute, perfect, technicolour sense. So that is why I, a girl, a half-peter and not exactly lovestruck soul can relate. That nadaswaram whine, the slow beat and the lackadaisacal vocals are making me do one comedy dance in my head.

No wonder there's an actual street sign flashing: "Why this Kolaveri? Drive safely". Our kolaveri may be expressed, unexpressed, subdued or impulsive but it's there. And we deal with it. We laugh at it.

Now didn't someone say "Comedy is tragedy deferred"?

Bonjour, Bonsoir, and Seriously Starstruck on the Promenade

2011-08-10T20:55:00.007+05:30

SwatKat and I headed for a half day to Pondicherry. It was purely official, much in contrast to my usual Pondy sojourns-she was receiving her carte de sejour (I don't even know if it's the correct one but I just had to use that phrase somewhere). At this moment she is in the process of fulfilling her most heartfelt dream: Paris.

So, we set forth enveloped in a sort of afternoon calmness. The AC temperature was just right. Someone else was driving. Her mum was chaperoning us. The drive was smooth, the snacks just adequate enough, and Pondy was before us even before we knew it.

Ahhh Pondy in August, Pondy in the evening, Pondy in the breeze and amidst clouds and amidst a sense of bliss both around and within. There was just something in the air. Something I had experienced only once before here, during my first (conscious) visit to the town-the relaxed vibe, the living history in the colonial facades, and the sea, oh the glorious sea. And since SwatKat was looking at these things properly for the first time, I saw them all anew as well.

Passepartout (heh!) in her hand, her gorgeously addictive DSLR in mine, we prepared ourselves to wander. After drooling over three cuddling puppies on the pavement, I was determined to show her the famed cafe, the one with the impeccable service (Refer previous post 'December '10-January '11 Part One: Funny').

A bunch of tourists popped out of a cab in front of us. The group included one tall friendly looking young man whom I exchanged a vague smile with. After walking ten steps, SwatKat squeals and informs me that that was Kunal Kapoor.

Now everyone who's seen Rang De Basanti has crushed on (guilty as charged) the handsome and talented actor who plays a sensitive, sweet artist. Some straight boys I know too. But there's more to Kunal Kapoor in my perspective. From what I've seen and read, he seems to me the Real Thing-humble and genuine. I also heard he flies planes. So, he's cool. But not just for that. My serious obsession has been with the song 'Chinnamma Chilkamma'. As you know, I'm half-Telugu and fully uninitiated with Andhra music save a few ancient songs my father makes me seek out and of course the power-packed, masaledaar 'Ringa Ringa' (NOT the Hindi version). But 'Chinnamma Chilkamma' introduced me to the coolness of (half my) roots. It has verve. It has attitude. It has SWAG. And thus embodies the very essence of my ideal item number in my head. The kind I want to dance to on my birthday in my drawing room to scores of imaginary screaming fans. And my Mum.

So naturally the performer in said song is one to be saluted, fake badness and all.

Anyway, back to Pondicherry. SwatKat and I are walking about near the rocky beach, on the pavement, she trying to convince me that that was Kunal Kapoor and I, without my glasses, insisting on sure proof. When one wanders without glasses, one routinely waves at the wrong people or ignores the right ones. (Bipasha Basu shares this syndrome-the non-glasses wearing. She believes in imagining people to be more beautiful than they actually are. So, I'm in good company). Hence, I was for a moment doubtful that we would have gone and said "Hi, Kunal" to Ishant Sharma or something. (Not that they really look alike, but you know what I mean).

After a lot of pacing and debating (and some intermittent photo taking. The boardwalk looked BREATHTAKING-all golden hued and glorious) we found our feet shifting towards where Kunal Kapoor was. He was finally standing alone and not surrounded by the gang of all hep, cool, totally intimidating people. Mumbling a few hellos, me going "We're fans", we got our picture taken (by his considerate friend). We had a conversation, er, okay, four deep meaningful lines, about the weather, Pondy, his reason for being there, his hair, etc. Whew.

The picture has turned out pretty sad. He's not smiling, my eyes are closed, SwatKat could look better. But it's not about that.

When your heart wants to do something and your mind goes "Umm...Ah...Well..You see...", just go do it. Stop thinking sometimes. You could lose a moment.

The service was great at the cafe. Amazing. SwatKat took a million brilliant pictures of me and I was in photo heaven too-her, the yellow walls, the sea, snap, snap, snap. The ride back was one of high-ness, heartfelt conversation, lots of music-fueled discussions and bittersweet feelings of saying goodbye to someone you've grown addicted to because they jump into your reclusive life and fill it with noise, nonsense, beauty and love, love, simple love.

The height of achievement would be to look over your shoulder at the end of each day and simply say, "I lived". You squeezed the honey or the lemon juice out of the big mixed up fruit that is life. You maximised it. Your hair wasn't perfect but you danced. You made a big red balloon of your heart and set it free to fly across the blue skies. Now. Now. Only now matters. No regrets of the past and only hopes from future.

So I'll tell Kunal Kapoor about my fondness for 'Chinnamma Chilkamma' next time. Heehee.

Un Momento

2011-06-29T15:43:00.004+05:30

There's a vaguely-coloured butterfly air-skipping out in the verendah in the sopoforic heat.
My Mum finds a pair of binoculars and peers at me from across the room. I love her when she's off-centre.
My father's TV's on and comments blare about Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's body language at a recent press conference. My father watches blissfully, his own commentary running in his mind which he will soon disclose to me. I can always count on him to update me when am not in the mood for the newspaper.
There are friends on my phone, friends in my email, friends loving, liking, friends I don't need right away but who comfort by simply existing. Nusaa, hello :)
Right now, I'm checking out Jamie Woon on youtube. I say 'Night Air' is my song, dark and delicate but you know what? Daytime isn't so bad.

In Memoriam: The Girl with the Pearl Smile

2011-06-18T15:43:00.004+05:30

There was this girl we all knew. Or at least we thought we did. She was sweetness and light, sugar and spice, all things nice. Really. She drove the boys crazy with her feminine charm and glam all the while seeming like she had no clue about it. Girls just loved her and wanted to protect and mother her. She had this big kind heart-rarely speaking an ill word about anyone. She had a depth and sensibility and a disapproval of shallowness that wasn't instantly obvious. She danced, she sang-the sweetest voice you would ever hear. She had these big innocent eyes, soft cascading long hair and dewy skin. She made you think of early spring - pastels, soft winds and summer on its way. She loved the sensitive heroes of new Hindi cinema, loved songs 'Stereo Love', 'Tera Hone Laga Hoon', and 'With You'. She loved love.

Evidently, she had a winter within her too. She kept to herself, storing thoughts and feelings in inner lockers for not even her closest friends to know. People would reach out but she was private. Her emotions and her thoughts were her own. She would spend time with her friends, hours over coffee, music, movies, jokes, celebrity gossip. She would listen and soak in those of others' but no one get any closer to her. She had intense romantic thoughts, posted messages and pondered over life-openly, yet solitarily. Each one of us has an inaccessible zone, right? An area cordoned off from public viewing. We shouldn't be intrusive. We stuck our heads around the corner, hollered offers of being right there in case she needed us and backed off. And suddenly, when we weren't looking, she just upped and left. Without a clue. Without a warning. Leaving us questioning our own values formed on privacy, friendship. Retracing our steps to before that fateful night. Hadn't we tried? How close was too close? Could we have 'saved' her?

Questions, hypothetical, rhetorical questions ring out. In the company of friends and also when we're alone. Thinking back to times when we've all felt helpless and sad in the bottom of the well. Times when we've wanted to hurt ourselves physically and hurt those around us emotionally, just because we have so much heavy sorrow that we cannot lift out of our hearts. Times when friends have consciously or inadvertently stuck out a hand and pulled us back into the blindingly beautiful life-this form that we're supposed to fill out, living through the boxes, filling in the blanks and maybe drawing in the margins, too.

Maybe we aren't supposed to leave our friends be. Maybe we're meant to grab them, shake them, make them believe that life is worth living for-that no matter what happens, however humiliating, frustrating, depressing, if they just lean on us a bit longer, it'll be okay. The clouds won't part and the fog won't lift immediately, but just wait it out and see. Fight those dark forces who don't deserve a nanosecond of your time and see. There's so much ache out there, but there's so much thrill too.

Our 'Golden Girl' has gone away. When she was here, she taught us about beauty and grace. With her passing, perhaps, we should learn to not hold back. To love and be loved, to hold hands, hold out and hold on.

Yercaud

2011-05-22T05:20:00.006+05:30

Yercaud, with friends, was to me all about loungy days spent cuddled up under quilts in my friend Princess's getaway home. Watching hours and hours of my (former) classmates's closet addiction-Korean soaps and movies. I am now a veteran of the over the top drama and high school romance of 'Boys over Flowers'. Yercaud was also all about food-proper scheduled nourishing homecooked meals that I (who are utterly accustomed to eating dinner out a minimum of three days a week or no dinner at all) found extreme hard work. Yes, unwinding was the theme of this holiday. The treks, the late night girlie conversations, the drives up and down silver lanes that seemed to vanish into misty oblivion, the endless photographs taken-all these fringed around the central activity of a lot of eat, sleep and not-so-well-deserved R 'n' R time.

An initial group of 8 of us began the getaway-from-it-all at our friend's colonial age home nestled within a sprawling estate. The sloping roofs of her house, the lived-in and personalised rooms of her and her family all added to the irreplicable hillstation charm that I've always romanticised about. The group later waned to four of us in Princess's gorgeous place-dreamily pretty with delicate curtains, cosy beds, pampering with food, and endless time and space. That's when it began raining. And we left the modern world behind. No TV, no phone battery, no electricity. Slowly my camera battery died out too. We preserved the laptop charge for intermittent midnight doses of Gu Jun Pyo's badboy attractiveness in 'Boys over Flowers'.

You know about my cravings for rain, right? Yercaud was a scene out of 'Raavan', the mist engulfing the quiet quaint hilltop town into poetry and mystery. I just HAD to take a solitary walk with an umbrella. How you perceive a place varies dramatically based on the presence of company or not. Maybe by myself I'd have some poetic, brilliant flashes of original thought. I wanted to figure out what my real perceptions were of this dreamlike setting at a time in my life free from errands or activities. My thoughts should be profound, not racked by longing for anything more because this was exactly what I'd been dreaming of for the longest time.

Or maybe that wasn't the point. Silence was easy and it just became me, like the Starsailor song.

In the Summertime

2011-05-21T04:55:00.004+05:30

Sorry. My apologies to the residents of this spaced-out space. I mean it. I have missed you and I love you.

I have had a lot to say. Then again, sometimes nothing at all. (Isn't one supposed to say it best that way? Okay, well) Let me begin at the beginning.

It's summertime in Madras. And yes, wow, that isn't really something to be said since it's always summertime in Madras but honestly, when it comes to April-May (not June, NOT June, June is glorious-since it's my birth month) it becomes especially summertime in this annoyingly homely in comely way city that I call mine. We've been getting geared up to face the consequences because of what Al and Leo have been talking about (read:global warming) but it hasn't been so bad, actually. Oh yes, it did hit 40 and they have been doing some load shedding but hey, it's not murderous. If you stay home and sleep in a cool dark place without moving.

By the way, it did rain this night. The sound of thunder, the smell of wet earth, the flashes of lightning tricking you into almost daytime-ness, I tell you, there have never been more heady intoxication for Chennai since the Super Kings won the IPL last year.

Anyway, summertime for ME (yes, we're back to being self-obsessed. How COULD we veer away from the central focus of this blog for so long?) has always been rejuvenating. Restorative. Therapeutic. Transformative. A singular moment for change (I'm not talking about the current political transition in my home state's government). A breath of fresh air. Summer has always been this collapsible box, this stretchy rubber band expanded into an eternal moment where newness bubbles under the surface of every searing layer, reinvention is palpable and possible, and where I basically get a mental and physical makeover. Oh yeah, the soul too.

However, summertime is also fraught with fear, panic, insecurity and the lifelong question - what am I doing with my life???

I thought I'd escaped it this transition-phase time. But it's back. It's okay. I've become more combative and less sheepish about answering the questions. Aeroplane's teasing me for being the high school dropout after winning gold medals. I'm okay with that. It's just that...I want summertime to make good on its promise for transformation.

I went on one spontaneous holiday. Yercaud-Salem-Trichy. 6 days. That's long for me. More about the actual holiday later. Then Pondicherry for a day. Besides that, it's been long hours at the gym (with no real change..yet!) and lots of Keeping up with the Kardashians. From Khruschev, Kissinger and Kennedy to Kourtney, Kim and Khloe. Wow. I can see a total career path developing here. Smooth.

Okay, more whining later. Next post will be about holidays, positive activities and completing all those inane little tasks that chirped at me during my exams and dissertation oh so long ago.

Seems like it was another life.

"The World's My Stage"

2011-04-07T01:39:00.005+05:30

Perhaps the gravity of the situation has not hit me yet. Here I am, poised in front of this wide white screen with rows of words forming its centrepiece. Words of pressing importance, words that must be ingested and later regurgitated upon less white sheets of paper. This night is like any other night. But this night involves studying for possibly the last college-level, instutionalised exam I might ever write.

I was always inclined to place exams and academics as top priority. Whether it was because of the rigorous competitive education I had in school, or my parents' emphasis on excellence in whatever you do, especially studies. Or maybe it's just because I live in India and especially Madras. It's just that I've gotten used to studying for so long (12 school years + 5 years of college) that I can't imagine putting anything else on top of that list. Health and fitness takes a backseat during exams (as my recent rapid consumption of fiery, poky tapioca chips confirms). I've taken a break from my beloved gym for almost three weeks, provoking admonishing messages from my gym-mate and self-proclaimed trainer/health advisor. I've cut off from friends for the longest time, becoming invisible and unreachable to them even in moments of crisis. Bad friend, me, bad.

And now I'm on the brink of the literally unknown. I faced this moment before, before I commenced to study again. But now there's not much left I want to study in this city, in terms of college enrollment and hitting books, writing tests-that kind of study. I've experienced the best of Chennai academic life. And I'm pretty sure I want to break free for a while. Not be tied down by schedules (oh, but I do want to work), not have to quit extracurriculars or health priorities because I find something else more all-important and stress-inducing.

I have enjoyed studying. I would like to do it again. But I'd like to see what it's like to have new priorities and even let the older ones, pushed to the backburner, take centrestage again.

(Title courtesy: K)

This room's too small for me

2011-03-22T00:20:00.004+05:30

I am thrashing, twisting, stretching but thoroughly immersing myself into North Africa. My research is about the conflict in Western Sahara, so it's mostly Morocco but I'm pretty much soaking up the region-text, music, pictures, videos are not enough.

My back aches as I sit, chained and glued to the computer, my eyes glazing over as I attempt to sift through thirty-six years of a dispute that involves so many people and so much politics. I attempt to make sense of the words that seem so simple on paper but translate to so much complexity when it comes to peoples and nations.

This is a region I am drawn to for reasons so many that I don't bother to enumerate them. People find it intriguing that being in India, I am so obsessed with Raï music and why I would choose a topic like this, so irrelevant in this part of the world and so much less contributive to South Asian International Relations, which desperately needs theorisation as it is. With the recent Jasmine Revolution, Tunisia, Egypt and now Libya, the relevance of North Africa cannot be overrated. Authoritarianism in the region that straddles the Middle East and Africa was a ticking bomb.

How can I explain what I feel when I see a black and white patterned wall motif that instantly transports me to some Moroccan monument? Or how even the names of controversial personalities and tortured places sound so lyrical- Houari Boumedienne, El Ouali Mustapha Sayed, Marrakech, Smara, Saguia el-Hamra, Rabat, and of course, Ma' al-'Aynayn, the almost mythical leader of the "Blue Men" (PLEASE read 'Desert by J.M.G. Clézio) And how can I even BEGIN to explain how I feel nestled within the notes of a Rachid Taha song, how I can surround myself with the dreamy notes of 'Valencia' and put myself to sleep, the language clashing with the city, state, subcontinent I am from and yet feeling so at home, nurtured and loved?

I look away from the computer, step outside my swirling thoughts of rising desert sands, of midnight bonfires with flames swaying to the sound of Mariem Hassan's voice and accompanying guitar, of The Alchemist shrouded in black astride his horse as he gallops up to the seeking Santiago, mystery in his apperance and pure wisdom in his eyes, of Moroccan palaces with ornate details ceiling to floor, speaking of grace and beauty made by mortal humans with divine art in their hands, of Cheb Khaled singing the Maoual to 'Hada Raykoum' and enchanting with his soaring voice, of Rachid Taha's rampaging 'Barra Barra' beats and Cheb Mami's wistful 'Khalouni'. I look down at the tiny room, the papers strewn around, the books and feel my soul resize itself. But sometimes, I let it transcend the physical and let myself live the dream. I get up on my bed, grab my invisible mic and sing, to the minarets and to the desert, to the sea and to the palace, to crowds of adoring fans, in a language I cannot speak.

Moment of Discovery

2011-03-20T19:14:00.003+05:30

Don't you ever wish you could recapture that first feeling of discovering a song, movie, book, image, word, person, place and falling in love?

The innocence, the complete unconsciousness of that moment is non-renewable. You step outside yourself and attempt to feel the you that you were. But it never comes back. That's what they say about time being a healer; you forget the pain. But it's got its downside when it comes to wanting to re-feel that one perfect moment where you discovered something new and it stuck with you.

Watching Chris Brown's 'Forever' a couple of minutes ago reminded me of the time, Winter 2008 (?), the place (K's and my attempts at dance class), the feeling (a crush on someone but I HONESTLY don't remember who). But I don't remember when and how this song grabbed me and touched my heart. Sure, I watched it on TV, not knowing who this guy was. The song's may not be a classic to connoisseurs of hip-hop/r&b/dance/pop and the video isn't the most artistic (though the girl is REALLY pretty and Chrib Brown's moves are quite nice). But it's a pretty, adorable, personal track that instantly transports me into where I want to be most nights: dancing under the stars with yellow lights all around, with a chance of Something Happening, of destiny taking over and magic seeping into reality.

http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8lq5Urj-kc

It's that time of the year again

2011-03-17T10:44:00.004+05:30

Transition phase. That's what I've come to label it. Though it shouldn't be labelled. Itchy feet, wandering mind. Shouldn't be labelled.

The trees are shedding. Walking from the gym one night, I chanced upon my parked car to find it sprinkled in the fairy magic of showering lilac/white flowers. It was magical, beautiful. I felt chosen.

The sun's getting stronger, brighter, assertive, grabbing at me through windows, doors, whenever, wherever. Making its presence felt.

Most of all, the college. Any college. Or school. The place instinctively knows that times are a-changing. People are a-changing. Trees shedding their leaves, people shedding their skins. Their distracted gazes stare straight through the distracted gazes of others and at places beyond, people who they are going to be or not. They have things to do (dissertations in this case) but they Stop and Stare, as if momentarily frozen in the searing sun. Conversations slow down, the mind's whirrings slow down to a squeaky rotation and afternoon naps are the most prized possessions of the day.

For me, this is the season Enrique becomes prominent on my playlist, despite friends' (those jealous boys) shrieking protests of his "popness" (among other things). It's a summer ritual since I was 13 and a very important half, since I first fell in love with the Spanish singer and Spanish in general and those happy songs made me Escape (excluding 'Hero' which I never really liked) and have eased me into the path of transition. From middle school to high school and the hugest, most painful crush ever. From high school ending to joining my gym and then the most transformative of places, college where I learnt what it is like to fall in love with a place. And now, from my possibly finalmost time at college to life and for the first time, Free Fallin' into the unknown, for the first time unafraid.

Felicitations are in order

2011-03-10T23:46:00.007+05:30

Happy birthday to the patron saint, benefactor and conspirator of this blog.

Happy birthday to the person who's a million miles away and whose presence is a few micrometres far.

Happy birthday to this boy who's my girl who's my kid who's my spoilt little brat brother and motherhen older sister rolled into one infuriatingly essential mix. Like Ayurvedic kashayams. Like Bio Wine. Good for health, president-award winning (scholarship winning in this case) but makes you nauseous, high, giddy yet convinced that you've been nutrient-injected at the same time.

Happy birthday to the prince whom the world is in love with, whose mind the world is curious to swipe the thoughts of and whose locked diary I am. (YES! Locked!)

Happy birthday to the best dressed, most groomed man I personally know. (I haven't met Shahid/Shah Rukh/Ranbir yet. And yes, I must confess, to the satisfaction of Drama Queen A and to the glee of His Highness, you do bear a slight resemblance to all three. Grrrr.)

Happy birthday to the cheriest, localest, shadiest character I am most my street self with. My personal clown and accomplice (especially in spying on fellow clowns. Cough, cough: Aeroplane)

Happy birthday to the person whose made me cry and made me laugh, made me happy and loved and hated and appreciated and venerated and never, ever, ever bored.

Happy birthday to the the friend in beads, the friend who heeds, the friend for whom I'm greed(y), the friend who I beat, the friend who used to eat, the friend in need, a friend truly truly indeed.

Happy birthday to you, K, always and forever.

"We always have today"

Dec'10- Jan '11- Part Two: LOVE

2011-02-07T03:30:00.006+05:30

This post is long overdue (one month and 5 days to be exact). This post is owed to a lot of people, important people, including myself. (I can see K rolling his eyes at my narcissism).

It has not always been my dream to go to Bombay. It has been my dream to go there and celebrate in style, imbibe the Bollywood that I love. But it had been my dream for some time, owing to a long 9 year gap, to go on an aeroplane. Yes, I live in a metro. Yes to a lot of other questions. But I just hadn't been on a plane in 9 years since I flew to Delhi to see my cousins and a lot of Mughal history.

I had been ambivalent to the much-venerated spirit of Bombay, its comparisons to NYC, the horrors of 'Slumdog Millionaire' and the exotic quality of its neighbourhoods: Juhu, Bandra, Versova, Tardeo (learnt from an early exposure to MTV India and repeated filled in forms to Virgin Records in the hope of winning free Cheb Mami or Sting cassettes). I knew I would go there one day but not on what terms. My aunt and cousin invited me over but plans didn't materialise. Travelling had become scant and even my trip to Andhra in September had been a highlight of my year, a chance to celebrate Bunny's sister's engagement AND to explore my roots.

Last June, K forgot my birthday. But of course, in usual K style, he more than made up for it (even though I'd forgotten that he'd forgotten-his Mum reminded me) by firstly making my holiday extra-special by coming to his college hometown and then by giving me a gift so huge in more ways than one, in ways material and emotional. His birthday present to me was plane tickets to Bombay and a warm hospitable welcome from his London friends, the much-talked about but rarely-seen Soulgirl and Cupcake.

We set off on the early morning of the 29th, bleary and blurry-eyed, literally falling drunk due to an absolute lack of sleep. My fault, the previous night Mum, Kesh and I had stayed awake to witness my extremely haphazard and unusually disorganised packing. We met K's friend P, who also commented on my drunkenness as I stumbled through security (but I relished every minute of the intrusiveness). We got on the plane, me delighting in the movies and wide collection of music, eventually settling on guess what? Disney classics (Example: 'We Are Siamese')

I got the window seat, yay, thanks to P's thoughtfulness and barely 2 hours later, little Lego structures began to take shape before my now-alert eyes. This was a city of building blocks, much unlike the near-airport area of Chennai that's characterised by hillocks and green.

At the airport, we were greeted by these incredibly glamorous divas holding signs indicated at poking fun at K. I was all smiles, intruding upon their obviously personal bonds and memories. Aaargh what was I doing here : sleep-deprived, lumbering, unfamiliar, woozy. What soothed me was the girls' immediate warmth and effort at including me-and also their consistent pointing out of celebrity homes (Salman Khan, Farhan Akhtar, Rekha, Arjun Rampal..). My heart gave a huge smile when I spotted the word: MANNAT. Shah Rukh means something to every Indian and he means a dreamer who made his dreams come true to me. To see his home, Mannat was the physical representation of that.

We reached Soulgirl's cosy and exquisite apartment and were greeted with even more warmth and homelike affection from her mother, sister and household help. Plied with food, plumbing and soon a bed, I was soon recharged to an extent. All set to watch the culmination of the girls' four month long dance rehearsals as part of a dance troupe.

Now I love dance and watching dance too but I was not prepared for the show that I was to witness. Through a repertoire of 'Apologize', 'Behene De', 'Teri Deewani' and numerous other favourites, I sat spellbound, not wanting the show to end. Soulgirl and Cupcake are outstanding performers, each with their own unique, distinctive style and stage presence. I was completely blown away by Soulgirl's onstage electricity, not just her obvious talent and training but her sheer alive face. Her whirling like a dervish at the end of 'Teri Deewani' was nothing that I had ever seen and that too, live. To top it all, I was reduced to silent tears at a beautiful, breathtaking portrayal of the Sufi classic 'Chhaap Tilak...' by a Kathak dancer. I was touched, transported and moved beyond physicality at the utter divine love represented in that piece.

The days that followed were choc-a-bloc with activities and outings that our hosts had planned. While K and I struggled with the slow waning of tablets' after effects, we let ourselves go with the flow at the sights, sounds and very air of Bombay, this City of frenetic activity, of dreams of commercial life. What I had expected and what I experienced was very different. The air was the crisp, nostalgic air of winter sunshine and a year winding down. The place was quaint, charming, gorgeous Bandra, which to me is now synonymous with Soulgirl and Cupcake and their affection. They took us to the shopping streets of Colaba where our eyes took in the array of wares; to the most melting-in-mouth Mediterranean food (finally got rid of the taste of the inedible mezze I had here) at Moshe's, to the best Thai ever at Lemongrass, to Italian at Basilico. I want to eat that all over again.

To my delight, Bombay is composed of a lot of long drives. And someone else doing the driving! Soulgirl is as music-obsessed and invited me to play some from my phone. So we listened to Rabbi while driving down the awe-inspiring Sea Link. I took in Bombay's skyline while listening to what always reminded me of Delhi music.

New Year's eve was at a friend's farmhouse (the Bombay version of Chennai beach houses? Oh wait, they have beaches there too. And somehow, much more sea). K and I were the usual clowns, traipsing around, doing push ups, ending up fully clothed with the rest in the pool and finally freezing to insanity. In the morning, we discussed careers and how I could no longer be a rockstar. Or so he thinks.

New Year's Day was supposed to be spent with my aunt and cousin but they were recovering from the previous night so in the night we went to K's dream destination: Aer where we took in 30+ storey views of the sparkling lights of a Bombay New Year's Night. We then went to someplace I liked more: Trilogy where I danced danced danced absolutely sober and absolutely high on music. I loved that DJ and would've told him so if my brand new heels weren't all twisted out of shape and I had to dance barefoot.

But Bombay to me wasn't clubs, food or the Ambanis' 800 million dollar bombproof, Domino's encased building. Bombay to me is the precious multi-hued Arabian Sea sunsets I witnessed from Soulgirl's gorgeous living room window, in absolute silence, with my best friend and also with people I had known for 2 days and yet felt like home. Bombay to me is me and K waving at Arjun Rampal's apartment building to tell people we waved at the actor himself. Bombay to me is getting the best blowdry ever-one that lasted-with new friends I felt I'd known forever and with an old friend who loves me so much that he took a million pictures of it from all angles. Bombay to me was the excitement me and K felt at the semi-cobblestoned roads of Bandra and Pali Hill.

Bombay is a million myriad moments, postcard worthy pictures (once Photoshopped of course), a zillion unstoppable K and me giggles triggered by single word memories, dozens and dozens of girl hugs from the most beautiful girls I've ever seen because they're stunning inside and out, the warmest welcome, care and maternal pampering from Soulgirl's parents, the total invasion of space and worktime that we did to Soulgirl's amazingly talented and instantly likeable writer sister (who gifted me a book that's automatically become one of my friends- 'The Shadow of the Wind' by Julian Carax, oops Carlos Ruiz Zafón) by occupying her and Soulgirl's heavenly room, the many phone calls I made to my cool aunt saying, yes I get what you meant about this city...

So, to me, Bombay was love. Is love.

December '10: Part One - FUNNY

2011-01-15T01:02:00.009+05:30

The Young Man and the Sea (ah, I am so clever)

It's been almost precisely two weeks since I was in the most magical city (Bombay) so far of my travels (okay, jostling with Delhi for the no.1 spot). Two weeks since I soaked in the pleasure of wandering around a beautiful airport all by myself (only my second flight in nine years and that too, my first solo one). Two weeks since I got back home, hungover on the love and excitement and friendship that characterised the last two weeks of my December 2010. The culmination of a year of not much external change, not much internal work but still a good year, nonetheless. A nice well-rounded year ending in a ten. A year like that's got to be utilised.

There's so much that needs to be said. I haven't written in ages. I've broken a self-made rule-to write in my travel journal. And that's a rule that was kept even when I went to Pondicherry three years ago with a bunch of raucous friends. That's a rule I broke when I went to Pondicherry at the end of last year with a bunch of even more raucous friends. Can I help not writing? We stayed at a fancy, luxurious hotel thanks to Aeroplane pulling strings yet we spent nearly 70% of our time wandering the streets of the French Quarter, begging for food. Really, there is no dearth of restaurants as anyone who has visited Pondicherry might know. There is authentic French food and wine, you can smell the croissants, the cheesecake, the brownies. But sacre bleu! (corny is my style) You cannot have them.

Sample this:

We go to a cafe. K and I catch a whiff of the brownies and decide that this is it. We have to have this now or we will not leave the place. And the place is delectable in itself, ocean spray hitting our face. We're ravenous, the others not so much but we tempt them into brownies, brownies and cheesecake and whatever else is on this long, scrumptiously described menu. We go to the counter which is empty. No, table service only. We saunter back, used to the French Loaf's and the Hot Breads of our world. Okay, this won't take time.

Only..

There is only one waiter (despite the presence of other staff members behind the counter). He serves only ONE table..in entirety. From menu-giving to table-clearing. And no other table. There are nine such tables. We wait. And wait. AND REALLY WAIT. Drama Queen A begins cursing and LOUDLY. We flee in fear of our future food being poisoned.

We search some more for lunch. It's dinner time. At one point, K and I, our senses shutting down due to lack of nourishment, gallop in one last burst of energy, screaming thanks, towards a brightly lit building. Drama Queen A cracks up in the background when we upon closer inspection discover that the mirage is a boutique. Necklaces we cannot eat.

At ten in the night after a hearty meal at a good restaurant (me, the sole vegetarian did not exactly enjoy it. The canneloni was an explosion of spinach and tomato sauce and little else. But I'll applaud it for not being the dosa covered, YES DOSA-COVERED, attempt that it once was in a new Chennai restaurant. But still, the best canneloni I've had was in Little Italy, Nungambakkam, Chennai.). In a display of steadfast resolve, K dismays the gang by announcing his renewed commitment to The Place. We find an auto driver-and Pondy auto drivers are nice, especially if you compare them to waiters, actually then anyone's nice-and drive him nuts by making him drive in circles till we find the place again.

We march in, triumphant. We have outwitted the crowds, by appearing at an opportune time for dessert. There is a plethora of staff milling about, actually smiling, hey are our eyes deceiving us, smiling. We plonk down, expecting royal treatment for the persistence we have displayed. Yes, we are from Madras. The capital of this state. You'd better treat us good. Oh sheesh, you're a Union Territory. Anyway, we wait. We don't want to get up and give up the hard-won table.

Butterfly finally has the bright idea to go check where our waiter is. She is duly informed (at 10.30) that there is no service till 11.15 because the staff is eating. Then WHO are these guys standing around? They're staff. But they gotta eat. Then why aren't they eating? Apparently, they are. Only we can't see it.

Butterfly: We'll just give you the money. Please can you just open this glass case, right here, yes the one in front of my nose and hand me a brownie, I'm not even asking for a plate..or a spoon. Just a brownie.
Staff: Table service only.
We hesitate to inform Drama Queen A of this latest development.

Finally, a couple of the staff members look at us (and Butterfly's steely glint) with laughing eyes and hand over a couple of brownies and a cheesecake. I beg for chocolate sauce. We get plates. But we have to go pick up the cutlery ourselves from the wash.

We go back to the table, disbelieving of our eventual success. We dig into the cheesecake, salvation is near...

Let's just say the brownie was alright.

The food story continued (in less dramatic and more dismal form) across the town. There was a well-known restaurant where the best food was a heap of French that I doused in my requisite lashing of pepper and a minuscle serving of cheese Garlic bread. Perhaps the most fruitful food discovery was at the bus station on the way back (after a dramatic bus searching escapade where :

1) the first bus home that we found smelled of someone's lost battle with motion sickness and it was indeed the reason why it smelled. The fact that it had been drowned with numerous buckets of water did nothing to eradicate the smell.

2) Aeroplane and Drama Queen A had a showdown in usual fashion, almost reminiscent of their old college fight where Drama Queen A mocked Aeroplane for not being able to see without his glasses while driving and he furiously took them off (while driving with K, me and a terrified classmate) to prove her wrong. Later, he revealed he saw only blinking lights. This time, they patched up rapidly, in usual fashion,

3) at a local eatery (AC! Deluxe!) which could've been Aminjikarai. I guess if you count the waitress making eyes at K and Aeroplane and ignoring the three women as good service, this was tops.

But the find was this: a chocolate bar. That's what this post is named after, FUNNY-the not so popular twin of Munch, the chocolate bar. The same purple and yellow colour scheme, a similar only a slightly, er, more mature taste, as compared to Munch. This was right before the long ride back where in a quest to counter the AC's faulty airconditioning, we engaged in a series of activities that resulted in

1) Aeroplane freezing and wrapping himself with my stole and ending up looking like a renegade Jordanian prince
2) Butterfly stuffing the vent with a stolen paper place mat from the deluxe Aminjikarai-esque restaurant
3) Drama Queen A stuffing her ears with the latest dirty Simbhu movie song, alternating with my all time favourite 'Ring Ringa' (oh my ethnicity!)
4) K dosed up on "Hypernacs" and collapsed on my shoulder

5) Me choking in the heat jumped out when the bus driver took a break and bought the first cool drink I could see. The Limca was a close relative of phenyl and cheapskate that I am, I tried to make Butterfly and myself finish it off. I think it's still in my fridge if it hasn't been used to swab the house.

The rest of the trip was certainly memorable : I finally got to cycle around the cobbled streets of the French Quarter (don't ask about finding the cycles and also about my cycle. Its lack of a bell was compensated by the telltale grind of its chains that warned passersby of a hurtling, tiny vehicle with a yellowclad individual clasping on for dear life). The hotel was lovely (I wish I'd eaten more of the breakfast), there was this elderly family on a bench opposite the Promenade that warmed my heart, the Casablanca I do want to visit again, with more time on my hands, the friends were funny, funny, FUN!

Clearly, age has not diminished our propensity for stupid, repetitive jokes, sleepless high endless giggles and lowly, often slapstick humour in general. It seemed like the universe gave us quite some fodder for that one day and a half.

I'm really really good, thanks

2010-12-21T00:50:00.004+05:30

A blank page. A white Christmas. A new year of unseen possibility, of unknown schemes. An open canvas of a future where nothing and everything is written. I fold my arms behind my head and lie down in the grass.

I've been overcome by a delicious blankness over the past ten days or so. Perhaps it's the on and off cold that's stalking me (and half of Chennai's population) Perhaps it's the chilly breeze that's so unfamiliar and helplessly addictive to this tropical place. The floor's too cold for bare feet and the limbs automatically reach for cover. Snuggle up, sleep, dream, sleep.

It's a pleasant blankness. It's a blankness that welcomes good old friends entering the inviolate channel flipping/Hindi movie dissing/celebrity gossiping/dreamy philosophy talking zone. It's a blankness that's ever ready for a movie. It's a blankness that includes time for the gym, college, but devotes a lot of time to lack of thought. Isn't that the aim of meditation? And here it is: free. I'm quiet, but I'm okay. I've never been this okay in such a long time- a neutral state is much preferred actually instead of the super "I got the power" high. Friends question my lack of (usual) existentialism, why am I not "what-am-I-gonna-do". I should be. Friends berate my lack of go, my wastefulness. Is it that bad to let go and just be content for a change? I'm not saying I'm ecstatic at my level of accomplishment but is it okay if I don't feel too bad that I'm not the Secretary-General of the United Nations?

Maybe it's the cough syrup talking.

But seriously, I think it's more to do with the weather. When it gets this way in Madras, 90's A. R. Rahman Tamil songs begin playing in the background (and some new ones, maybe 'Marudaani' and 'Hosanna'). The tamed sun sprinkles its light through swaying leaves. My collection of big baggy plaid shirts come out to perform their role as 'home jackets'. The window suddenly begins to receive a lot of my undivided attention. Time pauses, looks at its shoulder back at me, as if to wonder why the humans aren't catching up in their usual frenzied stress mode. I wave lazily back. You go on ahead. I'll stop, take stock. Not because I want to make a New Year's resolution. But because I don't.

That's what they call serendipity

2010-11-16T21:37:00.003+05:30

I normally give my car to the valet guy to park at the gym but it was night and it was raining and I didn't see him so I parked it myself. After finishing my workout, he offered to bring it around to the front of the gym but I declined because in truth, I didn't have any money to tip him. So running off sheepishly, I got into my car on the other side of the road and slowly, cautiously began reversing into that chaotic street with whatever vision I could possess inside a rain splattered car on a dark street with blitzing lights.

For some reason I looked to my right and spotted a small, white-clad man with spectacles and a much-cuter-than-but-a-lot-like Woody Allen face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it!

It was my maths tuition teacher from twelfth standard. The only maths tuition teacher I had who counted. For those of you who don't know, especially in Chennai, all kids are expected to go to tuition classes in the all important tenth and twelfth public exam years, irrespective of their capabilities. It's a rite of passage. The top students go to learn exam skills (which questions are bound to come in the paper and other tricks) and the others go to get what the school which moves at such a fast pace can't give them. My maths teacher, an endearing, limerick-making soul did try. But I was beyond help. I was really good but some irrational fear kept me back in only this subject. It was weird that something I really loved didn't love me back. Especially when it was a thing, not a person.

So this maths teacher was the one who transformed a paranoid, maths-loving but morbidly maths-phobic person into a smiling, peaceful 87% scoring, peace-with-demons-making school graduate. The one who made studying so easy with the help of practice papers. The adorable 90 + teacher who walked and walked and walked all around my part of town, tuition to tuition just because he didn't want to "stay at home watching TV". The one whose number I had lost, whom I feared had been long gone and whom I never really got to thank properly.

Now this may not be really relevant this but my father's a bit older. Living with him has endowed me with a fondness, a soft corner for older gentlemen beyond a particular age in the sense that I feel protective about them. I'm not really the type who feels children need fighting for. They do but they have enough people battling for the preservation of their innocence. My heart goes out to the older men and women, mostly men (because women are quite strong in this sense) who don't really have the energy that they used to have and who have to face a faster, glitzier world that wants to drop everything and move on.

So, meeting my teacher. I wanted to tell him so much. Thank him for helping me through a difficult period? Thank him for bringing sweetness and goodness into my life? Thank him for being a great teacher? But the words didn't really come out right. They overflowed and he nodded, he remembered me only after a while but he did. He asked about my former classmate and friend who had introduced me to him. He asked about my parents. Our conversation was less than sparkling and soul-searching but it was essential. It was special. God gave me my chance at gratitude and at filling the small hole in my heart that was incomplete. Nothing much was said but so much was expressed. I held his hand with both of mine and simply repeated "I'm so happy to see you"

...And then life gives you a break

2010-11-07T16:22:00.002+05:30

So after a long, therapeutic, post-midnight conversation with my positive conscience (A.K.A. Jhinks) I regained a fresh perspective on what this studying process actually means to me. She gave me pointers on what I'd forgotten-doing something for the love of it. And she's the right person to do so because the real reason I'm doing this course and enjoying a second chance at collegehood and knowledge-acquisition is the fact that she told me to accompany her to admissions last year and then overslept, thus making me go on my own and buying an application I didn't intend to. The story is longer and funnier but does not really belong here at this moment. Let's catalogue that under LIFE'S SECRET SMILES or GOING WITH THE FLOW. Or maybe just DESTINY.

Anyway, so Jhinks told me that it was absaaloootellyyyy (that sounds more like me) okayyyy to spend three hours on a page..just as long as I committed myself to every word on that page. Sai Baba, my Mum and others have all extolled on putting your best into what you're supposed to do at that moment. And also, God helps those who help themselves. I've always been all for that (as it distracts me from the looming questions) But I guess I needed a reminder. And last night, in that semi-conscious, giggly state that comes from sleep deprivation and a long rollercoaster conversation with your best friend since you were ten, I was coached into no more stress, no more million distractions (How I Met Your Mother, iTunes, or Diwali get togethers) only steely, slow, steady, studious state of mindedness (AhAA!)

And then I wake up, all set to delve into neutrality and the laws of warfare (after being distracted by Obama's rather fulfilling session with St. Xavier's students in Mumbai. "India has risen"-that should bury yesterday's disappointment. Whatever it is, I felt redeemed watching the interaction) and hello, Cyclone Jal (a creative name or what?) is heading our way. I go check my abandoned phone and find a barrage of missed calls and expectant messages. Holiday or not? Exam postponed or what? An hour later, we were sure. It's kinda like a damp, chilly Diwali present.

So I'm taking a few hours off to myself. Gotta clear out the week's worth of empty water bottles from this room, wipe the smudgy spectactles with my special lint-free blue cloth, burn a CD of funny songs (Action Replayy! Stupid and hilarious! Just the way I love it. Akshay Kumar is classically comical and it's nice to see Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan act goofy) and then get back to focusedness.

The adulation for Obama's nation (Sorry, Kanye)

2010-11-06T14:57:00.004+05:30

The three-syllable proper noun is being chanted every couple of nano seconds on consecutive news channels as part of a flurry of commentary in English and every single Indian language. And in my father's room, there is a lot of channel flipping. So it's 'bamobamaobamaobama' 24/7 with opinions on the shaky airplane ladder to his 'महत्त्वपूर्ण' (important) words signed at the 26/11 memorial to a literal memorisation of his itinerary for today.

Not that I would really mind. I was a fan, still am and am reluctant to give it up. But being a student of IR, I am supposed to be objective and reasoning. Not non-commital on the aid to Pakistan deal. Being a citizen of India, I am supposed to be patriotic. Furious at "insourcing". He is the president of the USA after all. We aren't supposed to expect him to shine his benevolent, leader-of-the-free-world grace upon us. We know the NSS drill-geostrategic, geoeconomic, geopolitical that are consistent of US foreign policy. We know he's been wary of the surge of India and China and our impact on US jobs. My homeland's just started seeing economic success and we don't really want to give that up. Yet we are all fans. We want this hero to be universal, unconstrained by national jurisdiction and commitments and a house divided. Why does he feel like "our guy"? Cause he quotes Nehru and the Mahatma? Cause he spent some time in Indonesia as a kid and his sister's half-Indonesian? Cause he's brown? Cause he's a realisation of the American dream? Wait a second, why do we have an American dream? Let's skip that. We all still measure success in dollars and we can't really help it. We like the American political system, we followed Obama's election more closely than Dr. Singh's. We know Joe Biden better than our own vice-president, what's his name? Her name? (Shri M. Hamid Ansari, thank you, Google) Let's face it. Indian politics is a mess and it's uncool. Why, even American politics wasn't as glam when Bush was around. Obama brought his charm, his oratorical skills, his ideals and wife and made us dream in red, white and blue again. Can we help it? We're only human.

I'm still a fan, still want a hero and am still not about to let go of the voice that enriched my thought process through 'Dreams From My Father', the opinions that aided my answer papers in college. So let me have my illusions a little while longer. Let me imagine this American leader belongs to all of us and we can all catch a bit of stardust.

Aaaaaaaaah!

2010-10-24T02:30:00.004+05:30

No, I'm not at the dentist's. That is just mine and Numbi Jim's (and probably a lot of you out there) way of expressing outmost internal chaos/excitement/adrenalineness. I will be using the emotion a lot in the following text so those prone to incurable irritability and other disorders, reading is not recommended:

So much has been happening, so please excuse me for not writing. While most of it must be academic/freelance work-related/a consequence of October birthdays, I think my reluctance or laziness to write has been primarily because of much too much self-analysis, life lessons and policy formulation. I've been wondering how much of all these fragmented thoughts are worth documenting and how much of it is embarrassing/silly/unoriginal but hey, this blog's seen worse. And I am just post-recovery of 'Eat Pray Love' (Aaaaaah! the book! the book! ONLY the book!) and I feel like giving Elizabeth Gilbert a huge hug for being who she is and talking the way she does. (These days I seem to be finding a lot of female role models and sources of inspiration) So let me freewheel here.

K is gonna be here! Here! Aaaaaaaah! Okay, in two months and for barely ten days but still! I am so proud of that crazy smart savvy loony who's ruling London city while being so true to himself. I can't believe it's going to be almost one and a half years since I saw him, kicked him and laughed till I cried with him last. I am a bit worried that things could have changed. But like someone said, (I think it was Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan in 'You Are Here'), if everyone changes at the same time then somehow everything will stay the same. You know? We do our little turns simultaneously and end up at 360. Hopefully. We all love that old friend who knows us so scarily well-the shiny, the beige and the hideously fluorescent yellow. We crave their company for understanding without explanations. And yet, we want to show them our newness, to comment on our new wardrobe additions, our new analyses of life and growing up, our new crushes (which are ohhhh-so-different from our old ones. Note: Being sarcastic here). We want them to say those same old phrases in these completely new situations. Maybe we should just ditch the cardboard cutout we've been carrying around in their absence and welcome a new friend whom you have the privilege of not needing to impress.

So, that's been on my mind for quite some time. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the cardboard cutouts. They say what you want them to say. And they're always by your side on the long lonely drives.

Aaaaaaaah! Scratch that! I want the real thing!

But have I changed a lot in the past year? I've gone back to my childhood self-dependency. I've unexpectedly found a group of seriously talented, intelligent and unabashedly childlike funny girls at school. I've become more participatory (that's the best way I can describe it). I've learnt old lessons in a more permanent form. And I think I'm finally learning that trying to achieve a daily state of jubilation is not as helpful as a good dose of calmness.

Anyway, back to reality: let's talk about 'Ugly Betty'. (see how real I can get?). The series finale just aired here today. And I am finding it so hard to let go of Betty, Marc, Amanda, Hilda, etc. Even though it ended so hurriedly and unjustifiably. Aaaaaaaa(rg)h.

As my dear friend V said, I tend to blog during my exams. Unfortunately that's the case. I guess I have a persecution complex. I don't mean in the real sense. I just tend to get down to things when I'm pursued. In this case, the looming reality of exams beginning on Wednesday. Yes, this sem is almost done (and then I have only one more! Aaaaaaaah!) and I will have to bid farewell to two of my most favourite subjects in this course: American Foreign Policy (Sniff. Nixon) and Ethnicity, Culture and International Relations (Identity crises. Just what I love) My postponement from the real world is ending and a draft notice has been sent. But somehow, I'm less paranoid than last time. Despite my favourite stationery store's owner questioning me about lack of commitment to advertising (or anything in particular) while I indulged myself in some Reynold's 045 pens (they are seriously awesome. Especially the purple one). I hope none of my teachers, friends' parents, future spouses (spice?) and employers (I think it should be in reverse order) are reading this. In my defense, I need more time. I am quite a Jill of a Few Trades now. I know that I can be quite a workaholic but the problem is, I can be a workaholic in something I'm not even passionate about. So I don't want to cheat myself. Nevertheless, let us wait till April till we open this particular can of worms. Allow me my second teenagehood-where TV shows ending are the biggest tragedies.

Ahh.

Inspired!

2010-09-15T02:40:00.004+05:30

I have a new addiction. No, don't be misled by the above picture (that's a weakness, not an addiction) And unlike my last year's fix (*cough cough* people.com), this one doesn't make me ashamed to declare it.

It's Garance Doré!

Maybe I'm one of the last people to catch up on this deliciously delightful photoblogger but over the past few days, I've been hooked to her stunning pictures of amazing people, bright as sunshine writing and generally fabulous vibe.

Forget that I am in the throes of wrestling with my dissertation proposal, a couple of tons of freelance work, myriad college stuff and haven't seen the gym in three days (I need my cardio fix!) Forget that the girls Garance captures through her covetable lenseye are uniformly lithe and of the sparkling skin, vivid hair variety. Forget that I need a midnight bath. Forget that she's in Australia, Paris, London, Corsica (Corsica! New place on destination wishlist). Forget that I am in my minuscle computer room, listening to the mind-numbing 'Stop' by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and struggling with the adorable paperclip that Belle got me from the U.S. It's shaped like a thumbs-up but it doesn't exactly hold together my Yahia H.Zoubir's article on the stalemate in Western Sahara.

I just mentioned Middle East Policy Journal and Garance Doré in the same paragraph. That's probably a first.

So, what I'm trying to say is that as of this week I have learnt that even if you think you're drowning, laugh like a maniac and admire the pretty scales of fish. Chances are you'll stay afloat, swimming slowly but surely to the shore. And you would have contributed one less negative vibe to the Universe.

Too new-agey? Sorry, I'm reading 'The Power'.

So, thanks to Garance, I am going to resume proper picture taking and living life outside the little boxes of my to do list. There's no bigger thrill right now than drawing thick black tick marks next to each item but the weeks are just flying by and I should be giving out more hugs, bursting forth with more laughs and indulging in some good TV.

Which is why I took a break and watched what I could of the VMA's.

I have climbed highest mountains

2010-09-05T22:04:00.003+05:30

I am strangely sensitive to religion because it's so personal to other people. Is that a strange reason to tiptoe around it, not wanting to choose, not wanting to succumb, taking in a bit of everything and not committing?
I am extremely spiritual. But I don't like talking about God and my relationship with him. It's only reserved for a few people, for a few midnight texting conversations and for those silent, awe-inspiring moments that life passes along.
Today I felt the need for the wide openness of a church, for reassurance. I got to go to a cathedral. I felt moved and satisfied. Fate then took me to a Jain temple. It was beautiful beyond words. Finally, a Hindu temple. As familiar as they are, Hindu temples are ever-intriguing, full of drama and sacred mystery.
I got into the car and put my music phone on shuffle: 'I still haven't found what I'm looking for' by U2 began playing.
You can't find it. You have to actively seek it. . You have to renew it. You have to let you go.

Ay,Sha

2010-08-11T18:50:00.008+05:30

The movie with the slick posters featuring an extremely glammed up star cast was pretty tempting. Amit Trivedi's music, Sonam Kapoor's face, high fashion, promises of yet another 'new' urban India film and of course, the casually adorable Abhay Deol. I went and saw. And here are is my unprofessional opinion. Spoilers alert.

The movie begins promisingly with visuals of Sonam Kapoor zipping around Delhi in a sunshine-yellow car to the soundtrack of 'By the Way', a highly girl power song which can be the therapy song du jour. The narrative picks up but relies on the convenience of voice over introductions of everyone. But, never mind, the graphics and the characters are cutesy. We watch on. First sign of trouble: the wastage of hilarious Cyrus Sahukar and his unfunny wedding toast.

The story, or should I say biography begins. Aisha is a 'matchmaker' (the only match to her credit seems to be that of her aunt and a Colonel or Major who happens to be their neighbour also?) with an enviable Chanel, Marc Jacobs lined wardrobe. The song 'Sunoh Aisha' seems to enrapture us with Amit Trivedi's breathy voice extolling the heroine's mystique. Unfortunately, the song is wasted as although Sonam Kapoor's Aisha is beautiful (and breathtakingly so), she comes across annoying, slow-witted, immature and as Abhay Deol's Arjun rightly puts it: shallow. One thing I know about movies is that the lead is supposed to be likable. And nobody in the audience that I shared this movie liked Aisha.

Sure, I appreciate the film for its intents and purposes. Matchmaking transported from Jane Austen's aristocratic England to high society Delhi. India's first completely fashion-forward film. Urban India dialogues and slices of life. However, the screenplay adapts Jane Austen's characters a little too strictly when it comes to caricatures like Shefali and Randhir (but the actors manage to shine through it all), while missing out entirely on the substance in Aisha-Arjun's romance. Some scenes are nicely written, funny too (Shefali and Randhir's walk in oblivion, for example). Some do succeed in being cute: Aisha's father's pep talk, Abhay Deol's balcony climbing confession-but these are probably only because I'm a girl.

And speaking of which! I was dismayed to read Sudhish Kamath's review (that's a first, being dismayed I mean) where he said that the girls' equivalent to 'Dil Chahta Hai' had arrived, ten years late. I am sorry but montages of shopping and comfort food indulgence after heartbreak do not a female coming-of-age story make. Like I said, that's something I still have to write. Chick flick as this film is, it was as much painful for me as it was for the teenage boys I overheard in the popcorn line ("Worst. Movie. Ever"). The only part where my feminity counted for my bias (apart from the scenes mentioned) was in taking serious note of the outfits and delighting to see a different size lead actress for a change. I love Sonam Kapoor anyway, right now. So I forgive her for this movie. While we're speaking of love, let's just say that Abhay Deol brought the perfect man to life, if he isn't that already. :)

The (anti) climax scene of Aisha's confession, albeit an interesting twist, was much much funnier in 'I Hate Luv Storys'. But I don't get these movies where the lead characters hate each other or annoy each other and only later discover that they are meant to be. Does that really happen in real life beyond fifth standard?

Oh and the highlight of the movie was this bunch of Punjabi boys sitting way upfront and tossing popcorn, straws and counter dialogues throughout the movie. In the end when 'Gal teri mithi mithi' began to play, they jumped up and began to dance in the aisles. This is something I have only heard and dreamed of, never seen even in a Tamil movie, leave alone seeing Punjabi men do this in my local theatre in Chennai. They took it to the next level by jumping up on the platform in front of the screen, a row of leg kicking, arm waving silhouettes while the credits rolled. At the end of it all, they bowed to a rousing applause. They made the movie so worthwhile.

The beautiful moment was slightly ruined when the bunch remembered that they had misplaced their bike helmets.

And a sigh of relief can be breathed

2010-08-11T18:20:00.004+05:30

Exams are done. For the moment. Okay, they were hardly exams but considering the last minute chaotic cramming that took place, their presence is not missed. Hence for that reason they have been accorded exam status. It's sad because thanks to the little studying I did, I learnt that the subjects this sem are pretty interesting and deserve more attention. Oh except for three out of six. Nevertheless, I shall study a little everyday and read up and become more worldy-wise. Let's see.
And life begins again. Not that it was much interrupted. I worked out more during exams than I do normally. I watched a movie in the theatre (review to follow shortly) after a surprisingly long gap of three weeks. I emailed a lot. I worked quite a bit. And I didn't sleep.
Which brings me back to my suddenly hectic life. I'm thoroughly enjoying the smoothly chaotic flow and the prospects of productivity it's bringing. For the first time, I'm saying yes more and postponing thinking-in the best possible sense of the term. And my recent quest for a cause seems to be fulfilled as I'm attending a social-political awareness workshop this weekend. Trepidation is normally my characteristic feeling before commiting to any single thing but this time I'm practising to STOP STRESSING ABOUT THE POSSIBILITY OF STRESS.
Flow and not resist.

Even small fish in small ponds have to swim fast

2010-07-22T15:20:00.008+05:30

The past few days (and next few more) have been a flurry of activities and also thoughts about activities. I love my life like this. No time to breathe or think. But I think it's time I put sleep back on the priority list. The lack of it does me no good in Entrepreneurial Development class.

One sigh of relief can be breathed: the 'Fresher's Party' is over and successful (my definition: people participated, got entertained and were fed. Oh we were within budget! I'm not such a hopeless accountant after all). The song went fine and in the video, I don't look as clowny as I thought I did and don't sound toooo terribly awful, if I say so myself. My first duty as Class Rep is done and all thanks to improvisations and makeshift arrangements by my fellow, er, fellows. A big shout out to all 26 of you. I really love you all.

Next. Very enthusiastically, my hand shot up in the air last week for more assignments than I remember. So, tomorrow I will be doing a presentation on US dominance and Revolution in Military Affairs. And though I'm having to sort through a MOUNTAIN of information, I'm actually enjoying it. I always did like talk of power. Word of the day: psychotechnology.
As if that weren't enough, my thirst for movies doesn't abate during times of hecticness. Watched 'A Serious Man' last night. At first, my reaction was of extreme discomfort (I loved the beginning bit with the Polish couple and the dybukk) because I dislike watching central characters have their lives fall apart as they watch on helpless (personal fears about lack of assertiveness, maybe?) I began to appreciate the story's progression, the dark humour (especially the Rabbis) and just when I got hooked back into the film, the end completely repulsed me. I guess I'm still looking for the next 'Inception' (it's been less than a week; must be patient) to blow me away.
Yeah, so I'm going to see 'Udaan' today. An Anurag Kashyap production, it's earning rave reviews. Bunny wants to see it bad. And well, it's a coming of age story. But hello! All coming of age stories are about boys. The only one that I've seen featuring a female lead was 'Thirteen'. And I didn't come of age that way so erm, not so relateable. Guess I'm going to have to make my own ode to the girls of Generation X. Before we grow so old that I forget.

And also! It's Jhinker's birthday tomorrow (we're one month apart) and I have to do something special. Instead, I was highly crabby (had a sore throat and sleep deprivation) with her on the phone last night and I feel horrible about it. God, please make me a better human being. Atleast for tomorrow.

And lastly, the picture above is dedicated to all the illustrious members of the Therapy playlist on my iTunes. In particular, Bif Naked ('Rich and Filthy'), Scissor Sisters ('Take Your Mama Out'), Coldplay ('Life in Technicolour II'), The Belle Stars ('Iko Iko' from 'The Hangover' soundtrack), good old JT ('LoveStoned/I Think She Knows') and of course, Beck ('Loser' and for just being Beck).

Because you get me through. Because you make me happy.

Raavan/Raavanan: Life after expectation

2010-07-14T21:27:00.006+05:30

Raavan and Raavanan have released and almost left the theatres. As I have mentioned earlier, I had been waiting and waiting (AND WAITING) for this epic movie to be released for numerous reasons:
1. It's a reinterpretation of the Ramayan, my preferred choice of the great Indian epic.
2. It brings to the forefront the intriguing character of Raavan, the good bad guy
3. It's about the possibility of love between Raavan and Sita (ah, forbidden love! DO NOT mention anything about Stockholm syndrome)
4. Abhishek Bachchan as a half maniacal, half brooding Raavan. Exciting. Oh yeah, and Vikram as Raavanan.
5. A. R.Rahman's music.
6. Santhosh Sivan cinematography of misty Karnataka forests and waterfalls
7. Mani Ratnam: the director

Well, I went and actually bought the audio CD and feverishly absorbed all that my eyes and ears could find of this bilingual film. I jumped at the opportunity when my equally excited cinematographer friend scored us some tickets with a big bunch going to a charity show which was a sort of public but not so public premiere. I was going to see Raavan before anybody else! (the Bachchans don't count)

I settled down in the second row from the screen, corner seat, absolutely silent, wanting to absorb this movie to my bones. I have certain movie-watching quirks. 1. I cannot miss the beginning of any movie, no matter how sad, whether it's 'White Chicks' or a Karan Johar movie. Whether I know what happens or not. If I miss a minute, I feel heartbroken. If I miss it on TV, I can't even watch it. 2. I kinda know whether I'm going to like a movie within the first minute or so.

And that's when my illusions started to dissolve, little by little. The beginning of Raavan is a montage of scenes, my favourite being the one where Abhishek Bachchan plays the dhol. Music and percussion-based folk music speaks strongly to me and I suppose this scene was meant to be indicative of Raavan's multiple facets. It was also supposed to hint at his power. But I didn't feel it, you know what I mean?

Next. 'Beera', the power song, which exalts and extols the great Beera, unique and formidable. Maybe we get to see Beera in action, the saviour of the downtrodden, the enemy to the elite? No. The song is wasted as an accompanying track to the opening credits.
The story begins too soon, too abruptly. The characters are half-sketched and their dialogue so un Mani Ratnam like, neither clever nor touching. The saddest is Govinda's character being reduced to an amusing forest officer whose purpose in the entire movie is nothing more than serving as an allusion to the actual Hanuman.

Anyway, I watched on, a little biased because it's hard to give up something you love so much.

Other sore points:
'Behene De', my former addiction came too soon and flowed away, just like its name.
Chemistry between AB Jr and his wife was hardly anything to qualify this movie for being of the romance genre.
Raavan did not come across as a powerful godfather and neither did there exist any ideological face off between him and Ram.
Ram, played by Vikram is basically a rotten guy without any redeeming features. Raavan is a psychotic, indecisive, torturing angel seeking revenge for a gory outrage but doesn't even carry it out?

Atleast one thing was that AB Jr danced well in 'Thok de Kili'. Maybe he just looks like the right Raavan with scruffy beard and long lean frame. The black shawl becomes him but the character's interpretation unfortunately does not. I feel so bad for the Abhishek of 'Guru'.

So, I was disappointed but not disgusted. My stubborn bias remained. Then, almost a month later, I saw 'Raavanan'. Much as Hindi is mostly my second language and I couldn't really follow the rural slang of the Tamil version, I was absolutely blown away.

Maybe it's because it's Mani Ratnam's first language. Maybe it was the editing that was better. But it definitely was Vikram. The man didn't act, he brought life to the two dimensional paper cutout that Raavan is reduced to at Ramlila and other occasions. Maybe he didn't portray the ten headed aspect that Raavan is meant to have but it was much easier to deal with that AB Jr's split personalities. Raavanan is a man tortured, his emotions evident but understated, his love and attraction clearly coming forth but exquisitely restrained through blunt speech. He is an unbelievable actor, absolutely lovable and cool and rugged and totally messed up in absolutely the perfect way. I'm sorry that I hadn't expected more from Raavanan. The dialogue, particularly to the end, is a lot more beautiful and poetic in Tamil.

The chemistry between Vikram and Mrs. Rai Bachchan is explosive, surprisingly. The love story is simply gorgeous but ridiculously unexplored. Maybe the whole point was to not change the story of Ramayan but to make ourselves question what could have been.

The crux of the film is the dilemna of good verus evil, the question of the grey areas. But it falls flat by describing our so called hero as outright evil and the anti hero as a sort of martyr for emotions. So, I stand, a little disappointed but a lot relieved about the fact that I was pleasantly surprised in atleast some aspects. But nevertheless, I will not cease to expect more from Mani Ratnam.

Take me, I'm your leader

2010-07-14T20:25:00.004+05:30

Mass conspiracies are doomed to backfire. Why? The masses seldom cooperate so uniformly that the master plan comes into effect. Case in point: my unexpected election as class representative of what could be my final year in school.
The plan was thus: force the two least school spirited candidates into authority, a role that no one else wanted. This is where collaboration worked. We cheered and with a show of hands deemed our two saviours the class rep and assistant class rep. I was part of this spectacle, I must admit. I even suggested an unofficial swearing-in ceremony. This event did not take place but had it taken place, things might have been different.
Little did I realise that a reverse coup was in the formative stage. The official Union reps came around to conduct the election and our candidate for assistant class rep quietly backed out. I had ready objections in place but they were drowned out by the former regime's insistence in my capabilities. Silenced by the former president (whom I respect immensely), I prepared to engineer a little revolt. I encouraged vote manipulation around me. But nevertheless, it failed. I am thus, the new class rep.

Perhaps in my heart I still felt loyal to my old college. Protective of my identity as a graduate of the supposed # 1 college in India, protective of the seemingly less restrictive student life I enjoyed then, possessive of the 'coolest' course I could find in Madras city. I don't know. I had been feeling reluctant to let go, despite it being a year since graduation.

Today was the investiture ceremony. My new college takes these things seriously. Class reps get a badge (at my previous college, all you got was a million responsibilities such as organising major media events, loss of sleep and perhaps some clout with the heavyweight that is the Union). My co-rep and I chuckled to ourselves about our own cluelessness (we had missed the class rep orientation and quite a few other announcements) but were kindly guided to our seats and roles by the responsible others. It's going okay.

I'm not a bad class rep. I love running up and down the stairs to pass on messages. It's a welcome distraction. I always did stand up on the chair to fix the projector screen (seeing as I'm the tallest in class). I cart around equipment. I get photocopies. My own notes get photocopied. And it's not like I have to do all that much. The previous rep is incredibly helpful and so is my assistant. The profs are great. The class is supportive and I'm growing to love each one of these girls. They are so my type. Girls but so ungirly, which was one thing I'd dreaded leaving a mostly all-boys college. Most of all, this is the first time I've encountered such a large bunch of class clowns in one year.

I may not learn the words to the college song (sung every Tuesday) but I can pretend to mouth them. I still resolutely refuse to wear sari (which most proud students do at any given occasion) but I can oblige with a dupatta over my kurta and jeans. (Oh wait, scratch that. It's way too hot).I think the point of this whole unexpected duty was to create a bond between the college and I.

Besant Nagar Bond-age

2010-07-12T21:39:00.007+05:30

I am a small-time adventurer. My favourite pastime may be making destination lists with my college benchmates (who squint at me for adding Mongolia to the list). I collect pictures of Tunisia's blue and white architecture. I dwell in Oran/Marseille through my ears. I envision Thai beaches ever so often, especially after viewing and listening to Laya Project.
But since I AS OF NOW bound by time, space, resource and societal constrictions, I make a break for it whenever and however I can. Owing to limited travel opportunities, I tended to crave for a more accessible utopia. I found this in the form of Besant Nagar and its beach.
For non-Chennaiites, Besant Nagar is a posh, sea-bordering area in the South of Chennai. Its beach is clean (thanks to several initiatives such as ROB-Reclaim Our Beaches), it has restaurants a plenty and it is somehow so much more tempting and happening and inviting than dear old Marina. Sorry, Marina. Maybe it's just 'cause you're too familiar.
During the week, I had begun this ruse of scaring my mother by threatening to drive off to Besant Nagar while in the midst of errands. I was in desperate need of a long drive, now that I have reconciled to the fact that if I want my long drive I must do it myself. I was so in the mood and this less-explored destination was calling out to me. Little did I know how these teasing words of mine would cause life itself to play a little trick on me...
Saturday was declared Besant Nagar day. A friend was to perform in a concert at hip venue known as Spaces, bang opposite the beach. Benchmates designated me as the driver of the evening and a plan was quickly formed. A plan surprisingly long overdue seeing as we've never hung out besides going straight somewhere before or after college.
Friday came. Bored and restless, I kidnapped Jhinks and Mum and we set off somewhere, anywhere. Guess where we headed? Down the Marina beach road, past the fishermen's nets, random goats (so many goats), annoying number of speedbreakers and numerous rowdy drivers. And we ended up guess where? We also ate at this pirate-themed restaurant.
Saturday. Long drive. First time to Besant Nagar in the daytime. We waited till our friend finished performing and ran across to the beach, me literally running like the world was after me, sand sinking under my black Converse style shoes, legs leaping, feeling so free, while 'Free fallin' by John Mayer played on my phone in my pocket.
Sunday. Mothers' cool friends, Jhinks and I. Total ladies evening. We went shopping to Madras Terrace House, this uber-cool kitschy Madras culture type boutique/cafe/art exhibition centre. We're a philosophical bunch, ever ready to toast to newness and rebirth and we were high on that feeling. Guess where I took us? This time we actually sat on the beach wall. They ate kulfi, Jhinks and I talked about boys and girls and unbeachy, unliberating things so much in contrast to the salt-soaked air. The crowd was immense but somehow I didn't mind. But I felt restless. Tired. Feet aching though all I'd been doing was alternating foot from pedal to pedal. I wanted to close my eyes. I guess my saturation had taken place.Getting back to the North was all I wanted to do.
I will go back. I will run more on the beach and I will play frisbee or shoot balloons or fly a kite (oh wait that's no longer allowed). But I will no longer yearn to do so.
And for that freedom from yearning that I am eternally grateful to the universal forces that conspire around me.

Familiar Stranger

2010-07-10T12:28:00.006+05:30

There is something to be said about learning to tolerate your own company. I'm one of those not sooo social people (oft called self-absorbed by PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT THE TERM MEANS. You know who you are, K). I guess you could say being an only child I'm not so influenced or dependent on other people for entertainment. Of course, as with everything else I've learnt in 22 years, life makes you contradict yourself. Repeatedly. Case in point: I tend to avoid clubs/pubs/excessive smoke-filled and claustrophobic spaces. My idea of socialising involves a long drive, conversation and excessive laughter. But 3 days after my birthday? I found myself totally sober, dancing like a maniac (I LOVE to dance) with my undergrad buddies in a packed disco. My eyes closed, an imaginary spotlight on my head and a sense of absolute abandonment. Innocent, spontaneous fun. Of course, Sean Kingston helped.

So, when I used to say I love being alone and self-sufficient, it was ironic because secretly I envied huge families especially those with many siblings ( I always always wanted a big brother and my dream came true in the form of this amaaaazzziiing human being whom I call Bunny. The fact that he now has a girlfriend, Sunshine whom I absolutely adore makes my own constructed family picture complete) I basically came to the conclusion that you shouldn't say you hate something or someone because you will end up doing exactly that with exactly them. Life is unpredictable and beautifully so.

Well, anyway, recently I was put to the test. I have become addicted to human company thanks to my delightfully demanding friends. I felt as if I would drown in my own thoughts if left alone for a second. But I was put in a situation where my friends all went home and I was supposed to wait for my Mum at a certain shop. Sleep-deprived and wandering mind, it was just me and my car in a parking lot.

The thoughts came, like arrows from different directions but I stayed put. My music was in my ears, soothing me into the semi-conscious delirium that I know so well. But my mind was still awake, valiant against the onslaught of self-doubt, unfulfilled yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows. The window was down, I was alone ( a girl!) in an unknown place. But I didn't care.

Khaled's voice soared like the only way Khaled's ('Hada Raykoum') voice can. I listened. I focused on the outlines of an olive green plant reaching toward the bland, colourless sky. I focused on that sky, so unyielding, impenetrable, that mute witness. I fell asleep, arms folded, seat kicked back, regardless of the world.

In between the contradictions, in betweent the extremities, I meet myself, an ever-changing familiar stranger. Someone I don't know very well and I don't think I'll ever know. Someone I can fall in love with intensely and immensely and someone I could completely abandon if I found someone else.

And after years of pushing and pulling, struggles beneath the skin, I have finally encountered someone I can tolerate. Someone I can live with.

Digression Session

2010-07-08T01:26:00.003+05:30

As usual, my utterly brilliant thoughts and philosophies drift through the windows of my mind in the five seconds before sleep or the five seconds before the red light changes to green.
It's not that I have become uncreative or suffer from lack of information. My academic pursuits stress on newspaper reading (even if, currently that is restricted to reading Klose's statement about Villa or the latest Sudhish Kamath movie review-always an addiction) and more. I suppose the inner rebel in me baulks at any compulsory reading right now. (this phase probably explains why I end up reading sodium content on the back of Hippo Chips packets and why EAT HIPPO, NO FIGHT. All this and I don't even eat or like chips.)

Bad, bad attitude since that's most certainly not gonna help me through the last and maybe final year of school. Ever.

In all seriousness, I did read a really really good book recently. Less of a book, more of a reliving. It was Wangari Maathai's 'Unbowed', and it has like a lot of other autobiographies, become an inspiration to me. Her immense strength of character and unyielding spirit that enabled her to take on the entire Kenyan government is amazing to read about. Makes me think about how insignificant my own inner ghosts are and how much easier to override. Such a long, long way to go.

Anyway, I digress (just read an email forward on age-related attention deficit disorder which sounded disturbingly familiar). The purpose of this post is to reminisce about my fruitful youth. Ah, the days of totally incomprehensible physics classes where I would sit in the backbench, sketching storyboards and scribbling 'movie' scripts, writing songs for 'musicals' starring my own imaginary star cast (this is the origin of Kingdom of Estarra. More on that later). This was the creative explosion. Years of guitar classes, nights of songwriting (my guitar, Dominic still bears the pen marks), 2 am story inspirations. (I actually miss school days where I could hate the subject and thus, rebel in my own geeky way. What I've been studying since have been purely my decisions and hence I have no choice but to like it. Aargh, the tragedy of getting what you want in life...)

In college, I got lazy. My friends and their lives were highly inspiring in terms of story fodder but I somehow couldn't translate that into fictitional material. What a waste. My only expression was when first-year-college-turbulence showed up in the form of poetry. And that remains my saving grace when it comes to writing even now. Scribbles on the back of my Entrepreneurial Development or Globalisation notebooks (but never EVER during Ethnicity, Culture and IR) . Poetic license abused to the nth point. Romantic, free-flowing verse inspired by the evening (usually cloudy) sky, the fluorescent green, erm, greenery outside. No John Mayer lyrics coming to mind, nothing interesting to sketch. Twenty boring minutes to the bell.

The point of this rambling (yes, there is one!) is an official declaration of my commitment to writerhood. No, not as a recreational activity on this blog during internship (blogging has always been a staple feature of all my internships since they have all been desk-bound) This is the statement: I'm going back to my creativity-fueled fourteen year old self (and only THAT aspect of my fourteen year old self) because creation is the only proof of existence. Truly. And thought-generation doesn't really count. What's the use of these great, fabulous ( I'm assuming) thoughts if they're withering away in the recesses of my mind?

And by writing, I mean consistency. Not this two voluble blog posts in one night thing. Steadfastedness. Regimenal. Creative cardio.

Talk to me!

2010-07-07T23:50:00.007+05:30

I recently learnt that I have absolutely SO MUCH to say. My dear friend Jhinks tells me "Talk to me. I want to know about YOU" (and this is saying something. We've been really really close friends for the past 12 years). But by the time I get to the phone, it's silence on my end. I simply recycle old conversations, old pre-concluded ideas. What am I afraid of? Not making sense? Improper sentence construction? Bombing on the punch line?
So that's when I started to realise. That I'm most comfortable with a pen in my hand, a keypad beneath my fingers or a keyboard staring invitingly up at me. But that's not good. I love people. I love the energy that is diffused in the process of human conversation. Hands waving, eyes lighting up, sharing of ideas, using words, words, words. I love words. I know words. The written word is my weapon and unfortunately also my crutch.
During my internship, I met the most fabulous people. People who truly communicate, both with soul and word. My work guide (the coolest mentor in the world, I absolutely adore her) is one person who astounds me with her sheer gift of communicating exactly what I've been feeling for ages. When she talks about world music ('music of the world' as she says, is a better term), I can't help but simply bob my head up and down, eyes round with excitement because I'm in absolute agreement with what she says. The people here are honest and spontaneous. I've never felt so refreshed in a conversation.

I wondered what made me switch to listener mode. Is it my role as love counsellor? Is it my fear of appearing ignorant? The only person who I am the biggest chatterbox is with my mother. And with her, I'm exactly whom I find it difficult to be with: a self-absorbed, non-listening, dominating monologuist (is there a word?) But even then, I am not completely honest. The mental screening still takes place. The opaque bubble is soundproof.Fear of judgement, fear of appearing weak or flawed. Fear of trusting? Fear of revelation, of being exposed to reveal less than I believe I am composed of.

Ah, the futility of fear.

Enough! Conclusion: I'm going to practise the art of conversation. And that means not keeping my phone on silent, not shutting up when group members exceed beyond 2 and basically.....

being myself. The most cliched and yet the most fundamental aspect of being human.

Amarte es igual que jugar ruleta rusa (Irrelevant. Just words from the song I'm listening to)

2010-06-28T23:55:00.004+05:30

I miss Spanish. I know I can study on my own, seek out Spanish books, learn a word a day, revise my verbs and hello, read my Spanish copy of Paulo Coelho's 'Brida'. BUT I miss Spanish as the Spanish that is easier to FEEL in. I miss Spanish as the language that I wrote my first ever full-fledged song in. I miss Spanish and alongwith my discovery of the Latino explosion, not as limited English popsters but as genuine pop-rock phenomenons back in Spain and Colombia (I don't have to mention who I am talking about, EI and S). I miss Spanish as I miss ninth standard. I miss ticklingly chilly Madras winter on long drives to Kotturpuram as the same album played on repeat for months. I miss 'Quizas' by Enrique Iglesias. It's on my iTunes now. But I miss the context I first listened to it in. I miss the freshness of discovery, the thrill of learning, so much unlike the relative monotony of revision. I miss my Peruvian Spanish teacher, our initial limited conversations as he helped negotiate my first steps into the language that I was already so in love with and the language that would become so close to my heart.

I am not brilliant at Spanish. I don't even know what level I am at. And months of non use have probably rendered my tenses rusty. But when Juanes, Enrique, Shakira, Antonio Banderas, Alejandro Sanz and Marc Antony speak to me, something happens. I am at once familiar and immediately far away. A fourteen year old whose world changed just because she had a language to speak to herself in, to communicate those feelings that English so restricted.

Siempre digo que ingles es la lengua en que yo puedo pensar y hablar pero es español que es la lengua en que yo puedo sentir, la lengua de mi corazón.

Stay the same

2010-06-20T19:21:00.007+05:30

Rain does its 180

2010-06-11T13:01:00.003+05:30

The city that was edgy (sorry, understatement), bursting at the seams and ready to bite is now tamed after a nice bath. The survival instinct that rises to the surface when we are confronted with the sun's blade is now pacified, receding to the corner where it deserves to be. You now feel like living and not barely surviving. Being and not having to be. I'm ready to look at strangers' faces, glareless. I'm able tolerate the not-so-favoured tracks on my iPod when on shuffle. I'm capable of smiling a lot more.

Life is better when it's wetter, atleast in this corner of the globe. Peace descends as there's a lot less to complain about it. And whatever there is to complain about, erm, well, I don't quite remember it.

And this is one of the reasons my birth month ROCKS.

And Happy Saturday to You Too

2010-06-05T11:14:00.005+05:30

Today I am much better reconciled to life. My life. Perhaps it is because it is Saturday: less of man and machine on the road (the city even looks cleaner!), the thought of one and a half days of weekend stretch before me temptingly, the thought of hanging out with an ancient (in terms of friendship length) 'friend'/almost sister/partner in self-deprecating hilarity Jhinkers for lunch. Perhaps it's because I did make an effort and dressed better (be proud, K!), albeit a little A/W 2009 than sweltering-still-feels-like-May-Madras. But ha! Guess what? It rained (or drizzled. I was asleep) last night and I woke up to cloud cover on this glorious, glorious day. Not that that helps the heat, but it sure helps my mood. Anyway, my amaaaaziiiing (seriously, it's like my dream workplace/industry: world music but that's not the only reason I adore it..looong list) internship office is air conditioned and brightly coloured. So with thoughts of the above image in mind (courtesy:365tweexcore.tumblr.com I think) I am reconciled to my life. And I wish you all the love and colour in the world.

Sunglasses Don't Help

2010-06-03T15:55:00.005+05:30

Oh ever so inspired. Browsing through blogs of pastel colours, fading afternoon light, summer dresses, street fashion and quotes from songs, I am in such a mood to take photographs. Alas, the world on my screen does not replicate itself outside my window. Memories of my morning brush with reality cause me to shudder. Traffic was stationary, unrelenting and cacophonous. The stable (the politest word I can think of) wheazhherr we are 'aaving is as soothing and pleasant as watching your face melt into pools of hot wax and needing a bath right after you've had your third can be. My former affection for mankind and its associated decision to embrace all humanity lies forgotten in a dusty drawer of my mind, abandoned because my contact with fellow traffic-goers is reduced to angry glares (caused more due to blinding sunlight rather than emotion) and short bursts of honking. It's Madras, as my mother says, you NEED to honk a lot.

Anyway, much as I love the city-town of my birth, I have to accept its ugliness. Its acne scars, its bald patch, its chapped, bitten lips. I dream of meadows and inns by the sea (that movie 'Nights in Rodanthe' spoiled me.). It's not that I want a vacation (oh yes oh yes I do). It's more that I want some prettyness in my day. And my December interest in dressing up has deserted me (ah, alliteration). It's too hot to think up combinations. I stare at the wardrobe in my 9 am moodiness (8-11 am = least favourite time of the day) and pull out whatever is loosest, long-that-can-be-rolled-up-sleeved. Scrounging around for colour, I do try, but the above description takes precedence over colour and joy.

So I wear black (thank God my office is air-conditioned), pile on some beads (that were 'stolen' from K) almost as a compulsory tribute to K's fashion-ness and smile as I think of him and shuffle out. I reach the computer and then see what I see : http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/. People seamlessly incorporating fashion into their day; people making an effort. But wait, what do they have that I don't (besides model physiques/figures that fit all kinds of clothes)? OH YEAH, NICE WEATHER.

It's okay, God. I deserve to whine. Almost 22 years of this climate and I see it getting worse. What with the population and the malls (oh come on, MORE malls!) and the cars and the malfunctioning traffic lights. I will be strong, oh God. Just grant me some all-expenses paid tickets and accomodation at a nice North American town by the sea.

Aïcha

2010-05-17T15:26:00.006+05:30

Here's to a song that has not changed my life. A song that has not opened my eyes. A song that has not been an inspiration.

But a song that speaks to me because it is so much part of me.

I was probably in school when I heard it for the first time. This was much after its original recording. The singer's vocal adeptness and the passion in his voice captivated me (as it still does). I had no idea what he was singing about. I did not know French at the time. The song to me then was a getting-over-a-crush song, a moving-on-in-life song, an empowering yet understated musical experience in its compactness.
By coincidence, I saw a video by a Danish cross-cultural band named Outlandish (I love this band, more on that later). The same song, similar feeling. Isam Bachiri (I love this gentleman) sang in my language but that was not what hit me. Outlandish seemed to absorb the very same thing I did from the song.
First year of college. Naive and eccentric, I auditioned for my department's rock band. I didn't listen to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. I listened to Algerian-French rai and other things no one had heard of or cared about. I was eighteen years old and yet to understand the relationship I share with music (a scale of upliftment, therapy and catharsis) but I knew honesty to myself even then. So I sang this song. I got in.

'Ragging' in the 'Fresher's Party'. My punishment was not all that humiliating. I was called to sing in front of 200-odd unfamiliar faces, unfriendly acquaintances, semi-friendly freshers, teachers and rowdy seniors. Same song. The noisy crowd grew silent and began to clap in time to the beat. People and later close friends would call me by the name of the song.

The song didn't change my life. It didn't bring my great tidings. I didn't enjoy the experience with the band, despite the fact that at the concert we sang a song with words I wrote. I didn't win a multi-million dollar singing deal with Barclay Records. I didn't go on some cross-cultural, multi-linguistic talent show and win fame and glory. But it brought me friends. It brought me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Of feeling that I could do something I loved and do it right. If only for once. If only forever.

The song is within me. It represents my...not love, love's too weak a word. My respectful adoration for music and one of the few times music rewarded me back. Music allowed me to sing this song, perfectly or imperfectly, but with all my heart and soul. As my best friend K says about me, "She sings the song as if she created it". But I sing it more as if it were created for me. And this, without knowing what a word of it meant. Now, with a deeper knowledge of French and a fresher, wisened but no less romantic perspective of life, my relationship with the song is renewed and yet remains ever alive, ever sweet. And my heart smiles ever the same way. When I hear those chords. When I hear the first two words. When I hear Khaled's voice soar.

Comme si j'n'existais pas/As if I don't exist
Elle est passee a côte de moi/She was passing by me
Sans un regard, Reine de Sabbat/With no regard, the Queen of Sheeba
J'ai dit, Aïcha, prends, tout est pour toi/I said, Aicha, take this, all of it is for you

Voici, les perles, les bijoux/Here, the pearls, the jewels,
Aussi, l'or autour de ton cou/Also the gold around your neck
Les fruits, bien murs au gout de miel/The fruits, well ripe with the taste of honey
Ma vie, Aïcha si tu m'aimes/And my life, Aïcha if you love me!

J'irai a ton souffle nous mene/I will go where your breath leads me,
Dans les pays d'ivoire et d'ebene/In the countries of ivory and ebony
J'effacerai tes larmes, tes peines/I will erase your tears, your sorrows
Rien n'est trop beau pour une si belle/Nothing is too beautifull for a girl so beautiful

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïsha, Aïsha don't go
Aïcha, Aïcha, regarde-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, look at me
Aïcha, Aïcha, reponds-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, answer me

Je dirai les mots des poemes/I would say the words, the poems
Je jouerai les musiques du ciel/I would play the music of the sky
Je prendrai les rayons du soleil/I would take the rays of the sun
Pour eclairer tes yeux de reine/to light up your dreamy eyes

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïcha, Aïcha, don't go
Elle a dit, garde tes tresors/She said, "Keep your treasures.
Moi, je vaux mieux que tout ca/Me, I'm worth more than that.
Des barreaux forts, des barreaux meme en or/Bars are still bars even if made of gold.
Je veux les memes droits que toi/I want the same rights as you
Et du respect pour chaque jour/and respect for each day,
Moi je ne veux que de l'amour/Me, I want only love."

Nbrik Aïcha ou nmout allik/I want you, Aïcha and I love you to death
'Hhadi kisat hayaty oua habbi/You are master of my life and my love
Inti omri oua inti hayati/You are my years and my life
Tmanit niich maake ghir inti/I hope to live with you, only you

[Lyrics and Translation Courtesy: http://www.arabicmusictranslation.com/2007/05/cheb-khaled-aisha-aicha.html]

A pain I'm not so used to

2010-05-17T13:59:00.005+05:30

Wisdom striking hard yet again. From the back corner of my mouth, it teaches me nothing. I become irritable, monosyllabic in speech and nihilistic.
Crocin-less, I wander in a state of indecision. Should I call it a day and go home, where a Crocin and a bed are waiting but where later yet another round of errands and engagements await? Or should I plod on at work, a mere intern but committed to ideals of responsibility and expected work hours (My boss is too nice and I feel ashamed to be so unhealthy) ?
Monday is not so blue and that is partly the cause of this limbo-ish behaviour. It's been a good day so far, my restless feet dancing but more or less planted on the ground beneath my desk. It's a good run and I don't want to jinx it.
Wait till 5, my mind tells me. You're such a hypochondriac.
Hey! That is so unfair. I have, in the past two weeks, had a sore throat and a series of back aches, the latter being a product of bad ergonomics (the doctor said so) and not imagination (as my father sometimes thinks so). My mind is fine. The discomfort is in my back and now my tooth. The pain is authentic. And irritating.
So go home, or stay and fight?

Hug

2010-05-16T13:29:00.004+05:30

Bursting at the seams! Gimme more, more, more! Life and within it, love, beauty, truth, freedom, colour, laughter, sunshine, rain, song, dance, word, sound, rhythm, stillness, exclamation marks! Let me dance on my imaginary stage, let me jive to the beat in my car, alone, in a sea of unknown vehicles and unknown passersby. Let me be. Let me not choose, let me have it all. Let me sing at the top of my lungs, let me smile at strangers, let me share in their family stories, let me adore them, let them adore me, let us play with children, let us give a ear to those older. Let me cry for you, let me save the world from my deskchair. Let me love my favourite song du jour and let yourself love it with me. Let me be all that I can be, let there be space in this jostling madness for all the me. Let me wander, let me be lost. Let me not worry about what's going to happen to me; let it happen anyway. Let me be young for as long as I like. Let me fall in love with you, then me, then you, then myself all over again. Let me stare at the mirror in wonder. Let me run, please! Let me free, free, free. Let me embrace this maddening and infuriating world in all its candy-coloured, sweltering and freezing, multi-sensory glory, let me grin with dazzling brightness, let me rival the sun. Let me explode before I implode.

Raavan-Ready

2010-05-09T15:13:00.007+05:30

Waiting for Raavan. Getting lost in the genius of A. R. Rahman. He does it again. Seeps under your skin. Maybe there're more catchy tunes, more structured compositions but there is no musician who so consistently infuses his work with his soul and reaches out to your soul. Firstly, I need no more reasons to want to see Raavan: the Ramayan has always been my favourite epic, Raavan an intriguing character, Mani Ratnam possibly the greatest filmmaker of India and Abhishek Bachchan, one of the best actors making this character uniquely his own with passion and madness. As far as I can see. I am waiting with bated breath.

'Behene De', a song that has been on repeat for me for the past one week. It's painful to listen to, being a song of longing and agony but ever so addictive and ever so beautiful, layered and delicate, sung by Karthik (yay he's from the same school I went to). A love (?) song exactly the way I love it-intense and dramatic and somehow subtle in the passionate lyrics by Gulzar. 'Thok de Kili', reminiscent of my type of songs-'Barra Barra' and other angry electric guitar/percussion based numbers and of course, featuring one of my favourite singers-Sukhwinder Singh. Its poetry is pulsating. 'Kata Kata' has been compared to 'Rukmini' but where 'Rukmini' was teasing and cheeky to an extent, 'Kata Kata' is earthy and intriguing. I can almost see the dust rising from the drums being beat. 'Khili Re' is pretty, soft and feminine. Reminds one of 'In Lamhon Ke Daaman Mein'. I still have not listened to it fully and absorbedly. Simple love songs do not interest me. Particularly, when I have five other songs to digest yet! And 'Beera Beera', of course, a jolly ride of a song. Best thing to listen to in the morning on the way to wherever you are struggling to go in this blasting heat.

I am torn between wanting to watch the visuals (Mani Ratnam's poetry as always) and not because I am imagining (or not) the music a wholly different way. But, Abhishek Bachchan is stunningly scary and I am curious, curious, curious to see Vikram, Govinda (was that really Govinda) and Aishwarya Rai Bachchan essay the roles of these characters, these legends I have grown up imagining. The best part about the Ramayan is its fallible characters; they're Gods and they're human, so human with regrets, doubts, mistakes and imperfections. And I'm waiting to see but for now, content to listen.

Silent Hero

2010-04-25T13:41:00.005+05:30

I'm normally very terrified of traffic cops, owing to past experiences where mild ignorances ended up being translated as trespasses of the law. However, I'm working on that. And yesterday, a rather ordinary incident changed my perception of these men in white and khaki.

The traffic was insane. I didn't mind, Khaled was singing into my ears. It was hot but I had my shades on and AC high. Cars were everywhere-left, right, back, front. Horns blaring, sun searing, confusion reigning supreme over the scene. Something was wrong with the traffic light and as usual, no one had a clue, so they were doing what we in India do best-race ahead at the expense of everyone else even if we have nowhere urgent to go to.

This traffic policeman was all by himself. In that debilitating, destablising sun. He had no Khaled or AC. All he had was this mess before him, around him. He was not sheltered by a comfortable cocoon perched high above the craziness. He was walking around, weaving around this cars, purposeful and ever-composed, as if the noise did not exist and collision was impossible. Me, I would've bolted or screamed my lungs out at these unruly inanimate personalities (Cars always seem that way to me. I cannot relate them to people controlling them from inside).

No, he was calm. With a wave of his hand and a nod of his head, he stopped one section and allowed the rest to zoom off. He didn't growl or wield his scary baton. He seemed to command the respect of me and my fellow travellers, soothing us all into patience, rare on an April afternoon in Chennai. The mess vanished, leaving a gloriously empty road ahead. Another wave of his hand, he deemed as free to pass. And so we did, slower and calmer. Our destinations could wait. It was all good.

A Letter to Time

2010-04-23T12:25:00.004+05:30

Dear Time,

I've been meaning to write. Well, it's kinda your fault I couldn't. I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I guess I could've written rather than spent so much time thinking. What a waste of...er, you.

I hope I'm not interrupting your busy schedule. Who am I kidding? Nobody can interrupt you (hmm, idea for a sci-fi movie) but I've been meaning to well, not exactly, complain, but question your breakneck speed and the lifestyle you lead, trampling on petunias and tripping over plastic toys. Stress is a killer, you know.

Time, listen. I'm not pointing fingers or assigning blame or anything, so just relax. But I'd like you to refer back 365 days in your diary (or if that's a problem, my diary) and I'd like you to tell me if life then was fact or fiction. Is who I am or whom I speak to or what I do now the markers of reality and does it completely negate what existed before, a week or a month of in this case, a year past?

Okay, okay, don't laugh. I know you and Forever broke up long ago. Adam and Eve told me how you guys were so close.

It's not that I want to live in the past. I told you, I concluded that fourteen is so not where I want to be. I love my life. But this is what I ask, do YOU really have the right to choose who stays in my life and who doesn't? I mean, come on, I have it right here in my diary, the truest words spoken by a dearest friend. Sweet words, adorable words by an adorable person. The feelings are the same (atleast on this end), the warmth of the memories ever fresh and as delightful as freshly baked bread or newly ground coffee. But the SMSes are down in a book while the phone is long discarded. The incidents are in a sliding drawer in my head, not in front of me. The places still exist but the people to go to them with? I'm again saying its not all your fault, (your brother Distance has more to do with this but I hate talking to him) but could you be less like an IT raid and more like a gently bubbling stream? Hello, that's what they used to call you. What did the digital age do to you? Or were you always like this and it takes growing up to figure you out...?

I don't want to go back. No, siree. But I'd like a refund. I'd like there to be less photos and more real-life. I'd like my best friend to be in front of me and not in a book. He did exist and I want him to prove you, Time wrong.

Stop chuckling.

Love,

Soundtracking

2010-03-19T16:15:00.004+05:30

Everything is better with a song playing in the background.
When you're driving with your shades on (in Chennai, we call it 'coolers', machi) and listening to Moby, it's a heist movie.
When it's 'Bad' by U2, your life is changing. This is the plot point before the climax, the moment when epiphany arrives, when you, the protagonist set forth on the path that opens up in tune to this song.
When it's 'Agatha' by Rachid Taha, you see cherry blossoms and late winter smells and sights befitting a hilltop town (even when you're on Nungambakkam High Road on a desert-hot Tuesday forenoon.)
When it's 'Summer Moon' by Bob Sinclair, it's the most magical nightclub, neon pinks and purples amidst tropical flowers and all the glamour in the world even if you're dancing in the privacy of your room. Sure, it helps if you're eyes are closed. 'Forever' by Chris Brown takes that moment to the next level.
When it's 'Bittersweet Symphony' (OH when it's 'Bittersweet Symphony') by The Verve, you are the coolest dude(ette) on the planet, your walk a rockstar's, the world succumbing to your nonchalant magnetism as you stride through traffic.
When an A.R Rahman song plays, it's raining in Chennai and you're back in your first year of college when college love was something you knew would happen because the trees, the flowers, the breeze were all rooting for your heart (even though history proved otherwise).
When it's 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls, you and your best friend are panthers, marching down the sidewalk and the whole world wants us or wants to be us.

A song on my 'Therapy' playlist (Beck's 'Timebomb' is guaranteed to pump me up. I'm a rockstar screaming into an imaginary microphone. I'm a superstar (Michael's 'The Way You Make Me Feel'-oh this one is an instant-feel good factor). I'm the star of an action flick ('Alice' by Moby or 'Deep' by Nine Inch Nails). I'm a head bopping, hip hop devotee ('Jump Around' by House of Pain). I'm a clown, belting out 'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen at the top of my lungs.
For those of us (me?) who think life is a movie, the movie is incomplete without and made to order, perfectly fitting song playing in our heads, if not in the background. A crush becomes a love song that when listened to years later, will evoke exactly the same wave of feelings and the same smell of that season when it happened. Any song or album for that matter. 'Made in Medina' will remind me of my drawing room where I walked around while learning chemical equations during my tenth standard board exams. 'La Valse' and other Faudel songs will take my back to the stories and characters I spun from my imagination during a pure, precious time in my adolescence which I wish I could relive, when I lived my creations, allowing myself to be wrapped in a surreal world that was so real to me.
Well, I guess things haven't changed that much. Reality still deserves a background score, according to me. Thank you, Ipod. Thank you, musicians and artistes all over the world, for giving me music for moments.

Those other three words

2010-03-15T19:39:00.004+05:30

It's really easy to love, trust me. Easy to say it also (well, most times). But to like someone? To actually genuinely like them? Not so easy and not so common.
A very good friend of mine I'll call MC (one of the select few people I really like) and I were talking about this phenomenon. That led me to think about the differences between love and liking.
I'm a person who's all about love, by the way. I send forth hugs and love through text messages, emails and in person. Friends, family, teachers and family of friends. Love comes easy, thanks to my inheritance of loving parents and a very demonstrative mother who shares love and kindness to all. I'm not as generous as her, being an inhabitant of a (porous) bubble. But I get it when people say "love makes the world go around".
I also get it when people say "love is blind". Because it is. That's when you ignore the flaws, you glorify the specks of brilliance. And when a cloud shows up, you get mad. You feel cheated.
But when you like someone, you know the flaws. You appreciate the talents, the charm and the goodness, but in a detached, objective way. There's no gush of love and no rush of sentiment. This person's good and you want to get to know them better, want them in your life.

When I mean love, I mean love in all its forms-affection for a newfound friend that ebbs and flows, a crush, a romantic relationship...any relationship.

Like begins to coexist with love. But like can't fluctuate. Like is steady, anchoring. Like is the solid cake base of the chocolate souffle. Love is immediate but like grows. It doesn't bubble up but it builds. Love's the flamboyant one while like is quieter, deeper and creeps up on you when you least expect it.

And that's the stuff great friendship is made of. Here's to you, MC.

Guts

2010-03-12T21:12:00.002+05:30

Happy Birthday

2010-03-10T22:57:00.004+05:30

Today is a special person's birthday, one of the few people left at my age (like me) who do get excited about 'trivial' things like birthdays. One of the few special people who made sure to make mine extra special even though:
they ended up making themselves sick for hyping over my 21st birthday dress,
they ensured my 19th birthday went cake-free by clubbing it with an emotional someone else's, and they helped me organise my 20th with A, B and C lists of guests and eventually leaving out a lot of nice people I feel ashamed to mention my 2oth party to.

Sigh, good times.

Well, here's to that special person, more a princess than a prince because he is pampered and loved as much as one. Here's to the birthday boy who's living it up all the way across the world and still living life as large as can be. Winning hearts the world over (ha ha I can actually say that now) and stressing about party organisation the same old way. The same way he still thinks that a crisp white shirt is the key to instant glam (true) and the same way he thinks he's Blair Waldorf (false).

Always invoking the same hilarity in me, whether he's face to face or an image on a computer screen. Making me believe in 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Being aware of my life's little events and mentally jotting them down so as to tell him later. Taking photos of my wardrobe selections to prove that I'm not as nerdy as he thinks. Mentally arguing with him in my head when I can hear him berating me for not being more adventurous in life. Mentally slapping him for calling my love life a Thar Desert. Making me understand the meaning of 'I'll be there for you' where 'there' is metaphysical and yet as vital.

Calling me a hundred times to discuss the Oscars and being the only one I know who gets as excited as I do about the glam parade and the debate over deserving actors versus eye candy. Calling me at 4 am from London and telling others I'm his 4 am friend, whether I'm awake or not. Calling again the next day at 2 am, hoping I'm awake and us then having a two hour conversation, officially anointing me The 4 Am Friend. Being such wholesome best friend (momentarily erase the ego clashes), the perfect best friend-one that you can show off as aesthetically appealing and at the same time surprisingly possessing durability and top quality. Making me jealous of all the numerous people he'll charm all over the world despite him being ever so desi and fussy and regimented, what with his daily routines that are so so so secretive. Adding spice to my life, whether actually or vicariously.

Getting my heart to get a taste of world travel because right now an important part of it is residing in London.

Haha! Gotcha! You can't get cornier than that. Have an awesome birthday.

Timothy where you been

2010-03-10T22:48:00.002+05:30

I had a very profound and revolutionary insight into the concept of nationalism last night. I visualised myself being the only person to go into my HOD's office and finally 'do more than just attend class and beg to be let off early...take initiative!" I would passionately deplore the current state of international relations. Countries falling apart for want of nations, Indian states breaking down further for communities. There should be a cry to the creation of more multi-ethnic, multi-religious societies, with me as a poster girl. And I knew exactly what the solution was. I would save the world.
Of course, all this happened during REM. So, naturally, I remember nothing today.
I am hovering mid air, in the midst of a lot of words such as 'collective defense' and 'national interest'. A lot of other peoples' opinions on things I am just hearing about. The first step is to know what happened before digesting someone's articulate (read: unintelligible) take on the possibility of mutually assured destruction. Somehow, that's not the order in which we're doing this. And I'm feeling a little over-informed while at the same time clueless. Way to save the world.
So, the song of the moment is Timbaland's 'Timothy where you been'. For its pace. For Timbaland's rhythmic vocals. For its nonchalant vibe. For floating over me like everything else.

I can transform ya

2010-02-02T21:27:00.002+05:30

My favourite English word right now is 'TRANSFORM'. Thank you, Chris Brown.
Just think about the word for a moment. Absorb it. Understand it. It means something becoming something else, right? It makes me imagine a slow movement of liquidy shapes melting into different colours, shapes and sizes. Perhaps, it's the ex-visual media student in me.
But what intrigues me most is the fact that this word applies to the human being (by this I mean mind, body and soul). In 'The Secret', in quantum phyics, it is explained that the human body is capable of transformation. Cells can literally be programmed to change their way of thinking and behaving.
I mean, it makes sense. The natural world is all about transformation. Adaption. Evolution. Plants grow towards the sun. Cubs become tigers. Moths camouflage themselves.
We've gotten so used to our inanimate lives that we've forgotten that we're alive. We aren't computers (okay, computers are sometimes scarily life-like. All that crashing and hanging). We aren't walls and cupboards with nuts and bolts securely in place. We're alive. Our heart is beating. Our blood is moving. Our cells are dying and being born. All at this very moment.
Pure and simple: we're not a product. We're a process.
That's fabulous news to me. I basically don't have to be what I've always been. I don't have to hide behind self-stamped labels. I don't have the EXCUSE to do so. Shy people can make themselves speak up. Plump people can make themselves get thin. The world doesn't have to hate you. And you don't have to always come last.
That doesn't mean we jump on stage sweaty-palmed and stuttering-voiced or pile on the pancakes, thinking "it's alllll in the minnnnd". We make it happen. We do those things we need to do, with faith. Diet, exercise, practise public speaking, study. But do so, with the self-confidence that this time, next time it's going to be different. So I failed last sem or I cheated on my last diet? That doesn't make me a loser. I can be a new me. I can change my cells' memory.
Some of us are actors, playing different roles in one lifetime. Some of us are Lady Gaga. For the rest of us, we don't have to be second-grade Fatso or the college-geek. Maybe you can't be Megan Fox or Kobe Bryant over night. But you sure can be a whole lot better you. You 2.0.
And what do you lose if you try?

Solitary stroller

2009-12-23T15:05:00.002+05:30

Pardon the pause

2009-12-19T01:53:00.004+05:30

I finally learnt to stop saying I was a fourteen year old at heart (because that tended to actually transport me not to the carefree spirit of a fourteen year old but instead to my actual state of mind at fourteen year , which needless to say, was not altogether too pleasant). I learnt to be 21, but at a slower pace. Something like the reverse of dog years.
Now now, there's no need to bring out the shrink's card. Here's the deal: Some people just take longer to grow up. And they need to stop scrabbling for reasons to prove that it's okay. Word of advice: If no one is giving you grief about not having a map, it is okay!
It's not about worrying about passing the deadline to wear orange-pink nailpolish and barrettes or watching Hannah Montana reruns. Or wrinkles, taxes and looming questions (c a r e e r , m a r r i a g e , l i f e) in ghostly block letters ( like those characters you have to retype to verify your access to some site) I'm talking about slowing down the ageing process by asserting my right to MORE TIME. (Ah, how beautiful those two words sound) Let's say it once more: MOOOORRRE TIIIMME.
I think I've been really lucky to have been granted this plea, this gap year (or years?) from plotting a course. Of course, it's not easy. I am wracked by restlessness and self-questioning. But that's only when I don't have to pack my bag for college the next day.
I revel in the little pleasures that time offers me, like those extra Gems that you find when you thought the packet was over. I absolutely delight in making my bed, serving ice cream to my father, managing to attend a full day of college and having my notes in order. My biggest thrill is my daily workout. And the icing on the cake is primetime TV (Conan! Desperate Housewives! The Big Bang Theory! Friends- yes, forever!)
The point is, I wouldn't have been able to appreciate these little things when I was actually in school. And undergraduation. It's taken me my whole teenagehood to get to this stage where I can value my teenagehood. So, I believe I do deserve the time to get it right. As hard as it is to do so.
Talents have been explored and then abandoned, perhaps to be picked up again. Plans formulated and then crumpled up, perhaps to be drawn up again over fresh paper. All the mistakes made, all the angst fading away, replaced by pure awakeness.
I'm too old to be a child prodigy or be an adolescent superstar. I'm too old to even be living the high school life. But, maybe, just for me, teenagehood is allowed to extend to 21.
22.
23?
If there's one thing drawing class and age has taught me, it's that I can't draw straight lines

All things bright and beautiful

2009-11-07T22:44:00.002+05:30

Oh it's messy alright but everything is so gorgeous when it rains. In Chennai, that is. Chennai becomes the most beautiful city in the whole world when it rains. The most romantic, the most clean...life just becomes..better when it rains here. Maybe the whole washing down of the city washes away the irritability and weariness that January-October summer has. Lightness, peace and a definite sense of newness floods the city. And I'm not saying that just because I'm wearing my favourite denim jacket after a year. A feeling of change, of rebirth, of starting over after a good heaven-ordained laundry service envelops the air and the human gift of transformation seems more evident. It's time to begin all over and be anyone you want to be.

Two souls met...or merged

2009-11-01T20:17:00.005+05:30

Oh wow, yesterday was just wonderful. The beach, the waves, the moon and me. Or just the ocean and me.
Firstly, despite being a native of the city with the second longest beach in the world, I still get fully excited everytime I go down to the beach and commune with the salty water. Maybe it's cause my mum was never a big fan of bringing sand back home into her spotless living room (I do sympathise now) or maybe now it's because I play chauffeur and can't handle the parking/crowd etc.
And there's the other thing about Marina not being exactly the most hygienic or desolate spot in the world. For life, for local flavour (molagga bujji, lovers from all walks of life cosying up every few metres, lip-smacking roasted corn, noise) you go there. But for peace, quiet and a long-overdue rendezvous with nature's magic? Nuh-uh.
So when my friends and I (after a long unexpected wild evening involving being stranded in a mechanic's garage en route to a wedding which we missed most of after which we ran into the cops and not in a nice way) rushed to a rather secluded beach, almost as if in much-awaited relief, I got my wish.
And it just happened. As if on cue, we all fell silent and surrendered to the awesomeness of the sea. The relentless pacing of the waves set the background score and I fell deep not into silence, but into a beautiful conversation with this greatness surrounding me.
The moon overhead was not full enough but made up for it by being encircled by a large halo which felt like a spotlight over me. I stretched out my legs, least bothered about my fancy wedding-specific clothes being sunk into the sand. I wanted to drop back, lie down in the sound but last night was not a time for the moon. It was me and the ocean, meeting after a long long long time.
Everything that had been on my mind for the past month or so swirled around in my head and the sea just took it all. Square, heavy, material thoughts evanesced in the face of the sea's vast all-encompassing space. This is where I belonged. Not in cramped restrictive spaces. Not within walls, physical or psychological. Free, the cloak of breeze within and without me, sheltering and liberating me to be all that I am. That is, one with the ocean and all that she stands for.

Kids

2009-09-21T19:59:00.004+05:30

Kids are highly interesting.

They suddenly appear at your elbow, staring at your computer while you scratching your head while squinting at a 91 page pdf about Communist hardliners in the early 80s and what they said to Gorbachev and why can't they say it in English oh it is English man I need a dictionary.

You look down at them, peering up at you, the small and warm things. They are so..comfortable with their bodies. It wasn't that long ago. How can you have forgotten? They lean on your shoulder and breathe down your forearm, totally indifferent to norms of social distance.

You need to entertain them. But somehow you don't know what normal kids like. Especially these days. You were always entertaining yourself with imaginary celebrity cartoons and horse rides in the Mexican desert as a kid. Oh, and alone.

So you look through your C and D drive. Um, no not those photos of your class trip. Or that folder with all the collections from 'Marc by Marc Jacobs'. So the older one takes over your computer (after politely asking) and plays something called Pinball which you didn't even know existed in your computer.

You attempt to educate the younger one (ah, the only thing you seem to know). So you take out that ginormous atlas you have and begin by pointing out where India is. But he seems more interested in the animal illustrations that accompany it and calls out all their names. Not bad. Even though that's not a donkey with a pouch hopping over Australia...

The atlas somehow is shut and now you two are racing small cars over its surface. He crashes into your car over the flag of Ghana. "License!" demands our young enforcer of the law. "I don't have one", I mutter sheepishly (ah that's me, always adding the twist like a good obedient student of scriptwriting that I am). "Okay, five rupees" says he. And you fork an imaginary amount over. Yikes! Five years old and he knows about corruption.

The game continues, with innumerable car crashes and somersaults and red lights and eventually you move over to pay some attention to the ten year old who has achieved impressive scores on Pinball. You show her pictures of your social awareness trip and then of your former college, rather wistfully. So many pictures. Why are you showing her this anyway? She comments about the make-up you've worn in one photo and that is why you, bespectacled, ponytailed and home clothes-clad look um, different right now. Observant children these days.

You politely excuse yourself and the dignified ten year old apologises for having interrupted the collapse of the Soviet Union. You turn to your computer screen, black and white words and things that happened long ago. But the police officer demands another car crash and you succumb.

Auditory fixations

2009-09-21T18:28:00.004+05:30

I have a genetically acquired syndrome.

It is a problem. It really is.

As you are well aware by now, I have an obsession for music. Thanks to Trilok Gurtu who declares that he feels nothing for music as it is not something you can love or enjoy. It is so much within and yet all-encompassing that it surpasses words.

Okay, but this is not the problem.

My computer is in a corner of my father's room. My eardrums are throbbing right now because Benny Goodman's 'Sing sing sing' is blasting at full volume on youtube. The tiles on the floor are going to crack because my foot just cannot stay still. And across the room, neither can my father's.

The obsession, the need, the desperation to be surrounded by music at all times and of all types is really not the issue. The need to share it is.

My mother, alas, is not very musical. She gave up on the flute after one lesson. Don't get me wrong, she likes to sing and likes a choice few songs based on their melody or danceable quality alone. But she does not go crazy. She prefers the music to be turned down low so that conversation is feasible.

But for my father and me, the music IS the conversation. We're silent but it's as if Gene Krupa's frenetic drumming is communicating all that we need to say to the world. As loudly as we can.

My mum gets up and walks out of the room. But we want her to stay. We want her to listen. We like a witness, someone to fall in love with the our music so that we can discover it through their eyes and fall in love with it all over again. Someone to listen. Because we're saying so much. Through Benny Goodman, Caterina Valente, Xavier Cugat, Harry Belafonte, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammed Rafi, Rosemary Clooney (my father's words). Through A.R Rahman, Gregorian chants, Bach, U2, Alizee, Cheb Khaled, Juanes, Paolo Nutini (my words). And though I enjoy his world as well, he does not really relate to mine. But doesn't complain about the iTunes so I search for Caterina Valente and Los Paraguayos and Cole Porter on youtube to make up for it. Not that I mind. I'm starting to like big band stuff. Or whatever it's called. It's just too much fun to name.

Of course, it doesn't help in finishing my assignments very much. iTunes, you are to blame if I don't finish my Cold War analysis due tomorrow.

Or maybe not. It's all hereditary.

Fun's got a new name

2009-09-04T16:20:00.003+05:30

We were taken to a village yesterday as part of a social awareness component in our course. I don't know about the social aspect, but I'm certainly more aware. Of the fact that clear blue skies exist at least.

And that there are people who offer you something out of the nothing they have. And so you end up with two roses.

And that there are people who drop all that they're doing and take you around the village in a whirl of enthusiastic banter and no sign of weariness.

And that there are people who appear so peaceful and laidback that you never would've guessed that they are responsible for transforming hundreds of lives through sheer persistence.

And that bus rides are mad fun, anywhere, anytime, especially when accompanied with a bunch of unselfconscious mental teenagers singing and dancing in their seats.

Forget the scorching Tamil Nadu sun, the lack of a shower in twelve sweltering hours and my obstacles in interaction thanks to halting Tamil. I want to go again!

Bubbles and water (Thanks, Alizee)

2009-09-02T12:37:00.005+05:30

I have learnt something from my friend K, despite having ragged him for the same.

I have learnt to appreciate the beauty of having long baths.

There's something to be said for setting aside an hour (in K's case, four) for a cleansing of the physical, mental and emotional kind. Because that's what a long bath does to you. Especially if you do it right.

I'm the kind who spends half the week taking three 4 minute showers a day, and the rest of the week, baths that would put a slow motion feature to shame. It's fun to have all that time only to oneself. Nice not to make compromises. Quality time with oneself. Accompanied with the soothing nature of water. And of course an assorted mix of soap, shampoo, a loofah, besan and other exfoliants.

Music! Particularly the sedative variety. Or acoustic easy listening. Pachabel's Canon, 'Si tu no vuelves' by Miguel Bose and Shakira, 'Pehli baar mohabbat' from 'Kaminey', and sometimes Bach's Fugues.

The point is the slowing down. Feet get special priority. After all, they've been carrying me around all my life. They deserve a lot of attention-scrub, scrub, scrub.

My mind wanders. The previous day/days forgotten. Sounds echo and the water swirls around, leaving me to dream and let go. From water, indeed, we are born. Or reborn.

Lazy reviews

2009-09-02T12:30:00.002+05:30

Frost/Nixon

Chilling. Impact. Power of media. Downfall of one man. Life's worth of achievements discarded thanks to a few 'mistakes'. Disturbing. TRUE.

Kaminey

Cool quotient. Fun. Mad. Rollicking. Action. Real. Mikhail-Charlie's friendship. Talent. Shahid Kapur redeemed for all those rom-coms. Vishal Bharadwaj proves his mettle ALL OVER AGAIN. I have to be cliched, but 'Dhan te nan' sums it up.

Public Enemies

2009-08-09T14:40:00.003+05:30

I watched 'Public Enemies' last night and much as I was floored by Johnny Depp's style (and Marion Cotillard's sweetness and of course, the romance between the two), I was left feeling rather disturbed. The violence in the film rankled. And I'm the person who loves 'Desperado' and 'The Godfather'.

Maybe it was because it was based on a true personality. Maybe it was because I didn't like the way they glorified this bank robbing, ruthless murderer. Or maybe because I can't digest the fact that oh, how sweet, gangsters have hearts. He swears beautiful things to his girlfriend but doesn't think twice about gunning down cops and bystanders, simply because they were in the way.

Maybe I sound too girly or pacifist but I didn't leave the theatre feeling comfortable. It was a good film, Michael Mann, just with a bad feeling.

Where is the rain?

2009-08-06T21:34:00.002+05:30

Seriously, it's time. Summer has dragged and yanked and left us with diminished patience. Now's the time for pretend-autumn/winter and for Madras to fake a semblance of romantic ambience. (I'm sorry but the second longest beach in the world does not seem to contribute in that area)
I know, I know, the monsoons have failed, etc. But come on! This is what I've been looking forward to since...well, the 'winter'.
I want rain and its accompanying magic. I want teasing breeze and broody skies. I want to stare out of the window and not see insipid endless white sky. I want it all and I want it now (Couldn't resist Queen, now could I? Insert shameless grin here.)
So, rain on down, now. Perhaps the Native American nature songs I'm listening to might help.
Or I might be accidentally calling out to the wolves, I'm not sure.

Genre-unbiased

2009-07-29T20:39:00.003+05:30

I am reading a book that is so me, albeit with technological inputs that I, who seek the organic, actually find enthralling. The book is 'iPod, Therefore I Am' by Dylan Jones. It charts the history of the iPod as well the author's 'personal journey through music'.
I can't seem to find the exact sentences he has beautifully composed, but it's something along the lines of if a song can be a little house you live in, the iPod allows you to build pleasure palaces to lose yourself in. He also talks about how he additionally loved soul and jazz in an era when punk was the norm. And with the invention of the iPod, he unabashedly listens to The Clash followed by Miles Davis and to The Beatles after Kanye West's 'Graduation' album.
That is so me! A friend of mine pronounced that I was not liking The Doors (or was it Led Zepellin?) the way it should be liked if I also like (cough) the unashamed adolescence of Enrique Iglesias. I am sorry but I cannot give up Enrique! He takes me back to this special desk in my 9th standard classroom where I sketched storyboards for my own movie scripts while the Physics teacher droned about how we would not be able to breathe during tenth. (So not true for all you ninth standard students out there)
Sorry for the digression.
Anyway, the point is, in this era of globalisation (I can't believe I actually used this word in Estarra. Globalisation is the current by word for anything. Blame everything on globalisation.), and networking, we can afford to intermingle. No one needs be punk or goth or gangsta rap anymore. Take a little of everything and create something all new and different. Fashion allows it. (Chanel with Sabyasachi, Dior with Ritu Kumar) So should anything creative!
My Mattafix swings, Moby glides, Kailash Kher stirs soul, MJ whispers (or screams), Hindi movie music clangs and jangles and of course, U2 continues to be my mind-altering drug.
And I'm afraid, no Backstreet Boys. But there's Enrique. No Slipknot. But quite some Rammstein. Peaceful coexistence. Imperfect definition. Who needs definition anyway?
I rest my iPod.

The geek strikes back

2009-07-24T20:22:00.004+05:30

Just when I thought I was out to take on the world and be a grown up, life laughed me right in the face and made its own decision for me. And well, I'm not complaining.
It's back to college and back to academics in a long-forgotten way (my three years of UG in an art field was academic all right, only rather sporadically. Being a nerd was a bad thing. Something you had to play down.). And ooh, it's a girls college. That took a while to get used to after being an ostensibly boys college. The madness was missed for a few weeks (I'd never seen so many girls in one place in my entire life) but now I'm realising that girl madness is equally enjoyable.
And aha, the library is delightful. I'm foreseeing a lot of adventures to be had. (I can see K somewhere, rolling his eyes and groaning at my inability to be anything remotely fun. According to modern teenage adolescent standards he means)
My recent addiction (beside sticking my nose in musty shelves of books) is writing with an ink pen. Unfortunately, I have not yet been presented with the opportunity to pen dynamic love letters by candlelight or eloquent and much sought after opinions to heads of state. So far, I write history notes with it, when they are dictated slowly and still, my mother refuses to embrace my gorgeous (once even pronounced 'sexy') scrawl. She thinks handwriting should be curly and big like an 80's hairdo. I prefer a chignon. Of course, everyone can see the 80's hairdo clearer and she thinks that's the point.
Anyway, back to fountain pens. Ah the fragrance! The fragrance of ink is intoxicating. The ink pen's results have to be earned. A ballpoint pen is easy, sometimes a floozy but an ink pen is a lady. Whether she's Oliver or Cartier (or whatever those fancy pens are that are not found in my corner stationery shop).
So, I'm back to square one. More like fifth standard (considering the use of aforementioned writing instrument). Education isn't all that bad after all. Especially when you nearly give it up. That's when it actually becomes attractive. The real process of education begins and 'getting an education' ends.

The way he made us feel

2009-07-02T10:26:00.000+05:30

There are some things in life that you take for granted: oxygen, the Pyramids of Egypt and Michael Jackson.

Symbols of culture are meant to last forever, irrespective of the fact whether they are made of marble, stone or flesh and blood. They are compasses around which we function. A comfort to us through jokes and references. It's enough to know that they are there. It’s taken for granted that they’ll live forever, larger than life.
I remember the 4 year old me watching my older friends handling a precious copy of the 'Dangerous' album. I stared back at those famous eyes on the cover, wanting to be let into this seemingly prohibited adult world of pop music, wanting to be released from nursery rhymes. And soon enough, I was.

For 8 year old me, Michael Jackson was MTV and MTV was Michael Jackson. Sure, there was Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Puff Daddy (way before he changed into P.Diddy) etc. But there was no one BIGGER than the soft-spoken, twirling dervish with the fascinating music videos. He was not only the best dancer I had ever seen, or the singer of the relentlessly catchy songs but he was also THE definition of the music video.

It was not just the combination of phenomenal talent and charming personality. He was an assurance of the fact that something extraordinary existed beyond the uncomplicated beauty of movie stars or the pure and simple talent of other musicians. Michael Jackson pushed the boundaries of our senses, leaving us awestruck. That was true entertainment-where our questions were silenced and our senses surrendered.

We borrowed our icons from generations past. Elvis was far too gone for us to call him our own. Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Freddie Mercury far too ghost-like to be missed. Our idols were young and full of life, Michael Jackson being the embodiment of energy.

Our generation is one that took things for granted. We were convinced of our immortality-the generation of living in the moment, of Eminem's offensive lyrics and Paris Hilton's frivolity.

Now, we come face to face with our fragile humanness. The person who seemed to live forever, who seemed to live it all, has moved beyond his physical state.

His extraordinary life and aura make his existence seem almost mythical. The controversies and stories that surrounded him earned him reactions from ridicule and disgust to sympathy for the child-man who was most probably just misunderstood.

As the music channels flood us with images of the energetic young Michael dancing like there was no tomorrow or urging us to make a change, as fans across the globe shed tears and make shrines for the King of Pop, as music legends grieve and as music lovers vow to not mourn him but celebrate the existence of such an icon amongst us, one wishes that MJ would see the love that we have for him and know how much he meant to us, the generation whom he shaped.

Was he a child prodigy teaching us 'ABC', a teen dance icon who warned us against 'Billie Jean' or the King of Pop who was one of the few who successfully used music to 'Heal the world'? Whatever hat he donned, all we now have is the burning memory of a mythical legend who rocked our world in more ways than he ever imagined.

A matter of urgent attention

2009-06-15T02:23:00.004+05:30

One thing that's starting to give me a jolt these days is the fact that we have only one life. Each.

No, I'm not going to say 'Live it up' and 'Live for the moment' because that's just a little hard to do.

What I mean is that it's just one. One single life. Per person. But nobody seems to realise it. People study things they can't comprehend, take up jobs they hate, spend money on things they barely need, marry people they can live without and let go of people who made their day. Leave that all aside, do they realise that there's a last date for this immortality. Why do we live as if every day is worth no more than a white board and our existence some kind of felt tipped marker?

It's just one life. It's not like you have three. Yours. Not your mother's, not your father's, not the neighbour three houses down the street. It's not about instant gratification or the rise of ME culture. It's just the fact that you were put down here with an x amount of potential and it would be the highest crime to waste it.

Even if you do believe in reincarnation, it's not like the you that you are now will ever be the same next time around. You are this person and who says someone else is more important than you? You're the movie star of your own life. You're not a loser or winner. You're you and you should be fully so.

Whims and fancies

2009-06-06T14:25:00.005+05:30

Hello, it's June. Already? Where are the days going? I don't mind. Do I remember? But it's okay. What day is it? Does it matter?

New music: Attended the Earthsync concert and was swept away by the tidal wave of Shye Ben-Tzur and troupe. Rajasthani folk-Qawwali-Hebrew-poems-flamenco...what! I never even knew you could fuse so many things and manage to sound devastatingly beautiful.

Mystical experience.

New book: Alright, alright. I am a victim of 'Twilight' fever as well (a little late). I'm jealous of the fact that Stephanie Myer's collosal success originated in a dream she had of a girl and vampire conversing. Why can't my dreams be less about being late for exams long since passed?

However, my library is continually out of stock of the Twilight books and so I have painfully managed to read only the first three, the space between them being equivalent to the time it takes a snail on cough syrup to reach from Madurai to Leh (see, not as bad as Kashmir to Kanyakumari). 'Eclipse' is far more exciting, full of backstories and legends (who isn't a sucker for legends?). But after harboring a fascination for vampires, 'Eclipse' has caused me to develop a crush on Jacob. Oh come on, Edward is way too perfect! Jacob is rough and tumble, impulsive and downright daring. Which brings me to my second new obsession...

New book 2: (inhales) 'Gone with the wind'. Yes! I know! I've always shied away from (most) classics, judging them by the captivitability of the first few lines. Scarlett O'Hara's description got me hooked. I never knew the book could be so funny in parts, so relate-able. What character development. Okay, I've not finished it yet. Only halfway through and so far not enough of Rhett.

(Do I sound too crush crazy? It's okay. Only fictional or non reachable characters so I'm excused)

New movies: Spanglish.

What's eating Gilbert Grape?

Marvin's room (how could Leo diCaprio be so phenomenally talented right from the beginning?) The Wrestler.

What just happened.

The English Patient (W-O-W. Not just Ralph Fiennes! Juliette Binoche is adorable and I find the sweet relationship between her and the bedridden Count Almasy heart-wrenchingly endearing. I don't know why.)

Enemy of State (my current huge crush besides Jacob- Will Smith)

Charlie Wilson's war.

The Bucket List.

And left to watch: Atonement, Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... annnnnd... Gone with the wind. Once I finish the book.

New addiction: Cadbury's Dairy Milk Shots. Have you TASTED them? The ads are gross (heads exploding in a burst of liquid chocolate) but the shots! I think the alcoholic equivalents have the same effect.

New state of mind: Be reborn each day. Didn't Gandhiji say something about that?

Reaching backwards

2009-05-29T15:09:00.002+05:30

I think the reason why people have kids is to relive their childhood.

I don't think that's such a good idea.

I'm at that stage where I miss my childhood (though I hated a lot of it-I was late every day of the year in 5th standard. The uniforms, tests, sometimes scary teachers, etc) but I miss the organised protective atmosphere, the living day to day.

Actually, even high school was good. The fact that you were let loose at 2:30. The shelteredness of the neatly arranged chairs and benches. Your dependence on the fact that you could pull the plait of your best friend in front of you whenever you were bored. The fact that you could exchange looks with the person behind you when Maths sir began limits and continuity. The looks of 50% self-amusement and 50% frustration that cannot be replicated in any other situation but twelfth standard maths.

Yeah, so well. Imagine me, and then imagine those who are further away from childhood. They start to want to live it all over again-discovering the world all over again. Unlearning the rules and the shapes and colours and assembling them at a much slower pace. Who wouldn't want that!

There must be a solution to this feeling. An alternative rather than adding to the population or ending up with a kid when you're not fully grown yourself.

Childhood is so short that later you wonder if it was all a dream, whether it was real or not. So you spend the rest of your life, trying to reach at it from bits of your memory, like stuffing your hand through a jar, trying to pull out bits of confetti which flash, revealing colours and patterns that feel so familiar.

Oceanic bliss

2009-05-29T14:56:00.004+05:30

There's so much running through my head that it adds up to total, blissful silence.

I think that is one of the symptoms of being over exposed to art-reading far too many books, watching far too many movies, absorbing, absorbing things you want to talk about, things you want to question that finally you decide to stop the dissection and just allow the waves to crash all over you, salty and overwhelming. Delicious.

Lose yourself

2009-05-14T14:44:00.004+05:30

You get used to things. You make new memories. Things don't go back to what they were; they go forwards into something new. And it's interesting because the future is a surprise. And that's the best part about it.

I can't believe the number of movies I've watched this summer...

Doubt (brilliant)

Confessions of a shopaholic (surprisingly, I enjoyed it)

The Sisterhood of the traveling pants 2 (better than the first movie but NOWHERE close to the books! NOWHERE!)

7 Pounds (disappointing)

The other Boleyn girl (evil gets what it deserves)

Before sunrise (magical)

Before sunset (magic killed)

Half of 'A good year'

Half of 'Made of honour'

Twilight (the first movie I liked better than the book it was based on)

Adaptation (eerie for some reason)

And more to see:

The notebook (heavily recommended)

He's just not that into you (hey, I don't pretend to be intellectual)

Rachel getting married

Tahaan

The Duchess

And books, oh it's been a long list as well. This. is. the. life. Seriously, all I've been doing is entertaining myself of late.

The thing about reading is the fact that no one else can see what you're reading. I mean, yes, you are curled up on a sofa or hunched up under the covers with a bound tome with a catchy illustration on its cover but what can another person see? A book is like an invisible portal that sucks you in and you're in a different universe visible only to you.

It's not like knitting or painting or playing video games. The images, people, places are all within the space of your mind. And outside, you appear still and silent, lost to this world but ever so absorbed in another.

It's kind of like watching movies. Or sleeping. Or travelling. It's all about getting lost, losing track of your conscious self.

Is there a job description that fits that?

Ha ha. Will get back.

:(

2009-04-29T05:28:00.006+05:30

My best friend is leaving.

I'm not going to be able to see him everyday, fight with him through nasty messages over the phone, have him rifle through my wardrobe to pick out my clothes for fancy occasions, watch him spend hours collaborating with my mother to torture my existence through nagging, be the cause for my overweight through unnecessary consumption, not reply to my senti messages, sit in the front seat and pretend he is a human GPRS, be demanding when I'm drifting, make me jealous by hanging out with other people, exasperate me with his indecisive shopping, chatter with me nineteen to the dozen even though he's the quiet one, make hilarious jokes with the most stoic expressions, honour me with the privilege of being his secret diary and basically be my the boon and bane of my existence.

How do you tell someone that they've changed your life?

How do you take back all the mean words you've ever said? How do you explain that all the times you fought and all the times you kept away was because you cared? How do you convince them that though you may have a lot of important people in your life, there are some people who just cannot be replaced? There are only some people who can be a built-in brother, sister, best friend, what have you. Who fit like a glove. There are only some people you can hate to love and hate to hate. There are only some people who can turn your life upside down and walk right back in and continue in the same cycle but it just does not make a difference because you're so comfortable. How do you go back in time to pay more attention, be more patient, listen and just absorb?

How do you say goodbye?

He's going back to where he came from. He's going back to where he's supposed to be. But why do you sometimes feel that three years are equivalent to a whole lifetime?

Because those three years are when you grow up. Those three years are when you need someone beside you to define you when you're blurred, take a crayon and colour your greys, stir you when you're dormant, challenge you when you want to give up, aggravate you when you're dull. Make you fight till you feel alive.

Maybe there's a long way to go. There's e-mail and mobile phones (thank you, technology) and other things which might be invented. There'll be visits.

I guess the problem lies in not seeing the end till it comes. You live life in the moment and you miss the big STOP sign ahead.

I can't formulate the words right. My theory was that we don't say goodbyes. But this is something internal. It's a goodbye to life as it was. A change in the way life has been. But change is supposed to be good, right?

Sometimes it doesn't feel good.

Exhale. It'll be okay.

My friend, all I can say is:

I don't want to start saying mushy things (oh, hello, wake up call, I've said ENOUGH in the above paragraphs) so I'll just tell you to LEAVE NOW before we start our usual boxing round. I'm sure (okay, I HOPE) we won't be doing any of that over long-distance. We'll be meeting (or have met) loads of interesting people who will change our lives more than we can imagine. We will find shoulders to cry on and signposts that direct us. But I'll remember the three years. Where we attempted to grow up and instead tumbled (a lot). It was comical and painful, riding that skateboard.

But it was a lot easier with you being the elbow pads.

(Cornyyyyyyy! But true)

POA

2009-04-19T12:01:00.004+05:30

First Sunday of being unemployed. Ahahahaha.
Life stretches out like a blank slate-it's oppressing and it's actually starting to be exciting. The unknown is thrilling.
Here's my agenda for life (er, today):
1. Upload photos on Facebook (Guilty as charged. Sunday is time for confession)
2. Upload allllll the songs my friend has generously bestowed upon me from a cute red Easter egg pen drive.
3. Attempt to dust and sort out all the gazillion books that are stacked ominously under the drawing room sofas that have STILL not been restored to their rightful place after the termites were exterminated (Terminate the Termites! Ooh...that's a slogan)
4. Attempt to decide to run up and down the stairs with the determined intention of burning off all that I have chewed.
5. Stop biting nails. And fingers.
6. Read all the lovely books I've borrowed ('Love in the time of cholera', 'Animal farm', 'Beirut Blues', 'Oliver's story' etc)

Unemployment. It doesn't sink in. It still feels like there is another round of exams around the corner. Or the next semester. I keep slapping myself and saying : "Helloooo! There's nothing more. College is over. O-V-U-R ! (:p For Star World viewers)"
I'm trying to compare it to how I felt after school. But at least then, I knew I had to get into college. It's different now. The set agenda that everyone has to follow has run its last level. Now it's adaptable.

At least I'm not one of the confused ones. See, I already made my agenda.

For today.

Today is good

2009-04-16T15:59:00.004+05:30

Wide open spaces. Summer afternoon haze through rectangular windows. Lying on the ground in the centre of the empty upstairs drawing room, listening to Queen, feeling liberated in the companionship of your own self. Walking on the sweltering streets of Chennai, under the suffocation that is undeniably April in Chennai with an old friend whom you haven't hung out with in ages, talking about 2012 doomsday. Uplifting. Discovering a xerox shop you had passed by a million times and never noticed. Talking about college ending with the relief that everyone doesn't hate everyone else anymore. Corn, corn, boiled corn with chilly powder. Cold water straight from the fridge drunk quickly and desperately. A long bath, the first of many during the long day. Sunlight, unceasing sunlight, pinning you down helpless until you surrender with a smile. All the negotiations you tried in the years before, cast away. All the escape routes you dreamt, abandoned as uncertain applications submitted to the universe. All that remains is you and the summer- depressing, dominating, debilitating. And inevitable. A rite of passage. A feigned love motivated by expectations of surprises...

Love...is such an inadequate word.

2009-04-12T20:46:00.003+05:30

What do you say of a song that grabs hold of you and possesses you more than your awareness of your own self?
What do you say of a piece of music that is both outside and inside of you until you no longer feel your physical existence?
What do you say of the swell within your heart which transfers to the swell within your soul until you just want to take off like a helium balloon?
What do you say when you cannot physically touch, see, taste or hold something that has you in a tight grasp and doesn't seem to let go?
What do you say when a sound washes over you like a wave and still leaves you thirsting for more?
What do you say when you feel the sun and the stars so alive within your soul that you are unable to contain them and the only alternative is to explode?
What do you say when 5:49 minutes of music becomes your reason for existence, the definition of your very being and for the existence of all else?

What do you say?

If someone asks you, you say:
"I love this song"
knowing that words will never suffice.

Ice cream cones and candy treats

2009-04-11T11:55:00.009+05:30

These are buildings designed by Antoni Gaudi, Spanish modernist architect.

This is how castles look in Estarra.

This is how life should be.

Summer school of life

2009-04-11T11:46:00.003+05:30

Bonds don't break; their elasticity wears thin.

People don't change; they shed their skins in the summer.

Words don't illuminate; they restrict.

Love isn't work; it's natural.

Don't let it go; let it fade.

Don't try; just be.

U2 is back! Baaaaaaaack!

2009-04-10T10:19:00.003+05:30

Breathe
16th of June, nine-oh-five, door bell rings
Man at the door says if I want to stay alive a bit longer
There’s a few things I need you to know
Three
Coming from a long line of
Traveling sales people on my mother’s side
I wasn’t gonna buy just anyone’s cockatoo
So why would I invite a complete stranger into my home
Would you

These days are better than that
These days are better than that

Every day I die again, and again I’m reborn
Every day I have to find the courage
To walk out into the street
With arms out
Got a love you can’t defeat
Neither down nor out
There’s nothing you have that I need
I can breathe
Breathe now

16th of June, Chinese stocks are going up
And I’m coming down with some new Asian virus
Ju Ju man, Ju Ju man
Doc says you’re fine, or dying
Please
Nine-oh-nine, St. John Divine on the line, my pulse is fine
But I’m running down the road like loose electricity
While the band in my head plays a striptease
The roar that lies on the other side of silence
The forest fire that is fear so deny it

Walk out into the street
Sing your heart out
The people we meet
Will not be drowned out
There’s nothing you have that I need
I can breathe
Breathe now
Yeah, yeah

We are people borne of sound
The songs are in our eyes
Gonna wear them like a crown
Walk out, into the sunburst street
Sing your heart out, sing my heart out
I’ve found grace inside a sound
I found grace, it’s all that I found
And I can breathe
Breathe now

"There's nothing you have that I need,
I can breathe. "
Such a brave, powerful line. You can't just say it offhand. I can't say that I have truly LIVED; I have a long way to go before I can look back. But I can't wait for the day when I can say:
"There's nothing you have that I need
I can breathe"

Being is underrated

2009-04-03T02:42:00.002+05:30

So, what are you going to do after college?

Give me 50 p for every time I hear that question and I'll be Slumdog Crorepati. I can't take it anymore. I can't take myself anymore.
Why can't I just sit tight and BE in one moment, completely? No, my mind has to be at home when I'm waiting my turn in the viva, it has to be in college when I'm at home, it has to be in this time last year or this time next year. When I'm hot and sweaty in college, I want to have a bath. When I have a bath, I want to eat. When I eat, I want to sleep. When I sleep and wake up, I want to watch a movie. When I'm watching the movie, I want to be doing something productive. Aaaargh. Shut up. Stay. Live.

'To be' is a verb. It is a verb that has been considered in the past as a choice (Ask Hamlet). It is an activity. It is an action. If I 'be', it means that I am doing something.
So, that's what I'm gonna do. That's my purpose in life.

Problem is, I have this mental snapshot of what it is 'to be'. It is this beautiful, heavenly place. And in that mental snapshot, I am content without being disappointed or wanting more.

There I go again, living in the future.

Be here. Now.

(This blog has become a sort of pep talk to myself!)

Broken strings

2009-03-27T17:51:00.004+05:30

In the beginning of this year, we lost one of our classmates.

Today, on the last day of college, as we stood teary-eyed, taking pictures while our professors surprised us with cake, reaching out to one another in a kind of desperation, a kind of wistfulness of having wasted three years of not getting to know each other better, today we lost a junior of ours to another bike accident.

It doesn't feel like so long ago when our classmate passed away. I still remember the disbelief and shock. The fact that someone you took for granted, who was supposed to be part of the background picture , familiar and present is never going to be seen again. It hits you that you should've waved at him when you had the chance. You could've spared a second of a 'Hello'. Isn't it strange that you end up having a lot to say when you realise you can't say it?

When someone you know leaves the face of the earth, you expect the earth to stop turning atleast for a bit. You expect the news to talk about him, you expect life to take a pause. When your world has a lost its sense of normalcy, how does it continue for everyone else? Shouldn't it take on a shade of grey? Is it inappropriate to think of exams, food and routine? Everything seems much more cloudier.

But the world continues to turn. And you, the one who's been left behind, have to turn along with it.

It's easy to say 'Be strong, move on'. You will, eventually. But how does that assuage the pain?

You will have to remember that while you shed tears and lament the cutting short of a young life, he is on another plane right now. He is tranquil and he is far from suffering and all the bondages of the human body. He is free.

It doesn't help your loneliness and the sense of absence that you feel. But do not mourn for him, for his loss. Because he is beyond any definition of loss. Beyond all these boundaries and barriers that condition our fragile existence that we take so seriously. He is with the true reality now and we continue in the illusion, till the time we join him.

And as abstract as I sound, it does make me feel better.

Baby, farewell

2009-03-24T21:32:00.002+05:30

If I'm less than sunny, don't mind me. That's just how it is in Estarra. I'm only happy when it rains, etc.
A diary is a diary for a reason. Don't worry. And on a happier note, I am practising to not expect and to live entirely in the moment and not hyperventilate about not getting printouts on time or submission at 1 pm. (Breeeaaathe eaaassy.)

Anyway, now I'm okay. Thoroughly thrilled myself at the stationery shop. I guess what shoes is to normal chicks, I get slack-jawed when I stand before shelves of envelopes, Cello ballpoints, folders, sharpeners, blank CDs and the rest. I probably wanted one measly stick file before I reached the venue. But when I get there, I'm like "Gimmmmmmmmeeeeee!"

Putting the final touches on my final project. The one that has undergone a million changes, a million opinions. The one that has made me cry. The one that has made me a zombie. The one whose umbilical cord I cut tomorrow when I hand it over to the department. It's a magazine and trust me, it is not as easy or as frivolous as the word sounds. It sums up my childhood fantasy (wherein 'Triple Moon', a weekly read was well, unread) and my obsession and collection of Vogue, Femina Girl, The Record, Elle, etc. Yes, it sounds shallow and materialistic. But I have had a lifelong affair with magazines and tomorrow I submit MY VERY OWN magazine.

Wish wish wish wish me luck. But at the end of the day, I'm sending it off into the universe on its own. Not gonna care about opinions anymore. NO SIREE.

Me me me

2009-03-22T17:00:00.004+05:30

Looks like January was my expressive best.

Here's something I've always wanted to say to the people (person?) who've called me self-obsessed:

I am.

Yes, and I should be. I'm the person I know best. I'm the only person whose feelings, thoughts, abilities and dreams that I know completely. I know ME-body, mind and soul. And yet there's so much more to know. A process that began the day I was born and will continue till the day I die.

Life is wonderful. Life is discovery. But...I am the life. My life is the only way to know the life outside. And the life outside is the only way to know me. I read because I want to understand myself. I want to travel because I want to find myself. I watch movies because I want to relate. I love because I want to love myself.

So what's the opposite of self-obsessed? Self-detached? You think you are self-detached. You with your gyms, and your fashion, your clubbing, your crushes are self-detached?

Your choice of words amuses me.

If I bore you, leave me alone. If you understand, please feel free to join the self-obsession. It's much more exciting than your man-made creations.

"There would be no me if there wasn't you, there would be no you if it weren't for me"

-Rachid Taha, 'Tekitoi'

Pages from my diary: January 21st 2009

2009-03-22T16:48:00.003+05:30

11:02 am
"I just enjoy driving on my own these days. Maybe it's the solitude, maybe it's the time I have all to myself. Maybe it's the fact that I'm surrounded by people and yet I am alone. Not lonely. Alone.
Also, the fact that I can see the sky, the sun, the dusty roads, the movement. But not the people.
I wonder what it's like to be in the world and beyond it.
I am obviously not ready to give up the comforts of the world-my home, my things, my books, my music, love of parents and friends, my bed.

2:37 pm
I really need to organise my thoughts.
I should stop I-ing now.

5:28 pm
Indistinguishable hours blur into days
Uncredited breaths, one at a time, ignored
The silent decision to pull through
is remembered at a time when its necessity is forgotten
You forge on, blindly, mundanely
Pat yourself on the back

I think the problem lies in the fact that I'm confused whether to renounce or succeed. I unconsciously make a list of qualities deemed vital to either of these two distinct personalities and I land nowhere between the two, a semi-silent confused and confusing enigma to my own self.
This medley-fied nothing thus follows no one but seeks approval from everyone. Has opinions sometimes. Voices them, rarely.
I am scared to analyse the mess for it leads to depression but I find myself thinking about me more often than not. Though I know that a week or a year from now, I most definitely would not want to read this trash.
So, what do I write about when my heart has not been twanged by any major earthly issue?

Do not fear me, I am solitude
Seek nothing from me, I am love
Search not for me, I am happiness
Live for me, I am God

I sit back and revel in my brilliance. I pack my bag without saying a word to the world. I live a life so invisible that I myself rarely acknowledge it.

Am I so detached from this life that everyone so boldly embraces that I cannot formulate a simple, fictitious tale even for the sole purpose of distracting myself?

Yes, that's probably it"

Pages from my diary:January 15th 2009

2009-03-22T16:42:00.004+05:30

"I must overcome my fears. The tiny fears. The pressures. The hesitations. The unnatural tensions. The things I hide from. I must ignore these and go with the flow. Be unafraid, unattached to the past, free and unfettered, following my heart as it bobs ahead in the breeze, delicate like a balloon, follow it up and down whichever path it chooses, for the heart is a flighty, whimsical object, belonging not even to myself.

See, I can't help it. I just HAVE to get abstract.

I wish my mind could become as silent as my tongue. As still.

But too many questions, too many impulses race across its blank canvas like a million points of light."

The bigger picture

2009-03-17T21:32:00.004+05:30

Advertising has got me thinking.
No, I'm not talking 'creativity' or Bill Bernbach or David Ogilvy. I'm talking about the new Tata Dicor Ad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sa8SelN6U-4
The music, Enya-ish first caught my attention. The visuals, breathtaking of course. But it's the Big Idea : "If you looked back on your life, what would you remember?"
That did it for a copywriter such as myself.
I mean, that basically sums up the question of my existence. The question I tried to stop asking not so long ago. The question whose answer is irrevelant, in the scheme of things, if there is a scheme to it all.
My life is not meant to be at a computer. My life is not my bag or my fancy phone or my perfect height and weight or the digits on my marksheet. Life is not the number of friends I can count or the dates I have or the zeroes in my salary or the venue of my wedding.
It all adds up. But what am I going to remember? What I possessed or how I felt?
We were put on this earth for a purpose. I'm not saying we were meant to help the poor or take on Superman's responsbilities. The world does not need saving. It has been doing its creating and destroying all by itself, probably even before our souls were born.
This beautiful Earth, with its coral reefs and its cliffs by the sea, the austere elegance of its snow and the unforgiving exqusiteness of the desert, the imperfect beauty in peoples' faces, the purity of their song and dance, the sheer divinity in human love. This is what we're doing here. We're here to experience, to celebrate the agony and ecstasy of it all. It looks like one big mess but dig deeper, look higher, walk further-there is a perfection in its madness. And all we can do is stare in awe, fall to our knees at its glory and simply absorb.
And when you think of your Maths test tomorrow, think of the infinity of the blue sky.
As you walk home, exhausted from a day's work, enjoy the colour and noise on the busy street.
When you worry about bills, remember that you will be taken care of.
Your purpose in life is to live. And that's the secret.

Sunday evening dream time

2009-03-15T17:36:00.003+05:30

My back is aching sitting at the computer for so long, translating Spanish documents. (Oh boy, am I loving this work, reconnecting me to my long-lost passion for the language. But it's TIRING!) I'm thinking of this place whose photo adorns my desktop. I WANT TO BE THERE!!
And I'm listening to 'Marudaani' and feeling all romancy and yearning for a place I've never been. Mostly, it's Greece. Though I should be listening to 'Zorba the Greek' to satiate that itchy feeling. But that's not such a romantic tune, is it now.
(Insert sigh here)
I should shut up and listen to 'Naaka Mukka' instead.

Don't have anything witty to say

2009-03-12T23:00:00.003+05:30

I'm sneezing my eyes out. Real bad case of the common cold. And to top it all, one of my dearest friends backed up his car, accelerated and blew a huge cloud of dust into my face as I was standing nearby.
Thanks, Punky. I'm sensorily challenged right now. Can't see, can't breathe, can't taste. And thinking is something that is coming from the fringes of what I can call a brain. So please excuse the disjointedness of my current existence.

Why is it that the time I have a million things to do, I end up blogging? And when I don't, I'm off somewhere else. It's not because I'm a social butterfly (I'm not even a moth). It's not because I'm inventing cures for diseases (I so need one for the common cold!) in my free time. Why, I can't even remember what I did last weekend while I remember the roll numbers of everyone in my classmate, the exact order of the Mughal emperors and the names of their assorted children and wives. How useful. What an employable feature to put on my resume.

Sneeze again. Sixty hundred and eighty three at last count.

Sisterhood Unexplored

2009-03-01T18:12:00.003+05:30

Why don't they have enough female buddy movies?

I just watched 'Outrageous Fortune', one of those hilarious 80's movies. Starring Bette Midler, it features two madcap aspiring actresses on a crazy caper after a double-crossing man. They hate each others' guts at first but end up bonding big-time after discovering what a swine their common lover is.

Okay, so Hollywood has 'Thelma and Louise'. They have 'Friends'. They have 'Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants'.

What does India have? It's always 'Yeh dosti' with two guys. Or it ends up being unreal "He's my best friend, yaar" 'Kuch kuch hota hai' style. Even 'Jaane Tu..' could have packed a little more meat into the friendship between Jai and Aditi.

Where all the female best friends? (and I don't mean the heroine's hanger-on flunkies) Isn't there a solid story involving two (or more) interesting girls who do not have a bond because of some connection with a guy? (Yes, I said that before you could say 'Har dil jo pyaar karega'.)

I'm looking to new Bollywood for an answer.

Sunday

2009-03-01T17:57:00.002+05:30

I'm studying Visual Communication.

They should give me a degree for lying in bed, watching movies all day.

Really.

A lot to say, more to do

2009-02-25T02:59:00.002+05:30

Don't even ask! These past two weeks have been unbelievably hectic. Back to college and it's been one endless flow of powerpoints, stick files and furtive messages to rant or to re check submission timings and protocol. And it's not about to end anytime soon.

Why am I up so late? Well, I was suddenly hit by a creative bolt as I lay awake, tossing and turning. With a bunch of leftover print paper (I use the unused side to be environmentally thoughtful) in my hand, I began making lists-first for my final project, then for what I want in life and then to K's birthday plans. I realised that with a blank sheet of paper to mind map and with a computer, you can actually take over the world. (something Ra's been trying to tell me for the longest time. That girl can make a calendar with MS Word!)

Movies. 'Dilli 6'. I was really disappointed. Perhaps my expectations were too high, considering I've been waiting to see this film for the past three months or so. But it was really not what I expected. The songs were cut short(A.R.R-THIS deserves an Oscar! Honestly, 'Arziyan' is one of the most beautiful songs I've heard in recent times. And 'Dil Gira Dafatan' feels like MY song.) But what I really felt was missing was a solid, strong storyline. The cinematography was beautiful, the cast perfect and the intention felt pure. But seriously, the story seemed to meander all about the place and was frustrating to watch. It felt like there were three separate stories being combined.

The Oscars. Ah. I cannot say more. This time, I was not the only around here watching (I never miss the greatest show on earth). The theme seemed to be India and I think everyone's said all that can be said and more about A.R.Rahman (Seriously, we Chennaiites deserve a holiday in commemoration of this) and 'Slumdog'. What was really cute was the way Dev Patel was taking care of the little kids.

Oh my God. The most beautiful part was the way they brought out 5 previous winners to felicitate a nominee each. Sheer goosebumps! Robert DeNiro describing Sean Penn, Shirley MacLaine offering praise for Anne Hathaway and Marion Cotillard's heartfelt salute to Kate Winslet. Anthony Hopkins for Brad Pitt, Sophia Loren (!!!!) for Meryl Streep. Wow wow wow. Of course, I was thrilled to see Kate take home that statuette. Who doesn't love her?

Anyway, now I'm slowly falling asleep (why couldn't this happen back in bed?) but I'm going to hold on to the creative connection that I'm feeling right now. Take advantage of it, absorb it, create, create, create....

Romanticising

2009-02-13T13:27:00.004+05:30

Gerard Butler. 'Phantom of the Opera'. 'Music of the night'.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

"Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar"

How can something be so darkly beautiful?

"Let your soul take you where you long to be..."

Ok enough. You have work to do!

"...You alone can make my song take flight"

Yamma. Must shut up and must study. Have to do a case study on 'Sting journalism, news media and privacy'.

It's like being splashed by a muddy puddle while you're swirling in the delicate evening breeze.

Accurately reviewed-Dev D

2009-02-13T12:21:00.001+05:30

http://www.hindu.com/cp/2009/02/13/stories/2009021350140400.htm

Yes, this is how the movie actually was. Sudhish Kamath puts it in much better words than I can.

What's happening yo

2009-02-12T13:28:00.004+05:30

I crack myself up when I attempt to sound gangsta rap-like (SEE! Even that sentence sounds pathetic!)

I apologise most insincerely for the hiatus. It's been an after effect of too much work (fulfilling), watching Dev D (tormenting) and general missing the workplace now that college is going to reopen (mixed feelings).

Dev D. Oh what can I say about Dev D! Abhay Deol is too cute, Kalki was highly interesting and of course the music was remarkable. But no no, I do not recommend happy sunny children to watch it. Though I liked the ending a lot. So, I suppose I would prefer Dev D to Devdas (though I have never and will never GO NEAR the latter)

I've been topsy turvy of late ("little high, little low, anywhere the wind blows"-thank you, Freddie Mercury. Your songs have always seemed to describe the phases of my life)I'm not depressed, thank heavens. But I'm just in that plateau, that limbo that often happens when you move from one experience into another. It's that time when you've gotten too attached or accustomed to something and are finding it hard to let go even though you know you love the place you're going back to. But I must say I simply adored my work experience and the people there. It's so nice to be needed for the very thing that is an involuntary compulsion for you to do (writing) and to be in a place where you can be yourself so completely. I've met such beautiful people that I'm going to miss not seeing everyday for the next two months or so.

Anyway, I'm in a good mood as of now. Woke up to a call from my aunt who seemed to be going through something similar to what I was feeling. So we had a nice cross-venting session and that propelled me to get out of bed.

On the friends front, K is on the threshold of some important decisions and I wish him luck from the bottom of my heart. I really pray things work out for him because he really deserves it.

I like this feeling of being poised in front of an unpredictable road. It's exciting! Like O said, one doesn't want to know what the map ahead is like. So avoid astrologers!

Masala Time (well, in a new-wave sorta way)

2009-02-01T22:13:00.005+05:30

Dev D I want to see Dev D I want to see Dev D.

I don't think I've been so excited before a release (since the early Hrithik Roshan days, that is) This and Dilli 6. I want to see.

I love the colours of Dev D (after the music and the madness of course). Can't wait to see the modern take on a story as boring as it's "traigedie, traigedeee".

And I love the romantic dreaminess of Dilli 6 (from what I've seen). Of course, I've always had a soft spot for Dilli, though I have barely experienced it.

So release your films fast, people! Someone's waiting!

5 current loves of my life I don't think I'll ever get over

2009-01-30T15:01:00.003+05:30

I'm in the mood for five. Let's make a wish list.
1. Veg Tandoori platter
I really really really am craving for it. Cauliflowers, paneer tikka and potatoes all smothered in a kind of tandoori chilly paste oh my god I'm going to faint. This must be true love because it has occupied the most dominant portion of my brain for the last THIRTY HOURS. I am clearly insanely fixated.
Something is very wrong with me. I told you I needed therapy. Oh mind, distract please!

2. My bed
I cannot get enough of you. No, I just can't.

3. My pillow

4. My quilt

5. zzzzz

5 Step Plan to get over someone!

2009-01-30T12:51:00.004+05:30

Out of popular demand (okay, one person's demand) I have come to the conclusion that some things in life require some sort of step-by-step procedure. In this case, it is getting over a crush that you don't want to have.
During the course of highly stressful counselling sessions, I formulated this plan to get that person out of your head when you can't get them out of your life (or move to another planet). This is for the cases of unrequited crushes/crushes you don't want to work out/crushes you CAN'T see working out/or just plain getting over someone when time doesn't do its trick

1. Decide. It's now or never. Do you WANT to get over this person? Sometimes, some people purely enjoy the rush of a crush and don't actually want to let go. In such a case, you need to give yourself ONE TIGHT SLAP and tell yourself to SNAP OUT OF IT.

2. Make a list (IN YOUR HEAD ONLY) of all the reasons why this person will be so mismatched in your life. He'll/She'll be the yellow in your orange, the whatever jaal colour you hate with whatever sublime colour you will. He/She is NOT the missing jigsaw piece. Maybe it's the fact that you're so inseparable. Get a dog. Maybe it's their sense of humour that you love. So watch Vadivelu videos on youtube.

3.Don't call or message. Really. Out of sight slowly becomes out of mind.

4. Immerse yourself in movies, music, food, work, friends and YOURSELF! Movies work best (particularly Bollywood early 2000's trash/comedies/Pink Panther). Music is a close second. (DO NOT listen to any kind of love song. You will always twist the words around to fit your situation. Rammstein/Dapaan Koothu will do.) Food is not usually advisable but what else do you do when you go out? Especially in Madras!
Yourself-very important. Treat yourself to a hot bath, a body scrub and some Vaseline. Run like nobody's business...RUN from your crush! SLEEEEP. Maybe when you wake up, it'll be a bad dream.

5. Tell your friends not to talk about it. Seriously. The name is prohibited. Enough. Over. Talk about how hot Hrithik is in 'Jodhaa-Akbar' (I cannot think of any female equivalent for this. Sorry, guys)

6. Get busy with other people.
This is not as indecent as it sounds. It just means you have to start realising that other people exist. Like your FRIENDS, hello? Hang out with them. Let them make you laugh. Spend time with your parents. Talk to new people. SIGHT different people. Watch TV and continue the same.

So there it is, mes amis? Easy as pie (NOT). Strict adherence to the regime will 95% lead in desired results.
The rest 5%? Maybe it's true love. Go make a movie out of it.

Of dogs and underdogs

2009-01-30T10:54:00.003+05:30

Okay I saw.

And I prepared myself to be unexpecting as I sat in the theatre with a bag full of very cheesed out popcorn, my three insanely raucous friends beside me and my equally chatterbox of a mother. We sat in the jam packed theatre. I was already enjoying myself thanks to a super-long promo of Dilli 6 and some rather interesting PSAS. Hmmm. I'm getting into the advertising groove.

And the movie started. It didn't seem very captivating at first but then...

I was blown away by the scene where the kids are playing on the airport runway and 'O Saya' fuses into the scene, full-throttle. After that, I was hooked, goosebumps and all.

You cannot deny the power of this film. It is not a perfect logical, entirely plausible story. It is not an entertainer. But it takes those very values that we hold on to despite the chaos of our world-the values of hope, love, truth, beauty and infuses them in a tale of good v/s evil. And who can resist the triumph of the underdog?

It's like a great painting. It may seem grotesque to some, poetry to another. And it has different interpretations for everyone. But the end of the day, you can't really ignore it because there's something we identify with it-its pattern, colour or because it resembles a beacon of hope that makes you think life is worth all its nonsense.

The music? WOW (I really can't think of a better word) It makes me proud to just breathe the same air and be in the same city as the musical GENIUS. It MAKES the pain, the beauty, the catharsis of the movie.

The cast? Outstanding. Dev Patel is chillingly real as Jamal. And the kids? Oh my God. They can rip your heart into pieces. Where have they been all these years??? Most of the first half was filled with disturbing images of children living so off the edge because they have no other choice.

The second half was slightly too fairytale-ish for me but it was gratifying enough. I think I'd kill myself if it turned out otherwise. It's not life-changing. It's not art. It's a feel-good film with an interesting non-linear narrative, good dialogue, amazing music and an impeccable cast.

The film overall doesn't define India as such. It could be any story actually. But it does imply the range of the colour spectrum it is.

Overall, a must watch. For the kids. For Dev Patel. For A.R.Rahman. For hope.

That movie

2009-01-29T09:24:00.003+05:30

Going to watch the much-acclaimed super-hyped film of the season that's becoming a fever across the globe. Ha ha, I don't even have to say the name. It's become a byword, a conversation-starter, a conversation in-betweener and overall compulsory watch for everyone. Caught bits of it in office once but am going to properly watch it on the big screen this evening. I hope it doesn't turn out to be like what happened to me and 'Taare Zameen Par'. I expected sooooo much that it I was slightly disappointed. Of course, it was a great film, so different and exploratory- a breath of fresh air. (And of course I cried a bucketload during the song 'Maa') But I didn't enjoy it as much as I expected-because of the over hype.

But I'm sure this won't disappoint.

Musicwise- the world should hear A.R.Rahman's OTHER masterpieces! They would give a him an Oscar every year for those. But my pick of this flick(maybe I shouldn't use such a downgrading term) is 'O Saya'. Perhaps it's all because of the train-like beat, earlier used (at a much slower pace) in my all-time favourite energy-booster 'Chaiyya chaiyya'. There's a certain delicateness to 'Latika's theme' (the humming version) but I don't really like 'Jai Ho'. Maybe if I watch the movie, it might all change.

Anyway, will come back and tell you what I felt. Or probably not. EVERYONE has an opinion about it and you're probably as tired of it being everywhere as I am. Though I'm not at all tired to hear about 'Dev D' and 'Dilli 6' (DYING to watch those!!)

If life was a weekend

2009-01-28T12:19:00.002+05:30

Would we appreciate those two days?
Would we dream of our bed all weeklong, clinging to our blankets in the mornings, refusing to open our eyes and cursing the sun?
Would we seek our friends thirstily and make a million plans and throng the theatres like we do?
Would we attack food with as much pleasure and abandonment and claim the TV for our own and growl if anyone steps in front of it?
Would we?
I doubt it.
Weekdays were made for us to appreciate the weekends.

Books from books

2009-01-22T17:04:00.003+05:30

Hey check this out! I found a problem to my solution.
This artist Margi Laurin takes old library books on the way to the pulper and turns them into journals. So, you get book jackets and other interesting pages of a book interspersed with notepaper.
How cool! That would DEFINITELY inspire some major writing. Imagine if you get a journal with the Princess Diaries cover or Twilight or 'Many Lives, many masters'. And it's eco-friendly.

Though I highly doubt those books will ever go to the pulper.

I should start making my own customised notebooks.

Writer's Block Talk

2009-01-21T18:06:00.004+05:30

I am now getting some allergy to all kinds of paper. Seriously, this is probably just a manifestation of my laziness but it's happening and I can't seem to shake it off.

I mean, I just can't write anything worthwhile in some notebooks. I end up doodling abstract aliens or sketching cartoonified girls or writing song lyrics all over the pages. So I end up, taking a fresh page each time...only to fill it with more doodles. So not helping the environment.

There are some books I CAN write in. Unfortunately, those happen to be my journals. Which I cannot use for any other purpose.

So I wind up with stacks of half-used notebooks, which ultimately get used as scribbling paper for exam study sessions (I HAVE to write down the points as I 'study') There is no tragedy for a notebook greater than being used as a study scribble pad. I mean, class notes is good. But study scribbles? My deepest apologies to all the notebooks that have ended up thus. It was not intentional.

Well, I can't blame myself either. Maybe the vibe wasn't right. Maybe we just didn't gel. (Oh I feel a bad joke about ball points and gels coming along. SHUT UP. NOW.)

So the actual work I'm supposed to be doing? Not happening, seeing as I'm getting too accustomed to typing. (Maybe that's another excuse for not working because I don't get the computer often enough)

This is not good. I used to be the kid who loved the actual process of writing. I was addicted to it. I used to even fill up fee forms for classmates.

I don't think that's something that can die out so easily.

Traveller

2009-01-21T12:24:00.002+05:30

What is it about walking/driving/riding a bike?
Is it the unconscious act of concentration? The manoeuvring of self or vehicle through the chaos of traffic while your mind travels on a completely different terrain?
Is it the fact that you're all alone in a sea of humanity, faces you see unseeingly, faces you shall never see again?
Is it the moment of privacy, the pause in your schedule where you are forced to do nothing else but cover a distance?
Is it the fact that you are exposed to sun, sky and wind, dusty roads and restless feet, noise and the collective commotion of a city's frustration, ambition and desperation?
Is it the movement in your otherwise non-adventurous life?
Is it the rhythm of your footsteps, the routine of moving wheels, the procedure of the traffic signal, the unspoken order followed by strangers together in a moment of mundanity?
Maybe it's just that it reminds me so much of life itself.

My new best friend

2009-01-19T14:05:00.003+05:30

Finished reading 'The Palace of Illusions' last night. Was a much better version of the Mahabharat compared to the one I read in school (sex and violence in meaningless repetition). Maybe because this was entirely from Draupadi's point of view. But it wasn't her so much as the wisdom shining through in parts. The parts where Krishna speaks. And of course, the end was really beautiful.
Another thing I liked about the book is that it portrays the glorious Pandava princes and their queen in all their weaknesses. And okay, they were war heroes, but it also talks about how much emptiness they had to endure afterwards.
Which makes me think again of something. We can't say "Oh, look what the world is coming to" . The world has always been this way! Nonsense has happened, and man has endured. War is pointless-people readily going forward to kill strangers who have done nothing personally to them. Ready to lose their lives for someone else's cause.
Of course, wars are fought to protect oneself more often than not. But still. Isn't the ability to negotiate what makes us human?
It's been happening since the Mahabharat. And we still haven't found alternative solutions? Or even if we have, we still resort to our modern versions of astras and arrows.
And the weirdest part is that it is all written, it is all supposed to happen, as Krishna says. But why are these horrible, terrible things supposed to happen?
Anyway, I have nothing new to say on the subject of war and peace. And there is so much I don't understand of karma and life. I wanted to talk about the book.
My favourite character is Karna. Not because I was captain of his house in school. Okay, maybe that's why. But come on, he's so different! The other Pandavas are so boring-all heroic. All of them are supposed to be so black and white. He's the one who's tormented, surviving such a messed-up life, no clue about where he's coming from or where he's going, hanging out with this bad guy who's so nice to him. This is where the age-old question arises. "If he's nice to me, how can I hate him?" Plus, I'm sure he would've been super cool looking (despite being way too blinged-out with the numerous earrings and all.) and super intelligent.
I think if we'd met, he could've taught me a lot about getting over myself and I could've found him something better to do than waste time fuming with revenge.
I'm sure Amy Macdonald's song would befit this situation.
"I wish I'd known you before"
Seriously. Things would've been so different. Except I doubt we could adjust to each other's eras. I would've had to wear a sari and I would've not been allowed to hang out with him anyway since well, he would be a guy. And I highly doubt it would be possible for him to traipse about Chennai heat in his golden armour.

Somewhere I probably belong

2009-01-19T11:51:00.003+05:30

Ever felt like you have no choice but to fall silent and feel the winds of a world within you?

As if the frenzy of activity outside you is the one that is static while the train of your brain moves faster and faster, further and further away?

You remind yourself that you're breathing.

You're somewhere else, outside this body, or far too deep inside. You're either extra sensitive so that everything hurts or completely numb so that everything bounces off.

Where are you?

Are you....?

I may be lost but this time, I'm okay with it.

Time is living me

2009-01-17T12:18:00.003+05:30

In an attempt to fuel the brain, I am taking a break from Meg Cabot (not much of a choice since I finished all the Mediator books and the Princess Diaries and don't really like her novels). So, besides picking up (and ravenously finishing) Carmen Bin Ladin's story, I also reluctantly surrendered myself to 'The Inheritance of Loss'. I really hoped there wouldn't be too much of description and more conversation, more about people. I think Jhumpa Lahiri's descriptions are the only ones I don't skip.

But I found this poem prefacing the actual story...and I feel like I finally found something that sums up my state of mind. And voila! It's a poem I can understand!

(I love the last line in particular)

Boast of Quietness

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.

The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.

Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.

Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.

Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.

They speak of humanity.

My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty.

They speak of homeland.

My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.

Time is living me.

More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.

They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.

My name is someone and anyone.

I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.

Jorge Luis Borges