Fall…..

Four seasons have passed;
Since last fall.
The trees have shed their leaves,
The ground is covered in a soft carpet of russet;
There’s chill once again in the air,
And you haven’t looked back since….

Musings of a wandering soul….

I looked down upon the hill below. The wind was making music in my ears, like a divine orchestrator had composed a symphony and was calling out for an audience: for people to stop a while and pause and listen. A few metres away a golden retriever puppy was going round in circles, trying to catch hold of its own tail, amusing itself in this funny game. The afternoon sun was bright but not burning. The whole ambience was soporiphic, lulling me to sleep. I struggled to keep my eyes awake, trying to soak in the sights and sounds of this quaint little hill station. Not so much because I had never been to a hill station before but because my soul needed the solitude and respite only a small town could offer.

I looked at my cell phone. No there was no overwhelming desire or excitement to share with anyone: for me to make use of a cell phone at this point of time. It was just to check the time as I had long foregone the need to wear a wristwatch and a cellphone had sufficed that odd need to check the time once in a while. I was more than happy to let time pass me by these couple of days, but it was the odd reminder that my mom was in the habit of calling me post lunch and that she might start getting worried if she couldn’t get through the line; that I felt my brows furrowing for a split second. I let the thought pass me by just this once, knowing that it is rarely that I get an opportunity to let go of things. Back in the maddening city and my killing job, I had a hundred and one things that I knitted my eyebrows for. For a change I was glad that there was not a single bar indicating reception in the area. The wind had stopped and I could hear a dull drone slowly rising in pitch. I turned my eyes towards the direction of the sound and a couple of hundred metres below I could see a lorry struggling to climb up the steep hill. A familiar sight in most hill stations.

I had no intention of retreating into my room rightaway. I dumped my luggage inside the spacious wooden cupboard. I had been fortunate that I could get a room in the Holiday Home of the Air Force. There was definitely no touch of luxury, like a couple of the star hotels in the vicinity offered. A star hotel room was not what I was looking for, not that I couldn’t afford it. But there is something about hotels that has never really appealed to me; maybe it is the whole business like commercial attitude. Here everything that a wary soul could ask for was available. It was a small suite actually, complete with a huge king size bed, side tables, a mini fridge, a tv, an ac (not that there was a need for it) and a small sofa. Everything was perfect, infact it was more than I had asked for. The Corporal had already informed that dinner would be available at the Mess from 8.00 p.m. onwards, so my basic need for food was taken care of.
Perched halfway atop a hill adjacent to the Monkey Point, the Air Force Mess offers vantage views of the town. A couple of metres below I could see that the beeline for the Hanuman Mandir which I had crossed while entering the Air Force Mess, had not receded at all. Now I wasn’t the most religiously inclined person, however the vagabond in me couldn’t resist the urge to find out what lay on the other side of the hill. The climb was steeper than I had anticipated, and by the time I reached the top, I was short of breath, not so much because of physical exertion but because what lay in front of my eyes was truly “breathtaking”.

It was beginning to get dark and the sun painted the valleys below a glorious shade of orange which soon turned to a crimson red and then to an inkish grey, all this within a span of less than half an hour The wind suddenly turned fierce and cold and I stood there as if I was awakened from a trance. I realized it was time to go back. As I descended, I pulled the thin anorak tighter which seemed inadequate now. And I started feeling a tingling sensation at the sides of my tongue and the base of my throat which I hadn’t felt in more than 14 hours, I knew the familiar feeling…. it was a craving for nicotine. As I walked downhill my pace picking up, the urge grew stronger and I started searching the pockets of the anorak; no there were no traces of an unhealthy and undesirable habit. My hands reached for the depths of the pocket of my jeans, nope -all that I could find were a few chits of paper, a few parking slips, some unfamiliar names and addresses scribbled and a flavourless old chewing gum….. there was nothing that resembled anything remotely to a cigarette.

As I neared the check-post, I could make out the silhouettes of two persons and some furniture. I assumed they were the security guards on the night shift. One of them pointed his flashlight at my direction and I instantly covered my eyes to shade myself from the blinding light. As I reached within visible distance, the guard gave me the most incredulous look. Finally with a sense of authority that came from the powers bestowed on him by his superior officers, he summoned me “What do you think you were doing so late after dark? Do you know I can have you arrested for violating local laws?” I was totally taken aback by this aggressive behaviour and volley of questions that were bombarded at me. Before I could manage a reply, the other guard came up and added insult to injury. “You could have been eaten up by leopards or a pack of wild wolves for all you know. You city people are unaccustomed to the ways here. It is different here in the hills. Go back to your room now”

There was little that I could think of to counter his argument then, although the second guards’ logic seemed preposterous to me at that point of time. Later in retrospect when I thought about it, it struck me that the guard was right from his perspective. Afterall if any untoward incident happened to a tourist, he could have been held responsible. By the time I reached my room it was almost quarter past eight. The air had turned chilly and the incident had fired my craving for a cigarette all the more stronger. I went inside my room and found my pack of cigarettes and Zippo tucked away in a small pocket of my backpack. I caught hold of it and came out to the small sitting area where two chairs and a small table had been neatly arranged. As I flicked the cover open, the tiny flame trembled in the dark lonely night and I covered it to light up my fag. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and as I did so, the day’s fatigue and tension seemed to ease away.

I looked up, it was a clear sky. And as hard as I tried to think, I couldn’t remember when was the last time I had seen something like this. A million stars twinkled, bright one moment and then fading away another and I tried to identify constellations that I had learnt about it in school and had long forgotten. Then I noticed the white band that spread across horizontally. “Xeyaa durot haatipoti- That far far away is the Milky way”, my Dad had taught me as a 6 year old. It seemed like an eternity had passed before I heard someone calling me out. “Its quarter to 11….we are closing the mess. Don’t you want any dinner?” I could barely make out the form of a human face in the dark. I decided I better not make any delay, or risked starving through the night. My body had become numb with the cold, and it was only when I entered the centrally heated Dining Room that I realized I was out in the open for so long. The food or rather whatever was left of it was nothing lavish but a modest spread and was palatably warm. I quickly gulped my food and came back to my room. I decided I had enough adventure for the day and tucked myself inside the warm quilt.

I rose with the sun, feeling fresh and energized the next day. This rarely happened as my fatigued and weary body always struggled to get up with the false alarm I set for myself; back in the city. I quickly freshened up and went downstairs for breakfast. After a light breakfast, I set out for the day armed with my map and camera. I decided to explore the much talked about nature trail.

The trail forked out from the main road and a small inconspicuous signboard was the only marker. As I entered, the trail narrowed to a thin dirt track and at several places was just about a couple of feet wide apart. The trail circumnavigated one of the hillocks. I could run my hands and feel its rocky grainy surface. At other times my fingers felt a soft moist sensation …. patches of lichen and moss had knitted a carpet over crevices and other areas where sunlight never reached. To my right there was a steep drop of few thousand metres. Somewhere in the middle of the trail the land stretched out to a patch of grassyland and gently sloped downwards. I decided to stop for a smoke and some water. The gentle wind was back and the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. At an elevated altitude, the clouds seemed much closer; like big fluffs of cotton. At another point I thought they were like sugar candy of my childhood days. I could see mountain goats and cattle grazing in the distance. A couple of young shepherds smiled. One of them was singing a pahari tune. I couldn’t understand the local dialect but it seemed like he sang about his lady love. I envied their carefree life somehow even though I knew it was not the easiest. I picked up my backpack and started again. There was much more to explore in this hill station which in due course of time I found out was a cantonment area and maintained by the army. By the time I finished my trek, beads of sweat had formed on my forehead and I could feel the sun growing behind my back. I decided to go back to the mess and pick up my bullet.

The little trek had tired me and I thought a ride would be better. The ride downhill to the Lower Mall was less than 5 minutes. I parked the bullet (I always thought of my bullet as my Horcrux) in the small parking lot and walked towards the neatly arranged line of shops that was the main market. I had been ignoring the hunger pangs all this while and my olfactory sense instinctively drew me a to a corner shop which was selling steaming hot momos and thupkas. As I neared the place I realized it was no more than a shack! and yet there was a beeline at the cash counter and buzzing with people-school children, jawans from the nearby cantonment, elderly couples, tourists et al. With my tummy full, I once again set out on my bike to see more of the town. Somehow I always thought nothing can beat the sensation of the wind in your hair, the cool mountain breeze blowing down your face, the smell of pine cones and the sight of rhodendrons touching the skies. Vignettes of the town passed me by as I sped down the winding road- a century old church and a cemetery, convent schools, bungalows with red bricks and oakwood shafts. The tin roofs gleamed as sunlight from the afternoon sun slanted its way to the little town.

I came back to my room for a quite dinner. The night was cold and an uncanny stillness prevailed; from my balcony I could see a bonfire in one of the bungalows in the distance. I dimmed the lights but I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I lay there in my bed listening to the sounds of the creatures of the night as they came alive at this odd hour. Somewhere an owl hooted and I wondered if it was a bad omen like I was told as a child. A dog was barking and I instinctively knew it was the same retriever puppy. I wondered if its owner had ignored him and the poor soul was feeling lonely.

I didn’t know at what time I fell asleep except for the fact that it was pretty late into the night. I woke up late unlike the previous morning and the sun had already been out for quite some time. I decided to skip breakfast and just made myself some black coffee instead. After a quick shower I was all set to go back. I strapped my helmet, put on my leather gloves, tied my backpack to the pillion seat, kicked the pedal and fired up my bullet. I was going back to the city. Just 5 more days. 5 days after my grueling grind at work, next weekend, I was going to be at another new place, another new vista……

Guzaarish

Ke aapko hamari mohabbat kubool nahi,
Ye koi gila nahi hame aapse;

Itni bas guzaarish hai
Ke gair na karde apne dilse:

Aaahe bharte hai roz ek nazar ko,
Ke dam nikalta hai har lamha har pal;

Is aashiq ke janeze pe aasu na bahaye
Ke sukoon na mil payegi mere roohko....

Hangover

Lies and Lust….
What a heady cocktail?
Yeah sure I was inebriated…
When did I wake up from this drunken stupor?

I was in a trance!
Tripping over the hallucinated reality of your love;
Drenched in the psychedelic colours of a concocted romance:
Ecstatic with the illusory image of togetherness.

It ok …
I am sober now…
And “You” a bad hangover….

Schizophrenic!

She laughs like a mad woman
Cries like a child;
She frets like a teenager
Throws tantrums like a rock star!
She dresses like a diva
But behaves like a beggar;

She dotes like a mother
Cares like a friend;
She plays games like a toddler
And hurts deep like a true lover!
She curses like a witch
And heals like an exorcist.

She’s schizophrenic!

Reverberations…

The songbird sings outside my window,
The bard in saffron and the hawker cry out too;

RJ on the radio cackles
The phone incessantly vibrates;
The kettle gurgles with boiling water
Exuberance and innocence burst through peals of children’s laughter.

Tap tap tap… my keyboard clicks,
Ting Ting Ting… the school bell rings;

The airplane drones the foggy night
Mother sings a lullaby to put baby to sleep
Amidst all this I hear my heart silently weep….

On Guzarish...

My admiration for Bhansali as a filmmaker started with Khamoshi. It was indeed pathbreaking a film and refreshing to come across a filmmaker who treated his craft with so much passion and sinceretity, when the norm of the day in the nineties was mindless films catering to the baser senses of the masses and the demands of the box office; a Roja or Bombay or Rudaali or an Akele Hum Akele Tum in sporadic bursts notwithstanding. Bhansali’s sensitive handling of the topics dealing with the physically disabled (both Khamoshi and Black ) and his directorial prowess to extract such splendid performances from his cast, have always held me in awe of him. Much like the auteur of the French New Wave during the 1950’s, Bhansali manages to leave his indelible mark on his celluloid dreams.

So with the all the rave reviews that the movie had garnered, it was but inevitable that I went in to see the film with highest expectations. Dealing with an extremely challenging topic like quadraplegia is no mean task for any director and when the star hero is not romancing the heroine or bashing up the villain in a “ mainsteam Hindi film” and stuck to a wheelchair for the larger part of the film, the Director and Producers are sure taking a risk. Sure the times are a changing and the new breed of multiplex movies are managing to pull in the crowds...but albeit a niche audience. Kudos to Bhansali for believing in his dreams.

The signature Bhansali style of filmaking with grand opulent sets and rich visual imagery is obvious in every frame of Guzarish. So whether it is the decaying remnants of a once magnificient Portugese bunglow or the panoramic seascapes of Goa, cinematographer Sudeep K. Bhattacharjee has managed to create some alluring and enthralling visuals. From the almost chiaroscuristic magician’s playground to the lush green countryside, the transition is almost Raphaelesque. The subtle poetic background score of Guzarish is definitely the highpoint of the film and threads the cascading emotions from despair to joy to ecstasy of the two main protagonists Ethan and Sofia.

So is the movie yet another masterpiece by Bhansali? I am afraid not so. I am far from declaring Guzarish as his best work till date. So what is it that fails or doesn’t work for me? For starters the dialogues-Ethan Mascarenhas’ frequent references to sexual gratification- as his last dying wish, as an objectionable pass at his nurse (though we come to know later in the course of the film that Sofia is the “love of his life”) : okay maybe a little bit of harmless flirting in a slightly lighter vein and different level altogether, and almost hidden and suppressed desire of his best friend Devyani to sleep with him.(which again we come to know only towards the end of the film!) The name of his protege is Dick! (I beg your pardon but did you just say your name is DICK!). That the sexual innuendos are completely out of place and distasteful is to say the least. It is almost insensitive and offensive. Impotency along with a host of other medical problems like total loss of motor and sensory control (which even includes control of bladder and bowel movement and is even mentioned in the film) is one of the most obvious symptoms associated with paraplegia/tetraplegia. For a quardiplegic who is crippled and restricted to a wheelchair and who is in such a state of despair that he wants to end his life in dignity, I wonder if his priorities are a little off the track ! Bhansali has sure committed cinematic blasphemy!

A has been written about Hrithik and Aishwarya’s sizzling onscreen chemistry in their earlier pairings in Dhoom 2 and Jodha Akbar. Somehow it just fizzles this time. Understandably the script demands a more subtle and old world romance where its not so much about spoken words or physical expressions of love, but a more restrained and almost unsaid understanding of each other’s emotions. There are moments when the two create magic together like in the backseat of the car, when both of them go out of the house 12 years after Ethan’s accident for the court hearing; but for the larger part, the growth and the changing dynamics of their relationship remained unexplored. The transition from Sofia’s selfish need of clinging on to her love, to her understanding and empathy for Ethan’s pain and finally agreeing to his plea of mercy killing could have been exploited further.
Much of the flaw remains in the script itself. Told through a series of flashbacks, the story often meanders through several sub-plots. There is nothing wrong in this form of storytelling, and is a credible and established editing style in contemporary cinema. The characters of his past life however needed to be fleshed out more as they seem to emerge and disappear out of the plot without any significance. Case in point Estella and Yaseer, who the director would like us to believe were vital to the life of Merlin- Ethan Mascarenhas the greatest magician of the world. I also fail to understand the forceful connection between Yaseer and Dick which could have been easily done away with. That a young aspiring magician also considers his father’s arch rival a better and greater magician is almost forcefully implied and not really been established.

Bhansali’s inexplicable penchant for period costumes is but well known and though Sabyasachi managed to create some beautiful dresses for Aishwarya when viewed in exclusivity, she looks ridiculous in those outfits as a jaded and love forlorn maid/nurse. It is almost like a wax figurine trapped in a time capsule has been juxtapositioned against a Stephen Hawkingish character. Talking about ridiculous, I cannot fathom why Aishwarya tries to air guitar, drum and dance flamenco all at once. This stupid act of hers almost overshadows the one moment of brilliance in the court scene.

The only saving grace in the entire movie was Hrithik himself. (supported by Shernaz Patel) Hrithik has effortlessly managed to shake off his larger than life image and essay the role of a paraplegic with ease. His zest for life and incorrigible humour totally beguiling the despair and anguish that he is suffering from within.


By now almost everybody knows that Guzarish is not the most original screenplay and I am not referring to the novel of Dayanand Rajan. Movies like internationally acclaimed The Sea Inside and Whose Life is it Anyway have similar storylines and have already touched upon the sensitive and controversial subject of Euthanasia. Somehow Guzarish fails to come to grips with the underlying theme of mercy killing. References can also be seen to Christopher Nolan’s Prestige and The Illusionist. (the inspiration behind Merlin or magician) and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (the stubborn fly scene) So no points to Bhansali for originality.

One expects much more from a filmmaker of Bhansali’s calibre. His devotion and dedication towards his craft is truly inspirational and motivating. The magnificently penned story of an incapacitated and debilitated man who desires to end his life with dignity has so much of promise but the film fails in to pack in the punch mainly because of its predictable dialogue and weak script. Guzarish is definitely one of the better films made in recent times, and is worth a watch, but it is definitely several notches behind The Sea Inside.

A few wishes for Christmas!!!!!

“If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,
If turnips were watches I would wear one by the side”

There goes the old proverb, but hardly does the moral of the old proverb ever teach us anything, for we can’t stop wishing do we? So here’s a few of the things top on my wishlist…
I wish more than anything else I could write well. I really like the way some of my friends put their thoughts into words so coherently.
I wish I had someone to love and love me back.
I have wanted to go backpacking alone before I get married and try atleast one adventure sport.
I wish I was a good public speaker.
I wish I had some talent or maybe all, that has some thing to do with music. Sing, dance or maybe even play some kind of instrument.
I wish I could travel round the world and see those amazing places. Europe is top of my list.
I wish I wasn’t so touchy, hot headed, sentimental, moody and temperamental.
I definitely definitely wish I was more tech savvy.
I wish I could get wet in the rain whenever I wanted to.
I wish I had more life skills like bicycling, swimming and driving!!!
I wish I could bring home a dog.
I wish I was better at time management
I wish I wasn’t so lazy.
I wish I was more constructive.
I wish I was more diplomatic and could get myself out of sticky situations.
I wish I had a job that would pay me for experiencing the finer things in life like maybe a travel anchor or a food critic or a model!!!!

Well that’s all that I can think of right now…

On love, marriage and a contemporary film …...

I happened to see “Revolutionary Road” the other day. A film by Sam Mendes ( of American Beauty fame) always raises your expectations. His films have always been known to be out of the ordinary and touch that human chord. It’s a rich cinematic experience, watching his movies. Revolutionary Road is a worthy successor to American Beauty, not at one moment failing to disappoint his fans cinematically or otherwise. It was a pretty intense movie I must admit ( as was American Beauty)- so serious that there was a time; pre - interval that I almost felt like getting up and walking out halfway. Its not that I don’t like intense drama; infact I look out for movies that are thought provoking and move you inside in some way but I guess the recent slew of intense movies (by the average cine-goer’s standards) that I had watched got a little into me. But nevertheless I’m glad I sat through it.. the story telling grew better… and the pace picked up after a few dramatic and unexpected turns. However it not the merits of the film that I want to discuss here… it’s the subject of the film… a take on the post marriage life of a suburban American couple in the 50’s.The setting may have been in the 50’s of a suburban Connecticut but there is a certain timeless appeal about the theme, in the sense that we are still trying to find that magic element in our lives… trying to find that perfect balance between our professional and personal lives, the balance between our needs and our ambitions, between who we aspire to be and who we are… existential angst …is that what it is called in the more refined and erudite circles?


I’m pretty vocal and unabashed about my feminist leanings ( my guy friends would vouch for that) sometimes even to the point of coming across as too strong and offensive to most people. And that is why I am surprised at the reactions that this film evoked in me. Cause in some unexplainable way my sympathies lay not with the female protagonist who seemed to suffer and have a poetically tragic end but with the male who survives to live a painfully miserable life of grief, anguish, loneliness and even regret to a certain extent. I know most feminists who have seen the film will probably say I am not a true bred here…cause it was April Wheeler ( the character played by Kate Winslet) who leading the drab life of a homemaker trapped in a stifling marriage to Frank and having to seek passion outside the confines of her marriage eventually aborts her child towards the climax of the film that deserves the viewer’s compassion. I am not being judgemental here saying April Wheeler didn’t suffer or didn’t do enough to save her marriage or bring about a change in the quality of her life. That was far too obvious .But somewhere I did feel her part of the play in making that marriage work was somehow not enough compared to Frank..

But like I said I don’t want to come across as judgemental… I not married as yet and I have no experience to make comments on something I don’t have the remotest clue about. But some wise people who are married …. some for a short while… others longer than that, say- marriage essentially means COMPROMISE. That’s sad…. Or is it really the truth? Does the secret to making a marriage work really means sacrificing, making compromises or like one of my wise friends said….. sometimes you just have to take a backseat.. after all marriage means coming together of two people.. so both the people really can’t have their way all the time. But what if that taking a backseat means compromising with who you are…letting go of what your dreams are. Don’t we live for our dreams? I mean if we let go of our dreams … then what is the purpose of this life? Somewhere along the film I knew April was right in pursuing her dreams and wanting to start life anew even though it was a highly risky proposition. Yet my heart also went out to Frank Wheeler, he was a practical man who chose a stable though unsatisfactory job to support his family, an honest man too, who inspire of his momentary affair with his secretary came back to his home and confessed that to his wife coz he loved her. In another time and place a man doing the same would be completely inexcusable for me and in the film I felt no grudge against April Wheeler for not reacting to it cause she had ceased to love Frank. But in the very context of the film and the circumstances I felt April was too idealistic and selfish a woman… As an individual I can empathise with her sense of frustration, despair, loss, helplessness, but as a woman….. I surely feel she was selfish … she was a mother of two….. pregnant with the third. She had a loving supportive and caring husband who was wiling to make sacrifices (or as some might even say he didn’t have the b@*^s to be man enough and make the right choices). Yet April couldn’t come to terms with her mundane life.


I feel a sense of disbelief at my own reactions at this movie. Faced with a strange dichotomy at the possibility of having to face something similar in my life, would I let go of my career or hobbies for the sake of a successful marriage or kids. What if the passion in my marriage died down and both me and partner turned out of the confines of marriage to seek love and fulfilment elsewhere. Would I continue to be in that marriage? I know most women make these choices everyday of their lives….. I admire them for the strength and ability to make these choices… and I hope and pray that I find the strength to make the right decisions at the right time without ever feeling I compromised … especially when it comes to LOVE and MARRIAGE.

A few thoughts on Republic Day….

Its strange how we take Republic Day and Independence Day so for granted…..like just another date in a calendar. We go about our ways… mechanically, with a clinical coldness and indifference that would put even a robot to shame. Or maybe some of us actually look forward to it; but just as another holiday…. like it was this time… an extended weekend. To tell you the truth I am just one of those people.

I am not saying it is the same for everyone… (and thank God for that) … but for most of us ordinary citizens who belong to the middle class we have far more important things to think about then to remember some date in history some 60 years ago. Umpteen questions about our daily life cloud our minds- like what the recession will bring for us… … is my job safe or will I be handed out the pink slip… am I going to get my salary by the end of this month… where am I going to get the money for the next EMI. .. can I even afford to have a small 2 bedroom house in this sky rocketing real estate prices?

I am no different. With every passing year I used to look forward to these two “National Holidays” as just that-holidays. I had studied in missionary convents all my life where not much was done about Republic Day or Independence Day. All that I had learnt about my country, its Independence and the fact that it became a “Sovereign Socialist Secular Democratic Republic in 1950” was from the Social Studies books that some highly unimaginative fellow from NCERT had written. And they were just that….heavy sounding words that were just meant to be roted, crammed into your memory and reproduced in exams at the end of the year. College was the same. Only the intensity of these heavy sounding words increased coupled with some more names that were alien to my mother tongue, and whose names sounded like Greek to me (literally!!) and I could barely spell or pronounce-Socrates, Aristotle, Herodotus, Rousseau (the last one was French I know!)

And so the years passed. When I started working a couple of years back I was expected to be present at office celebrations and since it is a PSU it was mandatory. I started to loathe these official functions; trying to avoid going there by finishing off the requisite arrangements for the functions beforehand and thus managing to enjoy the “holiday”.

I don’t know what changed this year. Maybe a sense of despair or was it hope…? The last one year hadn’t exactly been great for the country. With bomb blasts in every major city of India; the memories of 26/11 still fresh in the minds and the New Year literally beginning with a bang in my own home town Guwahati (there were bomb blasts on the 1^st of January, 2009) there was not much really to celebrate Republic Day.

But like the old saying goes…..When the going gets tough, the tough gets going. I guess it is the undying spirit of the common man in the face of these adversities that have kept all of us going. And yes all hope is not lost, after all hadn’t it been for those brave men in uniforms who laid down their lives….. the nation would have been held ransom by some of these monsters!!! So just this one time I went to see the Republic Day parade today to see the kin of these slain heroes receive a posthumous Ashok Chakra.

I must admit that I feel so ashamed. Inspite of being in the capital for 5 years I had never made an attempt to either attend the Republic Day or the Independence Day functions. And this inspite of the fact that I have close friends in the “defence” who could easily have arranged VIP passes for me if only I had wanted. It was also such an eye –opener -to see that those multitude of people who walked such long distances from Maulana Azad Road to Rajpath were not the young and healthy but the very old and the very young. Most of the people were also not the upper middle class or the elite of the society but the common man. Their enthusiasm was remarkable.

It’s a weirdly humbling feeling- to witness the R - Day parade, and at the same time it makes your heart swell with pride. To witness the platoons of soldiers from the different contingents march in rhythmic progression, to gape with wonder and awe at those indigenously designed yet highly powerful and technologically advanced missiles, to admire those taut and brave men who guard our frontiers, to cheer the tableau representing the unique culture of your state, and to laud those children whose bravery and heroism are far beyond their years….. its a kind of pride I had never felt before and I have no words to express.

I don’t know if this enthusiasm will last until next year ....or I will be caught up in the multitude of problems regarding roti , kapda or makaan… but until then…..

Maa Tujhe Salaam…

Sorry…..

I
Why is sorry the hardest thing to say?
Don’t know why it is so?
I am trying to say sorry here…
Don’t judge me before I even begin to say….
Hear me out just this once…
I know you are angry.... and justly so….
I have made mistakes … I know….

II
You have been my wings when I needed to fly,
And yet I left you behind when I wanted to soar
I am sorry for that….
You were the wind in my sail,
And yet I left you in the stormy sea
I am sorry for that….
You have been my strength when I was weak,
And yet I looked the other way when you needed me
I am sorry for that…
You have been my solace when I was down,
And yet I left you alone when it was my turn
I am sorry for that…
For thoughts that have hurt you inside
For words that have cut you deep
For actions that have made you bleed
I am sorry for all of that…

But most of all
I am sorry
For having to let you go….

Waiting….

It’s been a long time….
Since you went away…..
Aeons it seems…
Since I saw your face
Kissed your lips…

Was in your city the other day,
And the memories came flooding back…
You and me coccooned from the world
Me a girl of eighteen and you a boy of twenty…
Life seemed a breeze…
Dreams in our eyes and love in our hearts…
We made promises…
And took vows
Of being together forever and a day
Of love eternal
You and me hand in hand
The love we shared and the dreams we dreamt….
And then you left…

You are gone now
And I wonder if its still me…
Dreaming the same dreams..
Renewing the same vows…
Wonder if I will see you again
In this life ….. or another …..?

Fashionably smart or is it so..?

I was going through the blog of one of my dear friends the other day. Her take on the cover stories of the innumerous glossy fashion and other lifestyle mags that are available in the magazine counters today. Most often than not and as my friend rightly pointed out, these magazines have a nubile young something or an anorexic size zero model seductively looking at you with some racy headline declaring the shortest possible way to experiencing the ultimate carnal nirvana. Sure everybody wants to have an explosive orgasm, with those incredible sounding moans and groans, the way they show in the movies; and there’s nothing wrong with it. Nor do I find anything wrong at ogling at those exorbitantly overpriced haute couture dresses. (Inspite of the fact that most of us real women can never afford a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals or a Roberto Cavalli gown or a Louis Vuitton purse).

Now let me clarify something here, I am not promoting these magazines in my blog.. (And neither am I getting a free lifetime subscription to one of these magazines or passes to the next fashion week to write this piece. ). I would like to recall an incident here. This was a couple of years back when I was working for a brief period of time in an NGO in Gurgaon. I was a new joinee and found the environment in the office absolutely stifling. However the impression I had got during the interview prior to my joining was a completely different one. My interview was taken by a very smart lady dressed in western formals who was the Managing Director and the Deputy Director. ( to add some spice, the Deputy Director was her live –in boyfriend; which ofcourse I found out much laterJ ).The couple were alumni of a reputed business school and this was their dream venture. The NGO was funded by Canadian and British agencies and I was told that this was a professional organization and didn’t function like other “sarkari” NGOs( god knows why did she have that idea in the first place). But once into it, I found out to my utter horror that it turned out be a jail. No cellphones throughout the day, no snacking during working hours except for beverages, only English or Hindi for communication(if there were two people from one region say from Kerela or Assam they couldn’t talk in the vernacular language!!!)strictly formalwear with no concept of even Friday dressing which meant only collared full sleeved shirts and trousers or skirts ( not even skirts above the knee mind you) and salwar kameez in Indian formals ( apparently wearing a saree was too fancy for my Boss!!!). The environment was totally claustrophobic (and very conservative for my taste.) until this new young and vivacious lady joined. She was liberal minded though a staunch feminists ( typical of all LSR girls) and completely turned around things.

One afternoon after lunch (and still not office hours yet) all the female employees were upto our typical girl talk. I don’t exactly remember now what it was that we were talking about, other than the fact that it was her marriage-she had just been married for about a year. But suddenly this new lady asked one of the girls “ if you know everything about marriage and sex , tell me where is the g-spot of a woman located?”. Now all of us were a little taken aback by this bold question, especially because no one talked about sex in this office. But it took even more time for us to realize that the girl had completely missed the question. The question was repeated “ Where is the g-spot located?”. She shook her head and turned around pretending to type something on her computer. Initially we thought she was too embarrassed to speak so we persisted and then exasperated she said “ what is the g-spot?”

Now you must be wondering what is the connection between this ram kahani that I have been blabbering about and the glossy mags which offer you the ultimate guide to finding Mr. Right or the concise version of the Kamasutra. This girl was a couple of years older than me.. She was young, confident and articulate and had traveled all by herself to the inhospitable terrains of Uttranchal and Tawang with our NGO work. All of 27 with an MBA in Marketing, she knew all about the Malthusian theory, Kotler’s concepts, other fundas about the stock market and about how to sell almost anything under the sun with the right marketing gimmicks. And yet she didn’t know about something which was part of her own body.

The reason why I mentioned this incident is that, there are probably many like her among us. We live in a society where even uttering the word “sex” is taboo, and are not discussed in polite society. Our parents are terrified of opening their mouths because they are too embarrassed to talk about it, or they fear we will come to know too much too soon and experiment with sex. But we do come to know eventually don’t we?

I would like to mention another incident. I had just stepped into my teens and was towards the end of the eighth standard. I hadn’t started wearing a bra until then and I went and told my mom that I needed to buy a bra. My Mom’s immediate reaction was “ What! you need a bra already?? Your barely have any boobs!” “ But Ma all my friends and my cousins wear a bra” that was my reply. My mother’s immediate concern was more for the fact that I was so conscious about my tender developing breasts, than about buying a brassiere for her just turned thirteen year old daughter. (ofcourse it was a different matter altogether that I drove mom mad searching for a size 28 cup A, in all the markets of Guwahati, and I wouldn’t even wear a sports bra!) At about the same time I had started reading the cosmo (Cosmopolitan) pretty regularly and diligently. My mother had shown her stern disapproval for such graphic and visually explicit magazines but I put my foot down saying -I was a growing girl and needed to know “things”. My mother somehow seemed to agree this time. Thanks to cosmo I came to know about breast cancer even before my breasts had fully developed. Or the fact that I can better handle my pms or numbing cramps during my periods every month( even though I occasionally have to pop an anti spasmodal) Yes I was probably a little too wise at 13 by Indian standards with my precocious knowledge about sex and my body, but now when I advise my mother about how to detect a possible malignant tumor, she knows she hadn’t made a wrong g decision letting me read a graphically vivid magazine all those years back.

Its exactly for reasons like these that I am all for the glossy mags with their ridiculous price tags. For lesser mortals like us, if 75 rupees is all it takes to spice up our insipid and vacuous lives or provide us some life saving gyaan(even if its is a quarter page article in a 150page magazine full of ads) I would say its a small price to pay my friend.

I am all of 25 years now and don’t read those mags as religiously as I did. I have probably become more worldly wise and satisfied with my share of knowledge about man-woman relationships. But for many of those women out there like my colleague , please go and get as many of those you can lay your hands on. Ofcourse I still go and get a copy every time I feel like. And well as for me - did I find a great guy and have amazingly mindblowing sex, I’ll let that be my little secret.

total recall....!

I wonder if it happens to other people…. Embarrassing moments when you have a total relapse of memory…. Selective amnesia … is that what you call it?

You know its right there at the tip of your tongue and yet your mind draws a complete blank when you have to say it aloud…or just need that information at the most crucial moment. Right then your memory eludes you and you are staring at the other person’s face, like you are a total jerk. Like it happened today… my company had this important press conference and I happened to be talking to this very senior and established journalist. I am usually shy and it takes me a lot to muster up courage to go and speak to a well known person. But I guess my parochial ties with this person made me comfortable to a certain extant. We were generally chatting about the state of affairs… n my native place ( both of us are khar khua axomiyas from the land of lahe lahe axom) and then suddenly all of a sudden he asked me about this person….. A mr. so and so who happened to be the executive director of marketing. To be precise he wanted his name….. and there I was… transfixed ; hit by a bolt from the blue… well it actually didn’t amount to that… but the fact that I couldn’t recall his name made me feel so embarrassed that I couldn’t think straight.. Ofcourse I know him…Mr…. eh . … uh .. Mr… ED Marketing…. Uh …. Mmm …err… Mr. marketing…Uhhh I know his name …. I see him every day… he is the person who reads every single word of the notesheet meticulously… he who is always reading between the lines and looking for hidden meanings and implications… the big boss who never clears a file at one go… of course I know him.. His name is .a Mr…. Mr. … ahhh got it Mr… …… ok I give up and I can’t recall his name. The thought that here was a reputed journalist standing infront of me anxiously looking for an answer and me muttering under my breath unable to recall the name of the executive director of marketing of the company I work for made me go red in my face. What was wrong with me… its not like I don’t know the person…. Of course I Knew him… I should know …. Especially me being a corporate communications official… Oh God in heavens … how could I have forgotten his name… I cringed with embarrassment and humiliation.

Realizing the strange predicament that I had put myself into and the gentleman that he was, he left brushing aside the matter; saying it happened all the time and there was no reason why I should feel like such a moron. Like an ostrich who buries its head into the ground when faced with a problem, I just stood there recoiling into the deepest recesses of my mind wishing I could just vaporize into the thin air…

Oh !!! seconds after he left the name did flash in my head.

A One Night Stand with Death

Stealthily she came in the darkness of the night;
Sweet love she made to you:
Tenderly kissed your innocent pout;
Ran her dainty fingers through your hair,
Feathery caresses she ran on your back,
Amorous was her deep gaze into your eyes:
Silky smooth was the touch of her skin,
You moaned in the ecstasy of her lovemaking;
You heldtight the the warmth of her embrace:
Death was the name of that sultry seductress...
Who came in the cold December night
And took my love away....