Comme Ci, Comme Ca

forever i have been silent. so many things have happened. a year has passed. zillions of lectures, projects, celebrations and exams later i get the time to write. i tried updating this beautiful space before but that didn’t work. what i wrote always seemed too childish/grown up/philosophical/bullshitty etc. but i hereby declare that i shall from this moment on let my fingers type and then blindly hit ‘publish’. no editing, judging, spellchecks, reality checks et al. i love you all. and watch this space. i mean it this time.
thanks for inspiring me to do this yolu

You will enjoy this review more if you have shared my pain.

The only jhoom was that of my churning insides as I resisted the urge to throw up. A ticket to anywhere, leave alone Hollywood would do. As long as that meant getting away from this movie, I was game. But I endured.

Never before have I wanted to abandon a film halfway. Okay that’s not entirely true. I’ve felt that way right through every Karan Johar movie. The monotonous song-dance sequences, some dreamy and others dreamt -up left me feeling giddy. Jhoom barabar jhoom breaks into a song every 15 minutes, mostly featuring the Big B in a monstrous, multi-hued jacket. The film-makers obviously ran short of money transporting the crew around to all those exotic locations. The compromises made thereafter are evident in Amitabh’s atrocious avatar and the microscopic costumes of the female leads.

I am a believer however and I hoped that somewhere along the plot, something would make sense. When faith didn’t work, I turned to creativity. So I imagined that the movie wasn’t about these 4 losers at all. It was indeed about a barber. Yes, it’s Jhoom Barber Jhoom! All the actors seemed to be in need of a haircut. You’re right again, Amitabh must be the barber (nothing else could’ve explained his presence isn’t it? or shall I say ‘innit?’) He must be the mad hair-stylist who hangs out at the railway station with a double fretted guitar and goes chop-chop when you least expect it. At least that’s what I wished would happen…

Instead these 4 characters were involved in faking about their love lives, eating donuts and then dancing for 45 minutes. I hope those donuts gave them a tummy ache.

Some praise is due here though. To Abishek, thanks for being brave and wearing those shiny clothes. To Preity, the cutesy act gets old real fast but thanks for trying. To Lara, thanks for being the only one who can dance and the French accent was pretty decent. To Bobby, dude I love the fact that you can carry off the same look in every movie, like, how do you keep those curls in place?

As for others who have lived to tell the tale, like moi - any idea where they sell those double fret board guitars?

 

 

 

Another bomb explodes. Some die. Many run, fall, stepping over each other, stepping on each other. Children cry. Slippers, shopping bags, groceries, documents…belongings that were important until a minute ago are left behind.

Another bomb explodes. Families and dreams are crushed like the bones were in the bodies of the dead.  People are scared, angry, confused.

Somebody laughs. Somebody won. Their victory was in the loss of a hundred lives. In the loss of happiness. Somebody celebrates. Much is said. The city is on high alert. Camera crews rush around like excited children in an amusement park.

The Police commissioners, politicians, the PM all express their regret.

Condolences and compensations fly about. The lives of guiltless people are now worth a few lakhs each. Life returns to normalcy.

Somebody is not satisfied. More bombs are being made in dingy hideouts and deserted warehouses. Somebody will strike again…this time even harder.

Shock. Anxiety. Grief. Pain.

High alert will be declared. More crying children, dead fathers, crippled sons and mourning wives later, life will stumble back to normalcy. Regret will be expressed, lakhs will be duly paid to the families of the dead.

A bundle of notes will stand where a life used to breathe.

P.S: If you’re a first time reader, please do go through the archives. The stories there are a lot less depressing. I used to be funny.

Life finds a way to cheat you out of the things you cherish most.

It was my second year in primary school. I can’t recall if the year had just begun or was about to end. I was home eating dinner while dad was watching the news. I hated news hour and kept asking him to change the channel. As always no one listened. That’s when the phone rang. My best friend was on the line. She told me she was moving out of Bombay. Her dad had been transferred to some place in Gujarat . I said what, ok…good bye and call me. Her parents said goodbye too. I should’ve spoken a while longer. But I didn’t. I don’t think I understood the situation. And I didn’t think she would forget me.

Cinni Varghese…maybe it’s Cini, or Sini or probably Sinny was my first best friend…I don’t know how her name is spelt. At age 7 I didn’t care much about spellings. We had been friends for only about a year but the memories are vivid. She had short, furiously curly hair that was forced into two little ponytails, one on either side of her perfectly round head. I remember her bright eyes and big smile. It was that smile that greeted me every day at school. She used to do this funny trick with her eyes that made me laugh. We sat together in class and during lunch time. We always played ‘teacher-teacher’ though the game in fact required one of us to be the student.

I never heard from her after that short telephone conversation. She hadn’t mentioned moving from the city while we were in school. How was I supposed to realize what was happening in 2 rushed minutes? I couldn’t contact her again because all I had was a useless Bombay phone number.

There are so many friends I’ve made in the following years. I love them all dearly. I will hold on firmly this time for I cannot afford to lose another friend.

I can never forget Cinni though. When I think of her I wonder how many friends she has made. What school did she go to in Gujarat ? What is she studying now? How much has she changed? What’s her college like? I want to tell her everything that’s happened since she left. I think of the many birthdays I didn’t get to wish her on. I think of the countless jokes I didn’t get to tell her and the various secrets left unshared. I wonder if she misses me too. I hope she remembers how my name is spelt and…that she remembers my name. I also hope she reads this blog. I hope for too much sometimes.

They tell me the world is a small place. Still searching…

Sometimes I wish I could grow up sooner.

I imagine myself working in a busy newsroom or a bustling ad agency. I smile at the thought of me being important. I dream of people approaching me for my suggestions. I’m tired of my insignificant existence even as the most hectic phase of my so-far boring student life is yet to begin. But it would feel nice to be counted. So I’ll let my imagination take over…

I want to walk into office, be greeted with a smile and then rush to the coffee machine.

I want to stride over to my desk and set my bag on the table. I want to tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves and gear up for a hard day’s work. I want to work furiously, churning out articles or designing a campaign. I want to be faced with seemingly impossible deadlines and still be able to meet them. I want to be tested. I want to be paid? I want to walk over to my colleagues and mull over a problem. I want to attend meetings and conferences. I want to bully the interns and…yup, make them bring me coffee. (I’m so unsurprising) I want a promotion. I want a raise. I want to change my job.

Wait I don’t even have the job…!

That’s right. When I get that job I’m sure I’ll want to return to my boring student days. The grass is always greener on the other side. So I’ll shut up for now.

 

I always watch beauty pageants because they make me laugh.

I hear them say- ‘Beauty outside is nothing without beauty of the soul. It is the mind and the heart that have to be beautiful. You have to be a lovely person inside…blah…heal the world….blah…helping hand…blah’

This answer coming from women who are a minimum 5 ft 7 inches tall, 36-24-36 and who’ve probably never as much as washed a dish in their lives does sound ironic. They want to help society? Fair enough.

I mean they’re already doing their bit. By starving themselves, these models are saving our resources. That should definitely help feed poorer countries of the world.

But it makes me wonder about beauty. How powerful is it? Is prettiness a good enough reason for us to accept such tremendously fake, memorized replies? Who defines beauty? I’ve heard it lies in the eye of the beholder. If that’s true then I must say that these tailor-made, almost plastic women hold little beauty in my eyes.

I see more beauty in the toothless smile of an old, wrinkly man. I do not see it in anorexia. I see beauty in our villages, where the women wear fresh flowers in their hair that never match with their clothes. I see beauty in the ordinary people that come forward to help you when you trip and fall. They don’t ask for anything in return. No shiny crowns, money or titles. They just help you up and blend into the crowd. I see beauty in the loving eyes of all mothers. I see it in the simplicity of the poor, the prudence of the middle-class and the generosity of the rich.

Damn those silly pageants. I have redefined beauty. We are all beautiful who do not aim to be only that.

 

P.S: I clicked this pic of a local woman in alibaug on my last trip and it’s one of the coolest moments I’ve ever captured.

 (that doesn’t say much but yeah)

I went to the theatre and watched a movie alone that day. A few days later, I went shopping all by myself. It wasn’t because no one wanted to come along. I just preferred spending time with me.

Have you ever shared a moment with yourself? You must if you haven’t for nothing feels quite as good.

Go ahead and give yourself a hug today. Clap for yourself. Smile at your reflection in the mirror. Blow it a kiss.

Stop on the street to admire the way your feet look. Do a little jig on your way to work. Hum your favourite tune out loudly. Paint your nails in every possible shade. Wear pink if you want to, yup even if you’re a guy.

Go bald if you like. Eat your favourite food. Shut the world out and laugh without a joke. Cook even if people refuse to eat what you make. Click thousands of pictures of yourself. Record you voice and listen to it. Watch your favourite shows on TV. Cry like a baby if it makes you feel good. Learn to love yourself. Give yourself a break. Do what makes you happy. Stop posing as some martyr who sacrifices for the greater good of humanity. Because you’re cracking me up. Listen- if you’re not happy, you can’t make others happy. Period.

So flaunt your flaws. And let the world fall in love with you.

 

 

They say I’m addicted to coffee. I am. But addiction isn’t a good enough word. It’s almost trivializing. Veneration is how I would rather put it. I revere coffee. If there is a Coffee God, I shall worship him/her. I began drinking coffee from the time I was 4 months old. Dad would give me a spoonful from his cup once in a while. I was weaned away from the habit later. It caught on again only when I turned 12. Since then, there has been no looking back.

I now have a different coffee mug for every day of the week. Coffee stains adorn everything from the computer table I’m sitting at to the assignments I turn in from time to time. I’m proud of them because to me they’re beautiful. Coffee is beautiful. According to most dictionaries, it is only a drink made from ground beans of some tropical shrub. It can’t be just that.

Coffee is life fit into a little cup. The froth on top stands for the superficial, material things of life. The brown smooth part tells you everything happens for a reason. The sugar cubes at the bottom, they are symbolic of true happiness which we shall all find in the end. Why otherwise do we turn to the drink every time we have a headache, heartache, when we’re stressed or just need to stay up late? That drink gives life.

I am a perfectionist, not a purist. I do not know all the fancy kinds of coffee there are in the world. I know good coffee when I drink it. I recognize the aroma of it from miles away. I wake up to the scent of Mum’s filter kaapi. Dad makes it even better than Mum. 

I look forward to my trips to Chennai for it is a chance to meet fellow coffee enthusiasts. That city rises to the chink of steel tumblers brimming with coffee, complete with a swirl of decoction on top. In Chennai, no time is inappropriate for a cup of coffee. It is the strongest connection I feel to my roots. That is how I’m convinced I’m a south Indian and I’m thankful for it.

I have known people to hate coffee. They know not what they are missing. They will learn one day. For Coffee conquers all.

 

 

 

I remember many odd things lately.

I remember that day I went to the park as a four-year old. It was right after the first day of pre-school. I recognized kids from my class and waved out to them.

I remember Patwardhan Uncle, who picked children up and dropped them at the nursery. I had to go with him one day when my parents were busy. He was bald and his one eye was smaller than the other. I remember crying and hitting him.

I remember a crow that constantly came visiting at our old house. It had a grey patch next to its beak.

I remember trying on everyone’s shoes as a little girl. I remember wondering when I would fit into them.

I remember running up and down the stairs of my building after coming home from school.

I remember being called ‘gudiya’ by my neighbours.

I remember my friends screaming out to me every evening. I remember screaming back and running out to play.

I remember going to the ‘snake-garden’ as my friends and I had named it. I don’t remember having spotted any snakes in there.

I remember the first time I wore a wristwatch. I remember feeling very important that day.

I remember the day I bought my guitar. I remember hugging it all the way home.

And now my memory hurts. What did y’all remember when you read this post? To not read my blog ever again? Banal.

Nothing shocks me these days. I’m turning numb. No cringing, crying or feeling sorry. I’m beginning to feel anesthetized. I’m beginning to feel like a true media student.

Almost everyday I travel by local trains and buses. They’re a part of my life now. I have come to see so much that I never imagined could happen in the world.

The world that I had grown up in was beautiful. Tragedy and trauma were fiction. They were only made up and shown in parallel cinema, where sorrow is glorified. Such sad things couldn’t possibly happen in life. That pink world is turning grey. No black or white, no right or wrong. Everything is a haze.

I feel like a modern day Buddha. He chanced to see age, death and decay one day and became an austere from that day on. Unfortunately, I do not have that liberty. He saw it from his royal carriage. I see it at the railway station-

An old man with no limbs sings songs of God. Some stop to listen, and give him money while others move on. I turn to look at the train schedule. Another old man is selling World Cup time tables so he can buy himself food. No one buys his time tables. I don’t either. A little girl no more than 10, tugs at my shirt and holds out her tiny hand. I shoo her away.

I climb the bridge and someone brushes against me indecently. I swear loudly as he disappears into the crowd. A few men act politely concerned but no one does anything.

Someone died while crossing the railway tracks. His blood-covered body is carried away on a stretcher. People are craning their necks to catch sight of it. I climb on.

I board the train. I take a seat and look out of the window. Trying not to think of what I saw and ignored. What I endured. What I overlooked. What I looked at and looked through. I try not to think of my insensitivity. Soon I will reach college. I will sign the attendance sheet. I will bunk a few lectures and hang with my friends. I will drink cold coffee and feel cold. Though not as cold as I have grown inside me.

I taste the graver side of life all in a days work. Then I crib about the weather…