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Travail, tourism, 'Cox and Flings'

2011-02-24T04:43:00.000+05:30

A couple of days ago, I was looking up visa requirements for different countries just to get a sense of how badly Asians fare on the spontaneous wanderlust ability index. Because, you know, nothing cheers a brown kid up more than seeing how suspicious everyone else is of her. I'm serious...sorry white folk, you shall never know how badass being feared by half the world's embassies can make you feel. At any rate, in my perusals of numerous fora across the internet, I realised that there were a lot of people asking questions about visa policies in various countries and saw a pattern. There are two kinds of tourists in the world - those who holiday in Paris and those who vacation in Prague. I realise how this sort of sweeping categorisation can be offensive to the variety of travellers all over the globe. I do realise it.

Pause for effect

Let me be clearer. I am excluding from this binary those people who are hardcore globetrotters, ready to pitch their tent anywhere just for the thrill of it. That's a species that can at least be admired for its unrelenting commitment to transience and celebrated for its love of movement. As long as they aren't lying to the customs officials, of course.

I also exclude the arty bohemian set that will find in Paris, Prague, Pyongyang or Patna the best of culture and tradition that there is to admire, almost in the spirit of amateur cultural anthropologists with extra suntan lotion. There is an earnest willingness to engage with the finest aspects of a foreign culture and enjoy what it has to offer. The world truly deserves tourists of this sort, happy to immerse themselves in the way of the exotic, appreciate its acme, acknowledge misgivings about some aspects of the culture, enjoy the experience while it lasts and then move on. Once in a while, they'll even decide to settle down and adopt the vacation spot as their permanent abode.

The perennial peregrine, in the one case, and the tourmet (as in gourmet) in the other, both treat the act of travel not as something incidental, but as an integer in their sense of being. Like IQ, this Travel Quotient can be plotted as a Bell Curve, the normal distribution in a given population. It is the mass of regular Joes and Janes in the middle of the curve that I speak of when positing the Paris/Prague rule. The ones who take pictures of themselves at the Eiffel Tower, in exactly the same pose for five consecutive snaps, and plaster them all over Facebook; the ones who squeal like piglets about shopping for clothes in Paris; the ones who think that "Swizzerland" is "like, so cool, man." These are the people who provoke xenophobia and piss off several ethnic groups on six continents with their slaughter of language and offence to local ways, not to mention baffling inability to either learn to abstain from or adapt their metabolism to the available variety of alcohol. If you can't handle an extra slice of bread at home, you sure as hell aren't downing that vat of vodka, dumbass.

The behaviour of these tourists can be analogised very aptly to explain dating mores among college-going youth. I call this the 'Cox and Flings' theory of dating that will summarise the attitude of 'tail tourism' that college campuses and adultescence is rife with. Now, being a woman, I can only speak from the female point of view but please free to distort my thesis to accommodate your current post-dump spell of misogyny and repeat viewings of 500 Days of Summer.

The 'Cox and Flings' theory of dating is very simple: just like your average moneyed mister off to "see world", the untended male tail tourist will want to sample everything there is on the relationship market. I use the term 'relationship' loosely of course. It covers the range of liaisons from one-nighters to knight-oners. He will do this out of a sense of entitlement and privilege that only be possessed by a boy brought up in the kind of society that we have. He will want to go sightseeing in Paris - binoculars firmly aimed at skinny French legs - and see subtitled films - because you can hardly make out intelligible speech - and *AHEM* shop for clothes, because frankly, that's what you went there for. Everyone wants to go to Paris. It's almost the first phoren city you learn of, growing up. It's glamorous and giddy and mon dieu! the clothes. Everyone wants to wear 'em and good golly, if you land those threads to show off to the other lads, won't that be something. I hope my attempts at keeping this post respectable by using the clever metaphor of "buying clothes" have not been lost. Because I could just switch right over to speaking of intercourse and such. Paris is the hot girl that must be nailed, that is easily available and that it ups your cred to be...er...in. Paris is ultimately the dream.

And then there's Prague. Let's be honest, there's a certain sort of man who would go to Prague for the love of it. For the tail tourist troupe, Prague is the city you go to because you have to exhibit your sense of culture to everyone else back home. Do you know who Kafka is? Of course not. But you'll hang around, take pictures as proof, break your teeth (or have them broken for you) on Czech, pretend to have secret communist tendencies in pubs (comma who now?) and well, not get much opportunity to dress up, if yaknowhadimean. Of course, having gone to Prague will score you bragging rights and the ability to impress a few French fillies. Maybe even some other Eastern European girls. Whatever. At the end of the day, however, Czech is a fucking tough language to learn and the weather isn't as great as Paris - it also doesn't allow for as many legs on display - and the films are much harder to understand even with the subtitles, by virtue of being pitched a little high, and the Marxism just gets to you after a while. And maybe Prague is even more hostile than Paris because it's so complicated. Just sayin'...So the nerdy girl doesn't get the boy, she sulks in a corner waiting for an industry apart from tourism to open up her economy. And the boy gets a smart girl on his air miles.

So, that's it ladies and gentlemen. You're free to disagree of course. But I'd certainly like a male point of view to this.

11 Things I Know About Rom-Coms

2011-02-20T19:39:00.000+05:30

This is an ancient post that I have recovered from the-now defunct My First Blog that shall remain unnamed and unread. This was first posted in March 2006, so excuse the 5 year old lingo and precious adolescence that this may reek of :); it is in response to my co-ozzum blogger, Shalmali's interesting investigations into the Romantic Comedy.

**********************************************************************************

I have a bone to pick with Rom-Coms (the nomenclature of all things commercial seems to be totally congruent to the kind of people it's meant for). What's with the romantic plus comedy thingamajig? I mean, either it's a romance or it's a comedy. Choose one. A romance can be inclusive of light, humourous moments with one-liners and wit. A comedy can have a romance running all through it. I know for a fact that Meg Ryan would probably have been out of a job eons ago if the existence of the 'rom-com' had been proved redundant and god forbid we ever have to sit through another actors-who-would-never-be-seen-dead-together-trying-to-believably-make-it-in-what-can-only-be-described-as-mind-numbing-drek-the-studio-hopes-to-rake-in-cash-with-at-the-expense-of-your-intelligence-dear-viewer trailer (longest hyphen rant EVER). Oh the cliches...oh the non-plots...oh the agony of forced (supposedly funny) dialogue...oh the obviously absent sexual tension (John 'Malkovich' Malkovich and Andie 'Check out my L'Oreal hair' MacDowell? )...it's too much for a poor Saturday evening cinema-goer to take in. So dear reader, behold my wisdom when I say to you.

Standard plot and character stereotypes include:

1. Too Stupid To Live (TSTL) types (mostly heroines) who go about in their self-consciously cute and allegedly endearing but actually annoying, ditzy way doing things that the average human female will plead insanity for, if ever caught doing.

2. Still in the TSTL zone, these are 'smart', 'career-oriented' women (hint: notice the inverted commas) and are all consumed by their work until The One comes along when suddenly all work ceases to exist, they go traipsing around with Lover Boy and surprisingly never get fired.

3. No matter how obviously pretty and attractive (Jennifer Lopez, sexy...NO! Reeeeally!?!), they'll never have been in proper or worthwhile relationships before (with guys who are right-off-the-bat jerks), have most likely never realised how beautiful they are until voila the hero comes along and she smacks her head ("Well, I never") all of a sudden, and miraculously sees her true worth (whatever that is).

4. The heroes are either horribly rich playboys (see Grant, Hugh) or just horrible (seemingly until the heroine cracks the tough exterior and uncovers Fabio within) .

5. The heroine will conveniently remain oblivious of the same chemistry and attraction that the viewer is supposed to be privy from their first scene together.

6. There will be a cynical, smart-talking, maternal best friend of the heroine, similarly unlucky in love but never quite as desirable so as to make only the heroine worthy of romantic attention in the eyes of the hero. Oh, and a sexually repressed, shallow, ex-jock sort of best friend of the hero. These two might also get together with each other in certain cases, as a secondary plot. As in right next to the PRIMARY (the main or just not there) one, that is.

7. The heroine will have way too many responsibilities like a younger sibling(s)/nephew(s) and neice(s) or older relatives to look after whom the hero, even though the heroine detests him (or does she, giggle, wink), manages to charm and floor and who are sure there's something afoot between Niceguy McHunk and Ihate Menreally (get it, get it, ha ha).

8. The kiss only takes place at the end.

9. Alternative to Rule # 8, they shag around in the beginning of the third act and there's a Huge Misunderstanding that requires the remaining half an hour to sort itself out.

10. Rich Bitches/Jealous Ex-boyfriends or girlfriends/Evil Bosses/Gay best friends as ONLY male pals of the heroine/Ethnic Minority All of the Above - at least one of these is sure to crop up in the course of the movie.

11. Apropos Huge Misunderstanding, it ultimately takes only (I've timed so I know, yes, I have nothing better to do, no I'm not a closet Rom-Com writer) 5 minutes to solve, but the rigmarole surrounding the two leads meeting up to solve it takes forever, ends with an "I love you too (baby)" and lasts 15 minutes. Yes, I did say 5, so the remaining 10 minutes are divided between snogging/shagging and a glimpse of their Happily Ever After with other cardboard fixtures...er...I mean characters in the movie set to a popular pop-rock love song.

V-Day Secret

2011-02-20T18:29:00.002+05:30

The big V-Day came and went and not a word about it was said on your favourite blog. But this post is going to be brief, because I have hit upon what Valentine’s Day is really about. The morning of 14^th February, 2011, I opened the newspaper to check the TV listings (yes I still insist on opening the paper excitedly every morning to check if a good movie will be on, in spite of having Tata Sky and living in the 21^st century) and realized that V-day is little more than a whole day dedicated to one of the worst genres in modern cinema- The Romantic Comedy. Yes, that’s right, your secret’s out V. Read carefully the following piece of evidence:

Zee Studio and Star Movies respectively:

1015	Shall We Dance?
1300	Failure to Launch
1500	10 things I hate about you
1700	Crazy/ Beautiful
1900	Hope Springs
2100	Sweet Home Alabama

1015	A Lot Like Love
1230	Nine Months
1440	6 Days 7 Nights
1650	The Accidental Husband
1850	Made of Honour
2100	Twilight
2325	Twilight Saga: New Moon

I rest my case.

Epiphany at Malaka Spice

2011-02-13T21:31:00.004+05:30

I had an incredible moment of epiphany last Sunday.

I was at Malaka Spice in Koregaon Park, knifing my way through a chicken. After a nice little candlelit dinner, the bill arrives. And as if getting the bill by itself isn’t ominous enough, what you get with bills these days is even worse. Remember the good old days when one could just pay the bill, collect the change, leave (or not) a tip and then bid sweet goodbye? Well it seems those days are way behind us. In today’s world where image is everything and self esteem as fragile as an egg shell, it seems that young women aren’t the only ones with ego and appearance issues. Yes, restaurants, goods and services also struggle to realize their self worth and need constant validation. And before I drive you crazy with more build up and suspense, let me tell you what other ominous piece of paper greeted me with the bill- I’m talking about those little assessment sheets that hotels now hand out to their clientele to get their feedback. Evaluation sheets, feedback forms, suggestion boxes, whatever you call them, everyone seems to be dishing them out these days. Apparently it’s cool to ask people what they think about you right after your first meeting. Talk about coming off too strong and desperate.

Anyhow, so if restaurants can do it, if MNCs can do it, if big brands can do it, I asked myself, why can’t I do it?! All of us have gotten those bizarre and shameless SMSs from near-strangers asking us without any inhibitions whatsoever, ‘What do you think is my best/worst quality? What profession do you think would best suit me? REPLY MUST/ REPLY ASAP IF YOU ARE MY TRUE FIRIEND!’ etc. And you blink at your mobile screen; confused, scared and utterly bewildered, wondering why on earth you blackmailed your parents into buying you a mobile phone in the first place. So it’s not a completely new idea. Just that when you hand out questionnaires in person, the other party will have to fill it out. No question of ignoring it like in the case of text messages. Also, one can always carry a gun and/or some sharp object just in case. It’s every crazy obsessive insecure person’s (my) dream.

But think of the possibilities. If someone dislikes you, it’ll be there on paper (remember, this means you have evidence) and you can even frame appropriate questions to find out why. Is it because of my puns (special mention for fellow blogger Kamayani Sharma here), or because of my non-stop jokes (note Deborah D’souza) or because I have some sort of (uncalled for) aura of tragic dreaminess about me? (Yes, I mock myself also.) Or is it just a case of those deadly vibers that Deb blogged about earlier? There can be boxes for suggestions, comments, anything else you can think of. Those who like you will give you specific reasons, and you can obsessively read and re-read and re-re-read their feedback after you’ve checked the weighing scale and are in depression. People will also be forced to leave their number and e-mail id with you- which means you will never have to worry about getting hold of the number of that nice guy or girl you just met.

So, I thought to myself, as I answered the last of the questions of the feedback form at Malaka Spice, I’m going to start handing out questionnaires about myself as well. On a scale of 10, how would you rate Shalmali Jadhav as a blogger? 1 being poor and 10 being extraordinary. Would you like to see any changes in Shalmali? Option 1: more optimism. Option 2: less of that domineering attitude. Option 3: Other (please specify) Because here at Shalmali’s we try to please everyone. Your opinion is valuable to us. We hope you will visit us again.

It would be the ultimate solution to all my problems. Gautam Buddha attained enlightenment under a tree after years of meditation; I attained it at Malaka Spice after an expensive dinner.

Virtues and Voices

2011-02-05T13:57:00.002+05:30

free photo hosting

I realized with slight horror the other day that I had all of 7 tracks off the TV show Glee on my Ipod. Slight horror I had been taught to experience because of all the criticism the show gets for its audacity to release covers or “pop-ified” versions of certain classics and accusations that it’s only meant for female teenagers and homosexual men. (Both of who’ve sat through television tailored for heterosexual men for decades, just saying.) I share a strange relationship with the show itself. Its like one of those friendships where the negatives severely outweigh the positives, and most of the time you presume you won’t let yourself be a part of the relationship anymore, but without warning she/he says or does something so particularly attractive you decide to stick around a little longer just for another moment of wonder. But more about the show some other time.

Today we get back to its music. Glee music isn’t hip. I’m primarily a fan of singer/songwriter- folk music but what is it that brings me back each time? I think the vacuum Glee fills in today’s music scene is the one left empty when top-notch vocals started to be seen as less a part of musical artistry than writing or producing. Glee doesn’t have splendid vocals from all its cast (most victims of auto-tune) but specific members like ex-Broadway star Lea Michele have the kind of delivery that give you chills. It isn’t a charming croon, it isn’t breathy, beachy, husky or sounds good only when you’re on a narcotic induced high. Her voice has wonderful power, there’s no other way to put it. There is range and pitch-perfect delivery. Maybe it was all the Celine Dion I had to endure growing up in the 90s but I have a lot of love and respect for voices that can blow the roof off a place like that. This probably explains why I find myself watching American Idol some nights, looking (hopelessly) for those amazing voices. There’s also the fact that Glee brings in guest stars like Idina Menzel, Jonathan Groff and Kristin Chenoweth to perform and…*dies*.

There isn’t as much appreciation for these kinds of vocals anymore outside of show tunes, theatre and a much ridiculed, slowly deteriorating, pop or country mainstream. (Slowly deteriorating probably due to people’s refusal to participate in mainstream pop culture and the gaining popularity of counter-cultures like the ill directed hipster movement, itself an unbeknownst darling of consumer culture and advertising. All this in a future post.) We’re seeing more and more song writers sing themselves, which is perfectly acceptable, and while most of them have good voices and each a unique style there is something to be said for technically sound vocals. And that is – sometimes I miss them.

Deborah

Dump it on the System

2011-02-03T14:45:00.003+05:30

I was watching the news the other day. It was just after yet another scam was exposed (I think it was about the petrol mafia, or that crazy IAS couple, not sure. I’m sorry, but it’s kinda hard to keep track you know!) and Rahul Gandhi (lol) was quoted saying that the problem was with ‘the system’ and unless we changed it, there would be no end to corruption.

And that got me thinking. What is this mysterious ‘system’ that we keep complaining about? So-and-so siphoned off crores of rupees? Blame the system. A minister’s son got away with murder? It’s ’cause of the system. A bureaucrat was set on fire in broad daylight? Arre baba what can WE do? They system is only like that. Didn’t get that promotion you wanted or got transferred? Yes, that’s right, don’t be shy now, blame it on the system.

So what is this incorrigible System that seems to lie at the root of all evil and not-so-evil predicaments that plague our people? Is it a monolith, like one extra large, extra cheesy System with all possible toppings piled on top of its gigantic self? Or are there many different Systems that come in the same menu? Like a Justice System, an Education System and so on and so forth? Or is it not a System at all, but a sort of Anti-System- just a chaotic, uncontrollable, dark, dystopian mass of Satan’s blood or that black viscous goo from Spiderman 3? Or is it something those Pakistanis planted to destroy India?

It seems to me that we all forget that ‘the System’ is our construction. As much as we would like to disentangle ourselves from it and alienate it from our lives, we are a part of it. It is not a CIA (yes, even today CIA agent = anti-Indian) or Lashkar-e-Toiba or the opposition party’s conspiracy to ruin our precious motherland. If we find ourselves in a mess today, it’s because somewhere down the line, we were irresponsible too. It’s high time we stopped blaming everything on ‘the System’ and start taking some responsibility for our actions (or lack thereof) as citizens of a democracy. The System is not a gigantic laundry basket in which we can dump all our dirty unwashed linen only to never see it again. The system is made of people. These people siphon and let other people siphon off money. These people let the judiciary be abused and exploited. And hence, we have to start holding these people accountable, instead of making a scapegoat out of a vague and generalized ‘system’.

Now, I don’t suggest that the System must never be blamed. Yes, there are many problems with our ‘system’- our laws, our judicial and executive setup and most definitely with our bureaucracy and education, among so many others. And by no means should we give up on amending this imperfect system. But does that mean we take the liberty to drain all the intent and premeditation out of human actions and make helpless victims out of the culpable? No system is perfect and foolproof, and loopholes are made even there where none existed before. It is man who makes the system and man who nibbles fine holes through its delicate texture. So Mr. Rahul Gandhi, let’s not give the ‘system’ excuse the next time something goes wrong.

Testing Darwinism

2011-01-26T22:55:00.001+05:30

I recently gave an English requirement test. I gave it because it was required, not just for kicks. Although if high stress activities like gun fights and making million dollar boardroom deals are your thing, you should probably try it . What’s my problem eh ? My problem is that all of these tests are filled with tedious procedural elements that overshadow everything it tries to achieve. The test isn’t about how much you know anymore, it’s about how much pressure you can handle in two hours. The weak don’t survive.

When I was leaving for the test and feverishly making sure all my documents were in place, without which I would officially be deemed a terrorist, my mom told me to just take whatever I have and if they ask for something I’m not carrying in my bulging folder, tell them where to stick it and come home. Well okay, she didn’t say it exactly like that, but that was the gist of it.

You couldn’t go unaccompanied to the “whaa-sh-room” during the test. They want us to think its cause they’re worried we’re going to meet up with the exam Mafia in there but really I think they want to make sure we wash our hands before we touch the sacred test sheets. There were places you weren’t supposed to write in pen, there were places you ONLY had to fill in with pen. You couldn’t carry in a mobile phone. Fill in your answers on the right side of the sheet, underline your last name, fill in your passport number correctly, write your candidate number on the back of the photograph. Folks were getting jittery, I could tell. Some of them had pens wobbling in their hands inches from the paper, seriously pondering whether they were supposed to tick “M” or “F”. One guy’s knee was bouncing around off its socket the whole two hours we were there.

For the listening bit of the test we had to wear infrared headphones. (For one wild moment I was imagining everyone’s had antlers attached to them. I guess the stress was getting to me too.) The girl besides me started to wave hysterically in the direction of the moderators. She could hear a bit of buzzing in the back of hers. My guess is either she hasn't been able to sleep ever since she saw White Noise or she was just plain jumpy like a rabbit. The same girl went on to read the essay aloud. (High hopes for this one. High hopes.) I’d shoot practiced glares at her every ten seconds. Then I tried looking pointedly at her while a moderator passed. Still nothing. I guess reading aloud isn’t against any of the multiple rules. I let it pass then cause she was obviously having a harder time than I was which made me wonder if anyone noticed this cool, calm BAMF in the third seat from the front wearing the Muhammad Ali T-shirt.

One thing that has to be mentioned however was that the moderators were the kindest ladies .They may have adopted the voice you use to talk to the very sick when you asked them a question, but still, very kind. It’s probably to avoid cardiac failure amongst the students and all those messy insurance queries.

When my mom asked me how it went and I replied fine I didn’t mean I knew all the right answers, I meant I filled in all those little boxes with pencil right and checked my details about twenty times over. She said she knew it would be fine and asked me if I’d like takeout for dinner. This is where I get it from.

Twenty X 1

2010-10-28T19:47:00.001+05:30

The best part about turning 20, that age when you're not questioning your adulthood too often, is that you don't have to be worried about things ruining your childhood anymore. There's nothing that can happen to you that can't be cured with a few prayers, some therapy or tubs of ice cream. There’s nothing to guard and protect anymore.

Not that we stop evolving or changing and events in our adult life don't affect us but considering the kind of sacredness we're lead to believe childhood holds, that every dent leads to multiple more, I'm almost glad its over and I made it through with only a few cuts and bruises and nothing drastic.

My skin is now well-worn, the intense vulnerabilities don't exist and not many things mean the end of the world. My name is Deborah and MC Hammer wrote a song about me. Booyeah.

-------Deborah D

Co-ozzum Alert!

2010-09-11T00:22:00.000+05:30

Here's another very cool blog which has li'l ol' us on its blog roll: Doop HQ

Check them out for interesting articles on a host of topics from India's inflation issues to reviews of all kinds. Cool people, intelligent opinions.

Thank you!

What you gotta do in the ghetto..

2010-07-29T23:03:00.000+05:30

Everyone send happy thoughts and clicks to salsaoctopus.blogspot.com(Ink and olives)in order to thank them for featuring us on their 'Select Nonsense' list. We see your pimping us and we raise you one whole post of pimping.
Deb

Impulse buy

2010-07-29T21:33:00.002+05:30

*In a not so secret location*

Me : I went shopping

Uma: Yeah? What did you get?

Me: Camouflage Cargo Pants.

Uma: Oooh how does it look? Like Indian Army?

Me: Um, yes.Made famous by. Like a camouflage print on cargo pants. How do you think?

Uma: No, I mean how does it look on YOU?

Me: I don't know. It doesn't matter, does it? They're CAMOUFLAGE CARGO PANTS. No one sees ME when I'm wearing them, they just see a really cool pair of pants walking down the road.

Picture and pants for representational purposes only.

The Ramble of Weightlessness

2010-07-08T18:42:00.005+05:30

It's been a long time since i at down and took a breath.

All it took was the opening up of a little trapdoor at the top of the first flight of stairs that i ever climbed and i've been running ever since. What began as a paying pass-time has become my ball and chain. And yet, i take my pair of wings from my leaden pursuer.

School let out and opportunity came knocking. It didn't matter to me that it was my aunt and the rest of my family that set me up with my first paying job. It was 15 bucks a piece and for just a couple of lines a day, it seemed like heaven. It didn't dawn on me then, but i see it now. I grew up with the notion that earning something was the only way to get it.

No! I'm not insinuating that i had to earn every pretty frock and addition to the already full fledged princess wardrobe that i had as a child. That was the era of the pampered brat. It changed with the coming of 'the Silver Bag'. The Silver Bag was the envy of every girly girl that i knew. It first made an appearance among the bag-army of my then 'best friend' (that is what i called her, stubbornly). I coveted it the moment i laid eyes on it.

The most beautiful of all possessions, it had to be mine...one day!

And so it began. I was to earn this little bauble of clear plastic and shining silver flaps. It was tiny and trendy and chic and dreamy and grown up and all in all, every goggle eyed Barbie-fan's dream. But it also cost three hundred Rupees. Three hundred.

It was the most colossal amount i ever had to fit into my little brain because i was supposed to earn it. But earn it, i did.

The only thing that paid back then were chores, studies and good behavior and in denominations of fives and tens, i closed the gap between me and my Precious. And then, on that one marvellous evening, we went to that divine store in 'Camp' and I bought myself my Silver Bag. My Silver Bag.

MY Silver Bag.

The memory of the day is like a psychedelic trip. Colours stood out and voices are seared into my head. I remember it in snatches and oh, the feeling was too heady to be legal. And then it was mine.

Somewhere, that threw a switch. It had to have. That's the only logical explanation for the sort of person i am now. Earning everything. All must be the product of an effort. There can be nothing free and nothing given. Nothing that i cannot stamp across with the brand of my own making.

There are those people that might never understand why work, to me, comes before all else. And then there are those that understand me to the point where it feels a little scripted-- 'I know!' becomes the basis of the conversation.

But whether it's my jeans, or my tome of history, or my shoes or my phone or the bill that goes with the connection or even the damned food that i shovel into me between lectures-- it came from me. I'm not mooching. I do not have to think that i have taken without deserving. I have learned that there is nothing like the feeling of being capable.

No! I cannot live off myself. And i will never claim that i am complete just yet... But i can want off myself.

I bewilder my mother sometimes when i burst out to her (and dad, if he's home and within earshot) "Thank you for making me able to earn *insert newest pride and joy*!" She may think that it's about the thing...but it's not!

You, reader, may think it's about boastful pride. It's not.

It's just wonderful to feel like this! It's wonderful to be dependent on yourself for what you need and not wonder whether your parents were right to give you something that they didn't really have to. It's free and it's bright and yes, i feel like singing! :)

--Karishma Modi

Small Town Girl

2010-07-06T03:57:00.002+05:30

Actually, this is a bit belated. I meant to post this earlier but forgot about it halfway through writing it. This is probably going to be one of the simplest posts I have ever put up, and the one I am most emotional about in some ways. I thought it would be appropriate to post this now in light of the Indian cricket team's captain gettin' hitched in a city that frequently gets confused with Darjeeling (NO clue why). I was also thinking about how my friends from Pune sometimes find it so hard to comprehend why I want to go back "because it's so much funner/cooler/cleaner here!" Often, I feel very alienated even when conversing with many of my Puneri friends and have now concluded that this has not so much to do with geography (since we all speak English) but with the way classes are constituted so differently in bigger and smaller towns. What the average Puneri knew in 7th standard took about 4 more years to reach the average Doonite. At least that's my direct experience of the stark divide between a modern metro and a tier 2 town that still seems trapped in a bygone era. So, without further ado, here goes.

*

I am sitting near the drippy drone of the cooler, it's punctuating the still June evening with its liquid monotone and gentle whirr. It isn't muggy here like it was in Pune, the scorch is dry and slightly prickly. But it's five o' clock and the vague whiff of damp earth and moist grass sidles over to my starved nose - the sky will rip open its thunder-jacket soon and let forth a torrent of rain, a benevolent favourite uncle. I can already sense his advent, the swelling shadows in the west, floating towards me imperiously, a palanquin of clouds carrying the June shower I desperately need and miss. And then, just like that, the cloud-carriage is here and the raindrops all alight in one go, thundering and booming out a tempestuous symphony, sliding down on electric zig-zags of lightning and whooshing by on mighty currents of air. This is the rain of my hometown. Himalayan and cool and lovely. I allow myself to be drenched. Each drop seems to carry the weight of a memory, cooling my brow with its kisses.

I go to college in a fairly big city, a college town on the prosperous Western coast, one which has a cosmopolitan milieu and all the socio-psychological trappings of a large, populous bustling settlement. I love it there but you know...I will never quite feel at home, the way I do here on these familiar streets that sneak around the expanding town like secret passageways, surprise empty old roads and creep up on the main highways. The circuits of the city are embedded in my memory and as I walk down these roads where my family has lived for generations, I feel a peace of belonging I know I will never be able to replicate elsewhere. I can wander around these Victorian vicinities in the early evening, with the facades of the houses, some robust with action, some locked up for years, guarding me and my way. I can be a careless flaneur in a time long ago.

There are the neighbours waving at me from the house next door, we have shared the colony for three generations and I call them all mamiji and mamaji, affecting a kinship that has nothing to do with blood. There is the old paan shop on the corner, old man D would let me crouch under the table when we played hide and seek as seven year olds. He died four years ago, taking with him a part of my childhood. The flour mill facing the main road has everyone in the neighbourhood stop by for ten minutes at different times of the day to glean gossip, crushing betel and spitting paan as they hitch up their imaginary petticoats, middle-aged paunchy men, and ladies returning from grocery shopping before dark.The house opposite mine is shut up now; there used to be two families residing there when I was growing up. It is a wizened abode, asleep with the somnolence of disuse and desolation, a forgotten relative that once sheltered laughter and tears and blood and sweat. It is bricked with stories.

The main road leading up to the old city is a fudge of cars and scooters, trying to slither by serially...there isn't even space to squeeze in a pedestrian any more. The main road is actually just one straight line cutting hastily through the centre of the city all the way to Mussoorie, narrower than a Vestal Virgin and with shops profilerating like bunnies on both sides. I am faintly repulsed by this intrusion of modern life into my idyllic nest. I decide to take the backroads, marvelling at how a huge sedan can actually turn a tiny corner and vanish into a mousehole of an alley, just like that! Blink and you miss it. It's like something from a Miyazaki movie. The medieval part of Dehradun looms large; the city's roots are intricated in this genteel ghetto, with the 18th century palace-temple of Guru Ram Rai, the fabled founder, hallmarking the heart of Doon, his camp or the Hindi 'dera' forever marking our small space as his. History groggily awakens to greet me and mumbles something about Dronacharya, the Great Teacher in the Mahabharat, having hung out here back in the day. I pay my respects at the palace, cup my hands to receive the Lord's largess and feel the dusty, pebbly stings on my sole as I shuffle out.

There is the language I thirst for. The word-lover and verbal jester in me feels maimed in a land where my lingual gymnastics, punnery and grammar games have no takers. I may be an Anglophone by education, but I remain first and foremost a speaker and appreciator of Hindi. I always say that English is my lover but Hindi is my husband...I can have the most passionate love affair with the Anglo-Saxon/Latin beauty as I split my infinitives and subordinate my clauses but it's the staid, steady earthy rhythms of Khariboli I return to time and again. It's not just the play I miss, it's the cultural jokes and codes and folk wisdom enmeshed in the tongue of my ancestors. It's a record of prima posteriori knowledge (is that a phrase? I don't know but it best describes the immediate information of cultural data one is exposed to). It is the ad libbed couplets of random sagacity thrown around while walking with a friend, it's the tradition of tehzeeb and refinement of manner when speaking even in comfortable company, it's the interiority of experience one is invited to share just by uttering a single word whether it's the full range of philosophic meaning or the slice of a social nicety. I don't know quite what...a password, a punchline...it's so much all at once.

Dehradun does not have a multiplex, something I often get made fun of for. I don't mind. I know that it's a sign of the linear, Euronormative model of economic progress and development. I would like to bracket that entire sentence within inverted commas because I can only chuckle bitterly when I see the forests around Doon being uprooted to make way for these tired institutions of a hyperreal post-globalised society. I am not a green queen but even critiques of this pattern of capitalist metastasizing seem moot and dull now. I shall simply say that my friends in Pune may snigger when they hear I only watched dubbed English films in a single-screen till I was 14, but I would fiercely guard the appropriation of the uniqueness of my space by the monsters of Mammon. I would care that my city did not look exactly like every other city, like an organism that has been cloned and stunted. I am OK with watching Sitara Jung: Humshaklon ka Hamlaa (Star Wars: Attack of the Clones) if it means I get to keep Paltan Bazaar and Astley Hall. If it means I get to drink a Rs. 10 coffee at the Buffet than a Rs. 100 one at Barista.

I go to meet relatives just on the main road behind my house. People flit in and out, it's visiting hours in the evening, people popping in for chai, namkeen and what's up with ____. Old North Indian houses, with courtyards for women now being used as common areas for everyone. And I am there, in my jeans and t-shirt, looking so out of place as I munch on my homemade biscuits. There's the aunt of the guy who owns the flour mill near my house, 70 and sweet, doddering in with her umbrella and then the middle-aged couple from up the road who just sent their son off to medical school in Delhi. And a myriad of other people, a steady stream of visitors. I keep repeating what I am doing in Pune.

Why Philosophy? How old are you? Will you think of marriage once you graduate next year? We will find you a nice boy. Where will you apply for Masters? Go abroad, like my daughter. Where are your parents these days? How is your mausi? It goes on. Most people cannot place me at all, a dorky, pale creature chomping cookies in a corner. Then I am introduced as my mother's daughter. Glimmers of recognition light up in every eye and a collective sound of 'aah' bundles up relics of half-remembered images and conversations from the museums of their memories and casts them into the sunset of the courtyard.

"I remember your mother," I suddenly feel a warmth unfurling inside me, "So beautiful. When she got married, I was there. Saw her grow up, that one. You have her smile."

And that's all I need. In this town, I am not Kamayani Sharma. I am not 'the girl from Dehradun who studies philosophy at Fergusson College and lives on F.C. Road and do you know she is in her second year and won't be here after two more years.' I am my mum's little girl, the youngest of my clan, the Sharma kid who lives down the road. I have a permanent address, an unchanging identity. I fit in beautifully, a piece in the puzzle, a stitch in the tapestry, a permanent fixture. These are my people, who attached themselves to me years before I was even born and the roots of that association have already penetrated so deep that they will anchor my sense of self for a lifetime. My house has hosted people for almost a century and today those people host me in their houses when I come back, the scion of an old Brahmin family tracing itself back decades and decades and decades. I feel like I will always have the key to this city, no matter how far I go and how long I am away. I will be welcomed into the bosom of Dehradun with masala chai and a gentle joke.

Pune will always have that special place in my heart as the city I made my own home in and built myself in, in many ways, but it is here, in Dehradun, in the shade of gnarled lychee trees, breathing in the aroma of incense veiling the bulb-lit main road with its patchwork of little shops that start closing up at 7.30 for dinner, greeting the postman on his way back after lunch, telling the shopkeeper when my brother will be back for vacation, relaxing in the drizzle as I tramp around the main city with its British remnants of architecture, getting some momo at the stalls downtown just before it gets too dark, standing on the roof and seeing Mussoorie twinkle...

It is here, in Dehradun, where my great-grandmother taught the girls of the city, where my handsome grandfather wedded and brought home my exquisite grandmother from her small U.P. town, where my mother learnt to climb trees and garden and discovered her inner botany-nerd, where my father lost his dog, Tipu, in the streets and found his passion for books in the second-hand market, where he came to call on her brother and fell in love with her, where my brother was born and later, came of age, and where I experienced almost all my significant firsts.

Pune has my life, my head, much of my loyalty. But Dehradun has my heart. And, as I have come to realise after years of living away, it always will.

We need a new 'mance?

2010-06-08T05:07:00.000+05:30

Remember When Harry Met Sally? I mean, apart from that 'diner scene'. If you'll recall, the central premise of that film was a probe into whether men and women could be 'just friends' (which is offensive to friendship since it implies that it's somehow lower on the rung than romantic relationships). The answer, to anyone who is familiar with even the rudest blueprint of romance, was HELL NO. A lot of films and books and songs have been produced about this persistent puzzle of heterosocial interaction: The Friendship. They all seem to come up with a dismal and skewed picture of man-woman camaraderie.

WHMS was remade in Bollywood a few years ago as the forgettable Hum Tum, a film that managed the feat of trying to be both insultingly sexist and refreshingly modern at the same time. Sadly, it only actually accomplished the first part. Male-female dynamic has always been confusing territory but ever since the entry of women into public spaces and the collapse of concrete societal barriers between boys and girls, gender politics has forayed into some interesting areas. The relatively recent cultural desire to scrutinise non-sexual relationships among members of the sexes is fun to glance at.

What is so mysterious about a guy and a girl hanging out with absolutely no wish to get with each other?

There are a couple of reasons this transaction is such an enigma: here are two members of a species designed to copulate with each other and procreate, to propagate said species. The fact that they aren't doing that is enough to throw our evolutionary rationale off balance. The Homo Sapien(s) hasn't yet caught up with history. Perhaps suspicion of opposite-sex platonic friendships is natural because it violates our instinctive understanding of primordial mating rituals. If a man and a woman spend inordinate amounts of time in each other's company, this is a sign of coital interest - the woman, with her limited eggs and honed screening sense, would take that time to gauge the male, with his compulsion to ensure his genetic legacy's survival by increasing the odds, and decide that she is willing to have his offspring and thus preserve her legacy. Darwin would probably tell you that it makes absolutely no sense for a gal to be wasting time that could be better spent getting knocked up and guaranteeing her awesome math skills' transfer to a child, hangin' with a pal that she doesn't consider good enough to change the diapers. Selection is a process that does not brook much deviation from the practice of...well...sex and everything it entails.

However, as we've seen throughout the past of (wo)mankind, biological factors are one part of the story and rarely suffice to explain complex social phenomena. What could possibly be the societal reason for a mistrust of X-Y associations that claim abiding love but denounce the possibility of co-parenthood?

Obviously inhered in a font of patriarchy that seeks to control women, property and ultimately power, customs of sexual segregation and work demarcation have maintained the sociopolitical machinery that supports the physiological chasm between men and women, ensuring very little non-bodily exchanges between the two. In a global tradition that disallows equality and facility of opportunity, why would men and women want to be platonic friends at all? If I'm slaving away in the kitchen and you're off fighting wars, there's not much to talk about over a cuppa, is there? It's a documented fact that in cultures forbidding intergender contact, sexual discrimination is the highest; one needn't look far to infer the obvious: sexual discrimination and sexual inequality are logical equations. Friendship can only occur among equals. Thus, friendship cannot occur between men and women in societies that do not permit egalitarianism in public culture or communication between the two. Over the past 5,000 years, that has been pretty much every society. It's only in Western Europe in the past few centuries that the divide has been very slowly but steadily lessening and yet there's still a long way to go in terms of breaking millenia of conditioning. It's only now, with equal participation in the sphere outside the domestic, that true sharing of space and time has led to sharing of lifestyles, jokes and secrets, the mortar of friendship and affection. Ta-da.

Which brings me to my point of inquiry: we know why we doubt the existence of platonic love between men and women and acknowledge that those hang-ups, both natural and constructed, may have descriptive value i.e. we can rationally understand why things are this way. However, and this is really the heart of the matter, is this doubt justified? Can a woman and a man be best buddies, even though their inherited biochemistry is screaming at them to do what their ancestors created them to? Even though up until two hundred years ago they would have had zilch to talk about? Is it OK for every movie where the male and female lead start out as BFFs to end with them realising their 'true' feelings for each other and riding off into the sunset together? Can they talk about their dirtiest, most intimate feelings with each other because they're privileging the person above the gender?

Yes. But much like Facebook noobs, most of us mishandle this rather new kind of relationship combination because we're still not used to it. It is very possible though, provided one knows how to navigate waters that are uncharted compared to the usual model of companionship.

Most people in intense best-friendships with someone who belongs to the other gender are the first generation of people grappling with this novel permutation. Dating, for a lot of us in this country, is a first generation exercise...and in my family likely to prevail only through my brothers' efforts. I've already embedded this phenomenon of heterosocial relationships in a particular kind of background that is sociohistorically manufactured; neither of my parents would've been allowed close-knit cross-gender socialisation and so it would be impossible to've had the privilege to have had cross-gender best-friendships.

Ceteris paribus, are there things men talk about only with men and women only with women? Sure, but that's more out of experiential empathy than anything else. In a truly close friendship you should be able to talk about anything even though you may choose not to. For example, if male-only interaction involves chauvinistic jokes, well, then I'd question the integrity of their friendships with the women in their lives (and their IQ). In this case, that homosocial interaction has already begun the insidious task of conversational segregation (which we have established to be a sign of sexual discrimination). However, if the men choose not to talk about something with their women friends because they wouldn't understand or empathise with on the level at which fellow-men would, then that makes sense. Like their baffling crush on Mickey Rourke AFTER 1990.

The three people closest to me in the whole wide world (outside of my six member family) are men. A LOT of people I know have best friends who are of the opposite sex and they seem perfectly content with this state of affairs. I think the one thing that we've all had in common with our respective friendships is that we have been attracted to our friend at some point of time for a short period, the infatuation has been acknowledged and resolved and then the friendship has been enriched and strengthened without the spectre of sexual tension haunting and weakening our rapports.

The problem that I've seen consistently over a decade and a half of being in the 'friendship' game is the pretence that sexual undercurrents simply do not exist between a straight boy and girl. Nah-uh Junior, it don't fly like that. Thanks to good ol' aforementioned copulatory imperatives, that li'l sumthin' sumthin' is going to be there until you bring it out onto the table honestly and talk about it, thus discarding centuries of totally clueless gendered upbringing. Harbouring a crush on your best friend can either lead to you marrying him, you deciding you have nothing going for the two of you except the sex or you happily realising that your fleeting biological reactions aren't worth losing his general awesomeness for many years to come, during which you will both meet other mates, bitch about them to each other occasionally and force your children to like each other.

There is absolutely no substitute for the kind of friendship a guy and a girl can have, if honest and respectful of each other and their bond. The kind of antics I can get up to with my guy pals, I cannot even dream of with doing with my girl-buddies (who are no less vital though) and cherish the kind of codependency that comes from knowing that in exchange for your (admittedly taught) womanly openness to hear them bawl, they will look the other way and stand guard honourably as you relieve yourself on an intercity highway at midnight. The quality of jokes, equal parts boy-bawdy and girl-giggly is priceless; the constant renegotiation of differentially nurtured physicality and emotionality and common individual nature provides a chemistry like nothing else does; there is an unending source of accurate information about the 'enemy' and there is always someone to take to a 'couple entry' event uptown. Lemme put it this way: you never have to worry about liking the same guy (even if your BFF is gay, in which case any man you fancy will have to choose an entire side to bat for rather than which member of the team, far less abrasive for your ego and friendship)...that's one whole can of worms thrown out right there. And I'll tell you another thing: when your love interest is an asshole, your male friends will be the first to pick up on it and warn you. The fact that they probably specialise in this kind of assholery with other women is none of your goddamn business. Case rested.

So, in a nutshell: can a man and a woman ever really be friends? Absolutely, but only if they want to. And only if they're not characters on any generic TV series entering its 4th season.

The Deadly Viber

2010-04-19T04:15:00.004+05:30

Hello kiddies .Today we shall cover another subject they should teach you in school but don’t, because in order to do well in your studies you must fail at life. We’re going to talk about the eloquently termed, ‘negative vibes’- most popularly felt around certain popular people. Term mostly used when one cannot pinpoint his/her exact reasons for disliking a person. Do these vibes exist? What are these strange social turn-offs that emanate from a person, like the body odor of the personality perhaps? Like BO, dispersing crowds and attracting forced smiles and sudden exits.

We’ve all heard this story before. Someone letting us know that a certain individual gives him/her ‘negative vibes’. At this point most promptly ask for incidences involving behavior displaying nastiness, selfish disregard, and anti-social tendencies. If you’re however greeted by blubbering and responses including words like “weird” or ”not cool” decide to give the alleged negative viber a chance before you hop into the car and agree to egg their house with your friend. Don’t judge a book by the cover OR the reviews at the back. Ha ha see what I did there? Ahem, right, moving along….

Considering the fact that most of us are crabby snot-nosed people for 80% of the time (the other 20% we spend cooing to our pets or stuffed animals. Or pets that became stuffed animals.) and go around snapping, slamming doors, sneering, spitting in someone’s drink etc. is sending out negative vibes an indication of a flawed personality or just of being human and not programmed by one ? Chances are we’re all sending out negative vibes occasionally and hoping no one picks up on them.

Human beings do instinctively recoil from certain people for reasons they can’t explain but are based on their brains reactions to body language, voice modulations (see kids we do sciency stuff too here), slight changes in facial expressions etc. But no ones talking about lending the negative viber your credit card! Just a second chance. If however it backfires and the person turns out to be a creep and you blame this blogger for all of it remember, all you have to do is make the universal sign of bitching (widen eyes, stoop and talk fast) and there’ll be kind folk willing to listen to you vent. --------- Deborah D'souza (blogokplease.blogspot.com)

Hollerback Readers !

2010-04-19T04:03:00.004+05:30

I realize its been a while since there's been a post on here but our bloggers have been busy gaining important life experience.Also we're not getting paid for this and there's always something good on TV.But we promise regular updates from here on now.And thank you to those who have been kind enough to 'follow' our blog, your cheque is in the mail. :)

Deb

Colour spelt differently.

2010-01-22T18:40:00.004+05:30

Note : Along the lines of "I am no poet" (see other posts), I present to you " I am no fiction writer". Worked on this during a workshop with the lovely Ms Priya Chabria. Based in 60s America against the backdrop of the civil rights movement. Influenced by "American Dreams".

What would happen if our skins met – hers ivory, mine honey. Would the world fall into its centre? Much worse, I’d expect. I mentioned her to Al the other day. I tried to hide my fascination for this girl behind ordinary comments but Old Al knew. I could tell from the worry that overtook his eyes, and the faint smile on his lips. The white girl, we called her. For reasons I didn’t know, I couldn’t speak her name. Al didn’t ask for it.

I saw how this looked to the others around me, on both sides, but Betty Miller was not mere forbidden fruit, a fetish or unconquered territory. She was more than that; I loved the person beneath the skin. I loved her past the invisible barricades that divided us. At that time of night when one believes the next day could bring forth thousands of unforeseen blessings I dreamt of a world in which I could call out her name across the street, meet her in the park, take her hand even, without having to be exposed to the stares , the accusers warning me silently .

Betty was the daughter of the man I worked for and age was the only thing that did not separate us. We spoke often in the store when she came over to help her father. As we grew closer I noticed she visited more often, preferring to sit nearby and watch me work instead of running the cashier or arranging boxes somewhere. We argued about this new musician called Bob Dylan – Betty thought his music was splendid and revolutionary, I thought he rather sounded like the frogs in the tank. She never understood why we couldn’t go to the record store together, or why I couldn’t grab a milkshake with her down at the soda shop. She would like me to believe these little requests of hers stem from naivety but I know her better, it’s a stubborn streak in her that will not let me accept things the way they are. She wants me to fight and she wants to let me know she’d be by my side, but she doesn’t realize this isn’t her battle to fight.

I did not know if she felt the same way about me as I did about her. I didn’t know if she imagined our futures together, if she believed a child that received enough love from its parents could bear any amount of people accusing it of being an abomination. And even if she did see me the way I saw her I didn’t know if she was ready to face what must be faced if she were to accept me. I didn’t know if I was ready to let her face the outrage, the alienation that would greet a union like ours.…

The bell on the door rings and I recognize her footsteps. I watch her from behind a shelf for a second, her blonde curls framing the softness of her face. I step out in front of her and she receives me with a hug for the first time. “Hello Simon” she whispers into my ear and I know deep in my heart, I’m ready to fight. I owed it to myself, to her, to us.

- Deborah D'souza, blogokplease.blogspot.com

All Hail The Sparkly One

2009-11-30T22:08:00.001+05:30

I’m a casual twilight fan, I’m no twihard . It’s a unique position. I am not in love with a fictional character, I don’t get as involved in the books as I should and while I defend Meyers as a writer (there are plenty more rubbish writers out there and you know it so stop hating on this decent one just cause she got popular), I don’t believe the books are exceptionally well written but when asked if and why I like the series, I got straight answers.

Disclaimer : The following 2 cents will contain broad generalisations either implied or smacked in your face like pie.

I understand the draw twilight has for most fans. I also understand where all the primary hate comes from - Edward Cullen makes most men look bad. Contrary to popular belief, at its core, twilight to teenage girls isn’t special because of the sparkly vampires or the sexual tension. The absolute reciprocation of Bella’s love that Edward is capable of is what draws most of us in. Edward offers Bella something most teenage boys are incapable of, unswerving loyalty and devotion. Even to an emotionally detached, fiercely independent, stony bitch like me, the appeal is undeniable.

This common view that twilight is a concept well marketed to a bunch of silly hormone-ridden sexually repressed girls is misleading and insulting. These girls recognize a good thing when they see it and calling them crazy fangirls of the The Sparkly One is selling them short. The reasons for the adoration Edward Cullen receives aren’t nearly as shallow as most haters would like to think. Edward could have been average looking, with mediocre amounts of inheritance and *gasp* skin that didn’t shine like a thousand diamonds in the sun and there would still be girls at every corner, on every message board and in every movie theatre declaring their love for him. Most people underestimate just how irresistible a man that capable of commitment is. Ever wondered why movies like “The Notebook” had such astronomical success ? Without taking away from the amazing acting and other creative aspects of the film I believe the crowd-puller to be very similar to Twilight’s – The strength and persistence of Noah’s love for Allie. Its not just charming, its downright refreshing to most women. Imagine how much the response to the movie would have varied if say Noah regarded his time spent with Allie as a casual fling, if he told his mates unashamedly how good she was in bed, if he mocked how attached to him she had grown, if the day she left he hooked up with the girl next door cause she made at eyes at him and had a fine ass. In the movie we see Noah write Allie 365 letters before he lets her go. We see him wait for her till he can find closure. Yes Noah also makes the average man look bad. We silly women are big fans of integrity too.

Twilight isn’t about vampires, it isn’t about dark times ,dark people or bright spots. Its Edward and Bella , Bella and Edward. Love being expressed mutually with such conviction and honesty is what fascinates me and most other fans. Girls attach a certain emotional intensity to any romantic association and these girls put on their make up and expect emotional attachment from boys who clearly aren’t ready for them. I hope Stephanie Meyers realizes the significant message she sends out to young women everywhere which helps them realize not to “settle” for someone that has proven through his actions is incapable of fully echoing their sentiments, something that has left a lot of young men running around screaming words like ‘pansy’ and ‘unrealistic’. One can argue that Edward has had 107 years to mature and that his capacity to love is a clear sign of maturity but that doesn’t take away from Meyer’s idea of love that is central to the series.

The Punch-Line

2009-10-16T19:52:00.009+05:30

Have you ever found yourself scratching your head, ridding it of creatures nestled there since the last New Year bash, wondering “WTPhug!” when you see a widely acknowledged tool cracking people up? Just why the hell is everyone splitting their seams and emptying their internal organs just because s/he speaks in a barely-funny voice? There’s not even a real joke in there, fuhtheluvvaShiva! In fact, we’re pretty sure you’ve had a moment where you said something totally off-the-cuff and suddenly, were assaulted with guffaws from all corners as if you’re the de facto lead in a crappy sitcom. Again, you’ve probably wondered, “but it wasn’t that funny...”

Why?

Here’s where we think we’ve figured out the answer: the above situations only occur when the laughers in question are people they or you know. No, no, our theory isn’t as simple or pathetic as “they know you, so they laugh out of the kindness of their hearts”. That’s just sad. We’re saying that they laugh because their brains have accepted the exhibited sense of humour as a valid source of amusement. Take news channels: India TV isn’t going to be leading the race in terms of credibility but we’re sure most of us would believe what NDTV reports; the mind has accepted the veracity of claims made by the station. For the insufferable pedants who read Murakami in their lavvies, who will possibly be unconvinced, here’s a little something. In ancient Indian philosophic tradition, the different schools had varying requirements for belief. Each school listed what it considered proof for knowledge and accordingly, each possessed different ideas of what constituted knowledge. Similarly, if a brain has okayed a certain brand of hilarity, then that’s the way it will be for all time regarding the person expressing it.

Now, for the cognitive centres to certify your wit as ‘Acceptable’ there is a process akin to college admissions, wherein your suitability for the jokee’s self and social image is gauged. This process of scanning you lasts for about fifteen minutes. Much like acceptance to college, once you’re in, you’re in. To be expelled from the ‘zone of funny’, you have to do something ridiculously drastic like be caught smoking weed in the loo. Oh wait...never mind. This brings us to the crux of this satvachan:

The Punch-Line

This is the graphic explanation of aforementioned process. With X being the amount of time being spent with the jokee and Y being the funniness of the joker, the shape plotted will emerge as a plateau, spiking up drastically within the first fifteen minutes and then flatlining till infinity.

This horizontal summation of your sustainable comic appeal is what we term ‘The Punch-Line’. The real trick is to ascend that pesky fifteen minutes with alacrity and elan, so that you’re locked in nicely by point AWESOME and remain a desirable asset in people’s personal and social schemes.

Now, ask yourselves this: how many times have you hit The Punch-Line?

DUE CREDIT TO: Jaideep Khare, BITS-Goa

FAQ (First Asked Question)

Anindya Shanker Mitra: You need to take into account the universal decay of information over time, owing to which, by my opinion, the point after the first 15 mins would form the peak, followed by a gradual decay upto some asymptotic value depicting the general value of funniness that you expect from a "funny" person.

OK, more of a statement really. But here's our official response:

This theory was co-conceived by an engineer from BITS-Goa, so we did take into account information theory and entropic decay. But when applied to general life conditions we have realised that the decline occurs only after external conditions are extremely unfavourable to the joker,in which case the asymptote (which'd denote 'potentiality') would become irrelevant - it's an extreme situation either way. The quality of jokes will invariably fluctuate but this is representative of a social percept. When using Math to explain society, one must make room for tweaking some science =)

IEW. Look it up dummy.

2009-09-13T19:49:00.004+05:30

There exists a certain group of women who wear their brains on their sleeves.The intellectual elitist women. Let me go ahead and abbreviate that- IEW .

Look closely and you’ll find that the snobbish tag that comes along with being a member isn’t really unjustified or very much off base. If more than one self-assuredly intellectual female is in your presence and someone asks if Guantanamo bay is the new diet doing the rounds, watch as they glance at each other, one brief glance.If you catch it you should know that they’ve all mentally fist bumped or body-fived each other like frat boys.While being extremely subtle this sense of superiority holds much more weight than the superiority petty girls possess for being pretty/rich or whatever it is that makes girls feel superior to one another because contrary to popular belief it isn’t masking insecurities. Its just the tremendous self-worth that accompanies knowing of one’s being more perceptive , observational or knowledgeable than the rest of the lot. Unhealthy ? Perhaps.

Of course they respect and may like everyone but admiration is reserved only for their own kind.I don’t think society is quite ready for them though. They can’t stand a woman who doesn’t always care about the way she looks. Preposterous ! I have a theory that maybe, without significant meditation on the subject,some of them choose not to pay too much attention to they way they dress. It marks them. Of course they are completely unconscious of the effect it has on people, or so they say.I’ll bet they do know that it screams, “ I don’t care if what I’m wearing isn’t good enough for you, I’m so much more smarter than you comparing the two of us would be ludicrous.We don’t even fall under the same category of species.” And it does take a rather evolved male to enjoy their company. Men so disappointingly often like a woman who adopt every idea or thought that escapes their lips.Somebody who they’re sure will find everything they say or do staggeringly brilliant.

Try not to hurl your never-before-opened-textbook the next time you notice their hands sticking up in the air during a class. Or the slight smirk and broadening of shoulders (they can’t help it) when the teacher winks at them in that approving way . You want to get back at them ? This woman is invincible unless you can prove to her in some way that she isn’t as smart as she thought she was….or you weren’t as dumb.IEWs biggest fear, something they wake up at night drenched in sweat because of, is finding out that someone they considered vapid has been hiding a brain in their closet and will one day triumphantly stick it under their noses with those manicured hands. But every time they fear this will happen,every single time, Vapid will say something so utterly inane that all they can do smile . Yes , all is right with the universe.The pyramid of life-forms still has them cradled at the top.

Well, well, Wadia know...?

2009-07-24T14:47:00.003+05:30

FUN FACT: In what can only be described as a shocking fuck-you to the Dewey Decimal System, Fergusson's (in)famous Wadia Library has a dirty little secret: a filing drawer labelled Ass-Bag. True story. Go check it out if you don't believe me. It's on the left as you enter. In bold, black letters.

Who the hell is in charge of this??

On the topic, I must plug our tres awesome librarian, Prof. Kamble. Who is so the shizzle that it's physically impossible to not be affected by his shizzle-ness within a 2 m radius. Be not fooled by his less-than-a-metre height. He is The Man to unman all other men, believe you me. Mild mannered Marathi manoos by day, supreme leader of the new world order by night. As far as conspiracy theories go, this seems about right. Within the labyrinthine annals of that big, decrepit building is housed the secretest society of geekzillas set to inherit the world. And Prof. Kamble is their master, commander and Yoda to their Lukes.

He even has a sidekick, that mousy little man who jumps to attention the moment Prof. K snaps his fingers. This chap knows every nook, cranny and crevice of that goddamned library. I've never seen him so much as blink when zipping to 'Buddhist Philosophy 300-320' or wherever. I've never seen him speak and if you so much as talk back to Kamble, a look of murderous rage appears on his face, like he's gonna hunt you down within these walls and bury you underneath a stack of books in the Sanskrit section, so even your bones won't be discovered.

Look, all I'm saying is: when the aliens invade the earth, I want Prof. Kamble on my side. He's not the librarian but the Librarian, attended to by the faithful Bookworm. He knows all, sees all and preserves all. Not just books but ancient wisdom now remaining only in the dusty backshelves of Wadia Library. I would not want to mess with him. I suggest you keep conversation to the barest minimum, do your business and get outta there pronto. Don't mention 'termites' at any point or you'll find that was the last thing you said in the sunny part of the library. Keep focussed on his plaid shirt and be nice to the Bookworm.

Ye have been warned.

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Womance and the Femily

2009-07-24T10:45:00.003+05:30

So I'm totally drooling over Spock with a pal the other day. There's a pause and he says: "That's the ultimate bromance, man." And I open my mouth to agree when something hits me: a bromance? Like a brother-romance? The pinnacle of male homosocial relationships? That which is copiously referenced in How I Met Your Mother? Enough with the rhetorical questions already, I hear you say. A bromance is, to the uninitiated, the ultimate in man bonding. It is the closest that straight men will ever come to in their dealings with other men. It is the equivalent of a straight-male marriage, the BFF-ship to end all BFF-ships. And the examples abound: JD and Turk (Scrubs), Kirk and Spock (Star Trek), Starsky and Hutch (duh), Harry and Ron (Harry Potter), hell even Jerry and George (Seinfeld). But hang on, a bromance is a term confined to brothers, a synonym for the universal fraternity house to which all men magically belong. It's exclusively a male rapport.

Am I missing something here?

What about womance? Females share the same kind of bond, the same Three Musketeers code of friendship and the same sense of camaraderie that men do. Personal example: my two fellow bloggers and superheroines extraordinaire, Ab and Org. When we hang (and I'm mocked for this seemingly obsolete turn of phrase), I've always gotten the feeling that anything I said or did would be tolerated, protected, ridiculed to my face but never before anyone else and would actually be paid attention to with a deep mix of affection, love and the willingness to look past my many flaws. Isn't that what a bromance is? I can even crack completely inappropriate, ribald girl jokes with my coterie, rounded up by at least four other equally awesome ladies, exchange borderline romantic rejoinders and have everything accepted without excuses and apologies. There are of course traits absent in male friendships which exist in female ones, not to mention a special type of humour that women can share only with other women. I cannot be the only girl who feels this way with her gang. All women must surely respond the same way to their best friends, their femily.

And yet, one hardly hears a whisper of this in the mainstream media. Are there any truly enduring examples of female friendships in TV, books and movies? This question is the second part to the one asking where female bonding is honestly represented in all its glorious, kaleidoscopic brilliance. We have at least a million films talking about men and their friendships, - drunk, sober or high, adolescent or adult, straight or gay, black or white or brown or yellow - and practically none about female love. Don't say Thelma and Louise. I'm talking about a movie that doesn't have to end with the leads dying (*yawn* 19 year old spoiler alert), in yet another woeful dirge to female existence. I'm talking about an all-girl The Hangover or Superbad. There's no real reason why McLovin has to be a dude. Juno was probably one film that came close to hinting at that kind of youthful , 21st century affection when it showed Juno and her best friend discussing her impeding pregnancy (a quintessential girl thing).

So when will men wipe off their smug, sexist little smirks belying their belief in the fact that the only time women get together is to claw each other's fur? It's patent bullshit. And when will women get off their backsides and write awesome scripts about a group of women going on loco adventures, having illegal fun and strengthening their girl-love all the 90 minute way in? A chick flick that out-legendaries guy buddy comedies is what I'm talking about.

What say?

High Camp and Low Lives

2009-07-24T10:19:00.003+05:30

I confess to being a fan of Bollywood schlockbusters: those awful, unholy strips of celluloid cobbled together by a sub-moronic team of 'technicians', 'artists' and possibly, an underworld financier or two. Oh come on, you know what I speak of, you sly savants of drek! You're all well-acquainted with these paragons of kitsch, these manufactories of mulch, the non plus ultra of neon...OK, I’ll put away the thesaurus now. What I meant to say was, through all of that hyperbole, that by gosh, camp is the shizzle. With the zeal of Perez Hilton and the agenda of Kim Newman, I’m gonna force y’all Bollybusters outta the closet and into the parliament of Cool to vote ‘aye’.

Just the other day I was compiling a list, on Facebook, of the top five films that I knew by heart. One of them happens to be the revered Mithun classic, Gunda. (To the pitiable ignorami, I recommend a look at TLV Prasad and Kanti Shah’s combined filmographies, a subsequent Sunday evening in and the metabolism of a bunny on crack). A friend commented on this choice, sputtering with disbelief, “But...but...I thought you had taste!” Taste? Excusez moi? Hold on there, buddy boy. Hold on, just a *generic profane interjection* minute! Where’s your sense of irony? I know just as well as anyone else that in a debate between, say, Pather Panchali and Gunda, the former would adjust its monocle, let forth a poignant aria about the simple tragicomedies of life and win the hearts of the audience, even as the latter grunted around uncertainly. BUT let’s have a proper tussle folks, an all-out, down-and-dirty bar brawl between the two: Gunda would not only own Pather Panchali five times over but fuhtheluvvaShiva, the trash talk would be insane: the kerchief-necked frat-ilicious jeers ridiculing Pather Panchali’s monogrammed blazer and loafers would be A-DOUBLE U- E some. Yeah baby!!!! Ringside seats to that one!

It is this sense of sardonic, silly and sweaty low-brow pleasure which causes a cult phenomenon in the first place. A brief overview might put things into perspective.

Almost anything that has spawned legendary appeal is either exceptionally good or excruciatingly bad. While the brilliant is often overlooked, in time it always finds its place in the pantheon of genius. The truly great will always be recognised and lauded, if not in its own time then in the time after; it represents all that is complex and confusing in our lives and worlds and as such, will be revisited by every generation and admired anew, its delights subtle and variegated, its assaults gentle and permeating. Next up is the usual fare that’s churned out all the time. In kowtowing to the gatekeepers of high culture, most well-intentioned rubbish is rejected and soon forgotten. There will be precious few lining up to remark upon these trite attempts to ‘entertain’ or laughably, ‘enlighten’. The majority of art falls into this category.

And then of course there is the really bad stuff that is rightly debunked by those in the know, but with its unabashed earnestness, wins the rest of us right over. Why d’you think Ed Wood is so the man, even today? Plan 9 from Outer Space retains the title of ‘Worst Film Ever’, with no dearth of audience at any screening. The film they made on his life, starring Johnny Depp no less, probably grossed less than his estate manages to generate annually. Uwe Boll, krapmeister Super (yeah that’s not really a word) cranks out one bilious videogame movie every year, beats up pasty European film critics in boxing rings (Youtube Raging Boll) and dares his detractors to put him out of business by soliciting petitions from them, promising to quit if they reach a million: “Nice try, Hündinnen!” Chuck Norris, Van Damme and Steven Segal represent the Holy Trinity of Tripe, with acolytes (including myself) humming their theme tunes in times of danger and unquestioningly accepting their ubermenschian abilities (Chuck Norris facts), seeming resistance to age (rent JVCD. Please.) and musical prowess (Songs from a Crystal Cave). Closer home, Mithun (His Awesomeness), Rajnikanth, Ravi Kissen and Himesh, have all managed to win our hearts, minds and internal organs.

Why, you ask? Ah, here lies the gravamen of my piece.

Coming back to the accusation of having a taste and yet knowing Gunda front-to-back, I was at first unsure of how to respond. I mean, how does one explain the concept of so-bad-its-good and the consequent affection and awe that such a quality can evoke?

Susan Sontag once said that camp cannot be deliberate. She’s right: if Gunda were to be a parody, it would have accessed a talent beyond itself: satire, and become eligible for membership in a posher club as opposed to the seedy back alley tavern it is in right now. It’s why Naked Gun is actually a decent series. Well, in my house anyway. Gunda is quite unembarrassed by itself, revelling in the doggerelled dialogues fit to make your ears shrivel up and disappear into their holes and good-natured about subjecting everyone’s retinas to imagery that makes the sensory neurons detonate. It’s all just so darn sincere that you can’t help but be mesmerised. The hypnotic effect of this film comes from its unapologetic, self-convinced braggadocio, dunked in every kind of political incorrectness and burdened by absolutely no pretensions to being at all ‘good’ or ‘artistically valuable’ in any sense. It sucks, it doesn’t know it; it sucks, you know it. So why can’t we all come together like a happy family and enjoy what we can. You know that friend you’re not sure why you’re friends with...the one who’s always calling you at 3 a.m. from a bender to tell you how much he loves you, owes you your inheritance, cracks inappropriate jokes about your female relatives and yet you get your dander up the moment anyone hints that you ditch them? This is that movie. If you’re in college and don’t have a friend at least resembling this guy, you need to get out more. If you’re in college and haven’t seen Gunda, you need to stay in more. I know it’s a bit of a catch-22 but you’ll figure it out. After all, you were smart enough to get into college in the first place. Bottomline: Gunda has no idea that it’s bad, so why should you? In its honest horrendousness lies its heart.

The second part of its appeal lies in something outside itself. Gunda is an internally sustained system of excreta but when faced with the real world, it’s an interesting foil to the prevailing socioculture. Camp confronts culture as itself, except in its worst, most exaggerated form. The godawfulness of kitsch is only superficially because it looks so bad. I remember reading Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being go on for a good chapter about how real kitsch is bad because it ignores the truth and panders to the middle-class fear of seeing real pain, darkness and suffering. Maybe. I’m not as smart as this dude, so I’m not gonna mount a disagreement in a blog, but I have this feeling that the reason kitsch or camp is really bad is because it unwittingly makes fun of bourgeois aesthetics. The more something is really bad, the more attention and perverse regard it attracts. By juxtaposing itself with what is considered the acme of high culture, it provides a ludicrous, absurd alternative to the gold standard. It is usually at least as solemn in its efforts to exist as the outstandingly good. And often, it curates some of the same themes, albeit turned on their head and dumbed down to the extremes of frivolity. The creators of camp or kitsch are completely ignorant of this of course, otherwise they’d be too clever to make it. Gunda, as anyone who saw movies in the mid-90s knows, represents the worst of life and films back then. We have a country barely heaving itself out of the economic nightmare of pre-NEP era humiliation, successive unstable governments fostering chaos across the nation and the first wave of major reactions to the products of the NEP and its cries of Globalisation-Liberalisation-Privatisation (like cable TV and foreign shoe brands). The movies were confections of blinding/deafening music videos and costumes nobody would be caught dead wearing; the high point was something like Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, a completely unoriginal two-hours worth of film reel devoted to much the same things as Gunda: female lead(s) popping off and being nothing more than the motive for the male lead to do anything; a lot of singing and dancing; a sexually confused ‘comedian’ and a happily ever after. OK, maybe not exactly the same things...but you get my drift. The point is that the most popular film of the same year wasn’t that much different from Gunda when you really sit down to think about it. And that is what anticultural junk is supposed to do – exhibit the stupidest facets of an era alongside the most compelling questions of its time. Unlike great works, it’s always bound by the limitations of time and space, but it does provide an effective counterpoise for the consumers of that time and space and does its job, thanks very much. There’s a pseudo-Hegelian dialectic at work here: culture, anticulture and the emergent ‘cult classic’.

In a departing salvo, here’s a brief review of Gunda that I penned a few months ago:

Obviously, Gunda is a stellar example of mid-90s social realist counter-aesthetic – it tackles heavyweight issues like small town India's growing socio-economic alienation from a newly liberalised metropolitan economy, the emasculation and infantilisation of the Indian male (as evinced by Chutia's condition) in the face of increasing female empowerment and of course, the reason Mithun Da will always be THE MAN. Also see Loha, the prequel to this work of art and indeed, copiously referenced in it, in yet another stunning example of director Kanti Shah's attempts at syncretism - making him a true post-modernist maverick. 10/10

If you take issue with my love for this movie, don’t bother to harangue me with walls. You can see further evidence for the love this film enjoys by reading reviews on IMDb or www.greatbong.net or lurking on any of the many fanclub messageboards. If they don’t convince you, you’re an idiot who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as us loyal fans of Mithun Da and his entourage.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, in the inimitable style of Mithun Da (His Awesomeness):

“Main hoon garibon ke liye jyoti aur gundon ke liye jwala”

Move over, Robin Hood.

I'm sure most of you need not be converted and know exactly what I defend. As for the others, beg, steal or borrow your copy of this staple college fare or regret not getting the jokes. It is advisable, nay, imperative that you sit through...I mean...savour this masterpiece nonpareil, for the sake of your own education and for that of those after you. Watch Gunda, so that you can say to your grandkids that you were part of the generation that saw it first.

Why did the Fergussonian cross the road?

2009-06-18T20:13:00.003+05:30

Fergusson College should hand its incoming freshmen an insurance policy along with the fee receipt. It's impossible to cross the road to Savera without maiming some precious organ. Given that people spend more time in Savera than in college, this is totally uncool.

Hordes of students find themselves panicking as they begin the journey across the street, flexing their muscles to dodge vehicles of all sizes as they come careening towards them and cowering as rogue scooterists threaten to run them over. It's like the Exodus, only it occurs everyday.

People frantically scuttle around on the zebra crossing like tribal dancers, eager to make the halfway mark. There are unfortunate stragglers who will weigh down the rest of the valiant gang (how about "You go on without me..." eh?). And of course, those who just can't take it any more and flip at inopportune moments - they can be found dazedly cutting a sharp right angle smack in the middle of the road. Entire romances begin and end in the space between two shores of comfort - the hand holding, the synchronised squealing etc. etc. The entire process has the makings of a sterling Steven Segal film: Under Seige 3: Traffic Terrorists. Or something.

We urge the authorities to at least make it worth our while and give it a true Hollywood twist by letting us make out with a hot celebrity waiting at the other end. Sheesh.

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I am no poet...

2009-05-29T19:28:00.002+05:30

You may like me,
You may want me.
I may amaze,
Go ahead,go ahead and gaze.

Woo me, praise me,
Write our names together.
Snug,accompanying,
U+Me ,forever.

But I don't belong to you,
Not to you, Not yet.

Prove your loyalty,
Prove you care for me.
Stop and wait to see,
Is that harmony ?

One day, One day,
You will look at me and see,
Your hold is complete.

I will belong to you then,
I will belong to you then, you see ?

---------------- Deborah D'souza

I saw a Goddess

2009-05-28T20:37:00.004+05:30

Have you ever met a Goddess? Seen one? Been in the presence of one? Have you ever watched a Goddess dance?
I have.
I saw a Goddess and she was a boy.

Her eyes looked at the world through the kohl lined depths of a little mortal soul. Her red lips parted with the seduction of her serene power as she smiled benevolently at the gathered audience. She had the feet of a little boy and her arms were his wiry limbs. She danced on his feet and she moved with his grace. She was him and he had possessed her. They were one, dancing there as the sun set... They were one, a team, holding us all under their combined spell. We were theirs to enthrall and they were, together, the best at the art of hypnotism.

My eyes remained riveted on this boy. He was dressed in an electric blue sari. Unquestioning of it's relevance to his sexuality; he made the garment his own and sashayed across the stage with an ethereal grace. It was not a sedate grace. It was not the grace of a simple woman. He was the key to the balance. He was the boy and the Goddess, the man-to-be and the young-girl-no-more. The sari was not an extraordinary piece of art. No. In fact it was little more than a routine costume, donned for necessity. He wore a set of ghungru that added more music to his soulful interpretation of the raag. There were the customary flowers in his hair and the traditional red marked his feet and palms. He was dressed to pretend. But he transcended the pretence and made everything real.

The dance was an ancient one. The moves were old and the charm was of a time long gone past. But this little boy, infused it with the vigour of the modern and the restless. His energy was boundless; the Goddess made sure of that; and though he perspired as he virtually led the troupe, he made the evening his own.

The air was charged as he flashed recognition to the rest of the assembled souls. He knew he held us in his thrall. He knew that he was the reason for the admiration. He was aware but conceit was never once apparent. He knew that he was good at what he was doing. He might have been a mortal boy, after all. He might, offstage, suffer from pride. He might be everything that a cynic is comfortable branding a boy not more than 13 years with. He might be everything that i think he is not. Or he might become everything that i hope he will never.

But the fact still stands. He was a Goddess, dancing for mortals.

---- Karishma Modi
http://www.minglebox.com/KarishmaModi

Mr Walt , could you give me a run through on how that love thing works again?

2009-05-09T00:05:00.010+05:30

As preteen girls tick at option A B or C to the question "What hobby would your dream guy have ?" with options A.)Basketball (so that you know every girl in the stands is turned on) B.) Writing poetry (So that you can be sure to find a few written about you) C.) Jamming with the band ( Guy-liner turns you on ) or D.)Baking cookies and helping old ladies cross roads (gimme a minute while I fantasize), most likely they can all but picture the guy's face.They probably have a name for him, something that would fit.In certain creepy cases, they've already picked out baby names and crockery patterns.They know what career he will have (something good,to make sure mom n dad are happy),what he looks like (to make you happy),his mannerisms and kinks and slight faults (is eating too fast/slow a fault?).Deluded and with heightened expectations owing to Disney movies and Nicholas Sparks adaptations,growing up none of them are quite sure what to make of the specimen "A" teenage boy . (No no no, somethings wrong, they can't all be mini-skirt following, booger sculpting, WWF watching,saying the absolute wrong thing at the wrong time, sports obsessed, masses of brute can they ? Are these really the boys who'll grow up to be the men of her dreams or is she simply looking in all the wrong places ?)

The results to the quiz which tells them the kind of guy they should be with merely mirrors the kind of guy they want to be with.
Whether she'll admit it to you or not, every girl has a type.It may seem like a silly concept thrown around for fun when she's sizing up someone but unconsciously or not,she's excited to meet someone who seems like "her type" (she likes to believe no one else is looking for the same thing). If she doesn't seem to have met anyone ,her imaginary ideal will suffice until she meets or spots the Real McCoy.
But maybe, just maybe, its time she realized that this idea of what perfection (or close to it) should be ,isn't what will make her the most happy.Maybe once in awhile there should be allowances made for those that don't fit that cookie cutter mould she's made up to sort through boys, cause sometimes when all reason, circumspection and theoretical idealism fails, perhaps its time for her to accept that our souls seek out those who maybe able to enrich our lives and minds in ways we didn't think possible.So its time she abandoned the ideal,its time she stop dismissing a liking towards boys that wouldn't have been dreamt of when she was twelve.Maybe someone who she least expects to, will be the only one able to make her happy, just as she deserves to be.

Note:apologies for the sap. Will be back to snark asap. Until then , sing westlife songs, stop killing insects to watch them squirm and watch Dawson's Creek.Cheerio.

-------------Deborah D'souza

Marath-awe!

2009-05-04T21:56:00.003+05:30

There's a certain charm about that part of town that makes it so much easier to appreciate the ethnic identity of Pune as the cultural heart of Maharashtra. The many labyrinthine roads that bear the names of some of the most Marathi of Marathi names....

The eateries may boast of multi-cuisine. The ice-cream parlours scream out names of chocolate so distinctly French and Belgian, etc., etc.. There are book stores and there are juice bars. But there is this one stamp that you simply cannot deny. It is the stamp of Poona. The stamp of the cultured Marathi-Brahmin ethnicity. The bungalows and the skin, the eyes and the accent. The major hitch in these areas is that outsiders are obvious and that if you're not a Marathi- manoos , you are on the fringes of this world of old richesse. This is how the cookie was baked. These fair-skinned, light-eyed serenely dignified make the world of the un-blessed-s seem like an unfortunate, terrible, little something that, oh, we'll never have to endure.

To me, a half breed (in a sense), the Marathis of Poona, the assal Marathis make a statement far more profound than anything that anyone else could say in this ancient city of old habits. We have throngs of non-Marathi folks. Everyone is accepted and everyone is made to feel at home. There is nothing wrong with the notion of being a non-Marathi/non-Marathi-Brahmin here, in Pune. But then there is that sense of feeling the awe that i feel when you're a veritable alien among among these unassumingly-yet-proudly Marathi-Marathis.

I know a lot of them personally and i am fascinated by their accent and their seemingly inherited intellectuality, their uber-calm and composed air of being the alphas, the obviously un-obesqious ones that have to make no justifications for their lives, their interests or their mentality.

There is nothing negative about my reverence for them. There is simple awe. Awe exemplified by the fact that their theatre, their poetry, their language, their finesse always reminds me of royals. They are the uncrowned aristocracy of this little city of lasting stereotypes. They are the people that make it possible to hear some of the most endearingly Marathi-inflected-English-conversation ever. They are the blend between the new Poona of the youth and the old Poona of their grand-parents and their great-great-great-grandparents. They are the link between the vanishing mindset of "having it and knowing it" and "wanting it, coveting it, getting it". Mostly it is their charm and their command over the city as a whole.

Or else it is just me: wanting to worship something real.

----Karishma Modi
http://www.minglebox.com/KarishmaModi

Accelerator,Brake,Clutch. Aaaeeee,Bheeee,Sheeee.

2009-05-03T21:44:00.009+05:30

All my life ,there was the car. Other kids had Mr Bears and Blankys to calm and comfort them. For me it was the hum of the engine and the cool blow of the AC against my cheeks. After 18 yrs of being driven around ,getting my license felt like being granted membership to a club. That little square bearing my wrongly spelled name and someone's face who I refuse to believe is me ,seemed to signify less of a privilege or acquired right but more like something that has been such a long time coming, I feel like I've spent 18yrs of tapping my foot impatiently waiting for it to be handed to me.

My first day I sat with two other friends and clutched my seat for a good half hour.I had never imagined my life to be in the hands of these two jokers and a complete stranger.

As a student driver you have to understand that you are on the lowest rung of the traffic ladder. Rickshaw drivers either snort and shake their heads sagely,like keepers of the road or glare at you cause they recognize someone who will honk sharply everytime they try to squeeze in those two inches in front of you.Maybe they wonder at your audacity to choose over their surly services which make you want to make solemn promises to be good if you're allowed to live to see your destination.
Most people are also compelled to crane their necks and peer in at the "Naveen Driver". You get the distinct feeling of being in a incubator of sorts .I'm sure most of them would be so overcome with their own superiority to you, they would venture to pat your head or pinch your cheeks.
One of the most insufferable types are those who will insistently honk whenever you're struggling to tame your vehicle,like when you're contemplating the complex geometry involved in a U-turn. You'd think half the drivers are either rushing to catch a flight somewhere or answering a booty call .
We cannot forget the "Sir" here .What should be a fun and new experience of learning is lent "Bourne Supremacy-esque" amounts of tension .A slight mistake would provoke such dastardly reactions that would only seem appropriate if I had just run over a small child or old lady. I suspect a little part of him died every time I didn't change gears fast enough or braked too sharply. Often the sighs,groans and whines would reach such unbelievably annoying levels, I'd feel my palms itching to swerve into the nearest lamp post just to see if the shock and sheer grief would kill him. In the beginning ,when I didn't consider that he might have forgotten to take his anti-depressants,I'd perkily reply to his admonitions .But those soon gave way to curt nods or twitching of the eyebrows or simply singing in my head at the top of my voice to block him out.I recall I used to imagine myself,much better looking,driving my own car alone, only to be interrupted by a shrill "BRAKE CONTROL !"

As I mentioned I was with two friends of mine.We had some fun times, one particular time it was being explained to me how to turn the steering wheel and I was told to imitate the way in which water is drawn from a well. There was raucous laughter for a good ten minutes. I couldn't help thinking like what brats we might look like to him.A bunch of giggly teenagers,who'd chirp about their petty dealings and who were all presumably handed car keys of their own which is a dream for so many of the middle-lower classes.

I eventually did get my license without much event.No accidents, well maybe some accidental staring on the part of Mr Sunshine sir . Ironic that most of us choose private transport partly to escape lecherous lechers but we have to deal with them while learning just how to drive.Maybe as much as you try to isolate yourself from common India in your little Air Conditioned boxes, once in awhile you have to suck it up and blink,look around and realize which part of the world you live in,however swanky and privileged and protected your life maybe.

General update : the keys to the family's small car have all but been dangled infront of me. The only way I can be deemed fit and ready to take the car out without having national emergency declared by the folks would be if I endured another 30 days of driving school.What I already consider to be "My Car" dutifully awaits in all its ordinary glory. It won't be ordinary anymore, it Will be my first car.I'll have cheesy pictures of me with it that I'll show my grandchildren and lie about how I had to work to own it.

------- Deborah D'souza

Shimmering Summer: The Grand Champ?

2009-04-30T21:04:00.001+05:30

Poona used to be this little haven during the summers. We'd laugh at Mumbai and we'd pity Hyderabad. We'd smirk at Delhi and make bad jokes about anyone else who'd compare their climate with ours (don't even ask what we did to Baroda!) and now, like some sinister payback, all of those cities are taking jibes at US!!

This is getting out of hand! Here, as we delicately simmer and swelter in our posh little oven, we're starting to see the brighter side of life, er, the sun, whatever. When the temp hit 41.7 in APRIL , we knew that there was something terribly wrong. There's just something off with the senior citizens' adda being the tandoor ! How do you justify this? The summer sales are all out to sell bikinis...but wait! Where is the ocean when you need it? As if the heat wasn't enough, there's this constant sense of impending rain that makes the heat radiate off the gound in sauna-hot-and-wet waves and i don't even want to guess what it's doing to the more "perspiration inclined" people.

I don't mind the radiating heat! No no!! I have very few complaints about the weather. I don't mind the hot. I don't mind the cold. I don't mind the wet. "Whether the weather be fine/ Or whether the weather be not/ Whether the weather be cold/ Or whether the weather be hot/ We'll weather the weather/ Whatever the weather/ Wheather we like it/ Or not!"

But this is an outcry on the behalf of all those that do mind. They mind with a vengeance. They're installing air conditioners and they're setting uo these little Actic zones in their baking homes. They are making all the arrangements to be shipped to the icy north, but they refuse to realise that this is not going away! Poona has not had a real Monsoon in a few years now. We haven't had a real Winter in longer. And the Summer affirms all our fears that our little wannabe Darjeeling is dealing with the Heat up! The Burn Out! The Great Bake! The Super Sizzle! And this goes on.

Imagine a drain and thinglets swirling down and out toward this ultimate fate that awaits everything that was once in the tub. We're all swirling away and we're all happily making for this shining orb of heat and light and swirling dust and heat simmering off the road like mirages. We're going to become one giant mirage! At the rate at which we're going, we're sizzling like the potatoes that we love to bake in jackets on once frosty winter barbecue nights. But the frost has turned into the steady sizzle of one indecipherable season. No distinctions. An endless blur of weeks tumbling into one another seamlessly, months ceasing to matter. The heat will reign and then there will be no need for Louis Vuitton to come up with Spring/Summer or Fall/Winter. All we'll need are the tank tops and bum-shorts of a summer that has taken over the world.

Move over Monsoon...
Walk away Winter...

The Summer Scorch is here to stay!

--Karishma Modi

The Joy of Being Idle

2009-04-26T23:45:00.001+05:30

The other day I was reclining on the sofa, daydreaming up my Oscar speech (oh please, we've all done it) when I saw a furry streak of brown and white zip by the window. I vaulted over the sofa to the large panes and crouched down, squinting with curiosity, eager to see what peculiar little creature had chosen my ground floor apartment's perfunctory balcony for its capers. The most exquisite kitten, all shiny, sleek and self-possessed, was poised on a low ledge jutting out of the wall. Striking a patrician stance, haloed by mischief and daintily licking its tiny, delicate glove-like paws, it stayed there for a bit, stretching itself out sensuously, lolling about and smoothing its whiskers - I was captivated. Here was a feline prima donna, a queen, Felix Regina or something cool in Latin like that.

And then something else hit me - the cat was up to nothing. And so was I.

I literally was not doing anything. By 'doing' I mean the utilitarian shade of function assigned to activity. The need for usefulness to validate tasks; the necessity of result; the whole scheme of life oriented towards input, output and product. It is, in a word, disgusting. It is detrimental to the very spirit of life, a prosthetic for purpose. Or rather the Anglo-Saxon definition of purpose....the French have something romantic in lieu: the mysterious joie de vivre which perhaps the 'Angloid' world will never truly understand. Zooming in, you'll find that the Hindi word for life is a biological, pragmatic 'jeevan' derived from a somewhat austere Sanskritic world whereas the Urdu 'zindagi' combines the zest of medieval West Asian hedonism with the concept of life. But that's a discussion of another sort.

What I am perhaps most outraged by is the mechanisation of being. It is somehow blasphemous to wish for time to just be. In her wonderful book, The Art of Doing Nothing, Veronique Vienne bemoans this phenomenon of azoicity in vivid detail...I didn't perhaps recognise my own dissatisfaction with the state of things until she articulated them.

Maybe it has something to do with the slow, steady ravages of post-industrial organisation. With the advent of machines, society was whipped up into a frenzy of cogs and chains and whirrs, reordering our spaces (factories, deforestation, urbanisation etc.), our systems (hierarchy, transaction, institution etc.) and of course, the most important casualty, our time (historic and personal). While historic time is not something we directly control, personal time is our own. And the foundation of modern life, in all the ways that matter. It is this time that we must reclaim from the wards of modernity. An assembly line temporal procedure makes us little more than zombies. Timetables and to-do lists and Filofaxes are all very well. But what about afternoons spent gambolling in the garden? What about reading old letters from friends we haven't seen in years? What about poring over picture books with a cup of tea? What about doodling in bed?

Just the idea of being idle terrifies most of us. It's taboo to even mention the desire to not be busy. Busy doing what? I think the irony is that most attempts to be busy arise from a notion that somehow, if we could just get so-and-so task out of the way, we'd be free. Must freedom to loaf be some sort of reward for having worked the rest of the time? Does ticking off 'Laundry', 'Homework' and 'Grocery' entitle us to laze? If so, I confess surprise at such premium being placed on doing nothing, when in fact it is considered sacrilege, a downright violation of the principle of cyber-age ethic, to even contemplate it. It's like some kind of Mobius strip of collective consciousness, conditioned by an eerily WASP-ish enculturation. It is perhaps not too far-fetched to examine the excessive influence of the USA's Caucasian/Puritan influence in the mix of all this newly discovered 21st century 'global civilisation'. Of course, I don't advocate that everyone put in for an allowance from the government (and in our case I believe that's still a Directive Principle, so suck it up) but there has to be some kind of balance in quality of lifestyle. Otherwise, it's just a sham to go through these motions, without any sense of revelry, which is what the experience of life should be.

Things of beauty are indeed a joy forever. The kitten I observed for almost an hour is a perfect example. Or look at art, which compels us to relinquish our strict ritual of inventorying 'the point'. And then there are lovely, strappy shoes and gift shop windows and cricket memorabilia and in my case, stationery (and stationeries). To feast on frivolity is forbidden. To linger is a privilege one must fight for. And yet, man and woman's love affair with the useless is legend. And there is the attendant need to indulge in the useless - stretches and corridors of vacant moments, just waiting to be occupied with silliness and facetious fun. By gosh, there are whole industries built around the human need to be unemployed!

Forget pretty objects, just the knowledge of one's ability to do nothing suffices. How many of us have experienced the sudden, soda-pop thrill of completing an assignment and then realising that we have nothing else to keep us from stretching out on the porch. Even despite Facebook, TV, SMS and home entertainment, there are so many times when all one wants to do is be a cat: traipse around, alight anywhere, think about the zaniest things, maybe snarl at people who won't let us do this. Licking oneself is not something everyone does, I'm sure, but hey - whatever rocks your boat man.

So, the next time you have a many-foot long list of errands you need to run, sabotage yourself. Make sure you don't do a few things on that post-it. It could be the really insignificant things, the ones it probably wouldn't hurt to put off for a couple of days. In the Gen Y craze to not let it pile up, don't let yourself become Stepford. The dishes in the sink can wait a few hours, go enjoy the balmy summer evening outside with your lover. Even if you do the dishes, something else will come up as soon as you're done, so go now. Create opportunities to be surprised by 'nothing moments', allow them to occur and sneak up on you and then exploit them. Admire the Manolos you can't afford, smell crisp handmade paper it's probably not worth your pocket money to buy, watch cats, hatch plans, feel grass, heal yourself.

Do nothing. And let nothing do you in.

- Kamayani Sharma

India will not fit in a picture

2009-04-26T20:36:00.002+05:30

A lot of people have become "fans" of India on a *ahem* popular social networking site *ahem*. The news feed had a picture. And that picture set the ball rolling for this:

I dunno if i'll ever be able to reconcile myself to a picture with the caption: "India". It is just one of those things that is least capture-able while still doing justice to everything that this country has been through and everything that it aspires towards being.

Capturing India is not about the flag and it's not about the people. Let me clarify: it's not just about the flag and it's not just about the people. This country is more than just "Unity in Diversity" and it's more than "Secularism". Put up a picture of a skyline and it's not India because each skyline is all about a different theme, a different mode, a different India. Each city throbs with a different beat: it is the beat of the same India that we revere. Each beat entwined with each other, like each road is linked to the other, makes the tone of India.

There is no universal Indian-ness to attach to the entire country. There is no definition of love that can be captured that makes the India we all cherish the substance of a picture. That is the only common thread (and i do not include the people that hate this country...they are bound to it in ways that are unpleasant and they do not fall under the purview of this opinion) that makes us all Indian. It is not language and it is not culture. None of that is truly common and none of that can truly tell the story of a nation that is caught between humility and an innate pride.

Generous, though i am and i will not deny that people are more than allowed to have their own image of this country. They have their reasons and they have their inspiration. They have the right to make India look the way they want to. They could make her look poor and they could paint her in the affluent colours of wealth. They could, very well, take a picture of the parched earth and call that India and challenge the forests to retort with a worthy response.

The India of a photograph is as elusive as a dream in the morning. It is a feeling left behind after achievement and it is the bittersweet sadness of growing older. The picture of India is a resonating reflection of all the vivacious, insolent and abject realities that make this country one entity, however arguably, but one nonetheless.

Coming Back to Life

2009-04-18T18:53:00.002+05:30

Discover a song. Not just the melody or the lyrics. No. The soul of the song. Find the song that speaks to your soul, the very deepest reaches of it and embrace it: one note to the next. Begin by letting it penetrate your consciousness. Leave it there, just under the surface for a a long, endless moment. That moment bears your definition.

Then watch as it becomes a part of you. Feel it as it settles to roost under your skin. Hear it as it weaves trails through heart, mind and the soul that you believed was beyond reach. Then make a conscious effort to gather up that song and fly up to all the places that it wants to take you. The feelings are totally brilliant. And this is without the aid of any addictives, narcotics, alcohol...NOTHING.

When you find the songs that you have been waiting for, it's a dam burst of emotions that you never allowed yourself to feel before. Maybe the permission was always there. The cue just didn't sound perfect...right.

Keep yourself on to the song and you'll discover you can't do without it. You cannot close your eyes and make the day go away unless you have the final strains of that well beloved echoing reassuringly through your mind, empty of all other thought, the strains of music demanding all the weary yet happy attention that you can muster for it. There's something about a song like that that will leave you feeling like you're living with an unrequited love. Soon you'll be craving for something tangible to make you feel so uplifted. Something tangible: so much better than a waif, a nymph, a dryad of a feeling that you can never quite keep with you, within you, around you.

The song will echo of all the right things, all the feelings that are the stuff of dreams. You will feel the song take you up into a strong, warm embrace. You will feel it coursing through your veins. It is the song you've been looking for. And this is the moment to love it irrevocably. You might find, one day that there is another one to take its place. But your well beloved will forever remain, like the memory of a real love, to make you reminisce while you move one...

Mommy,can we buy Dandiya sticks ?

2009-04-17T23:13:00.007+05:30

*shuffles in muttering something about writer's block*

So I recently watched the movie "Little Zizou" . Either the kid's name was Zizou or this is some sort of homage to Zinedine's appendage.I'm sorry but for those of us like me whose minds are stationed in the gutter, it was the first thing we thought of.Now that we got that out of the way,the film followed the lives of a bunch of Parsi characters who all were in some way related to the protagonist.
I initially wanted to see this movie just cause the promos promised at least a few hilarious scenes and I knew Boman was a part of it so,in my head I was thinking lets buy that over-priced mildew they call popcorn and go watch !! What I didn't anticipate however was how refreshing it was to not be watching a movie about Mamaji,Papaji,Nanaji,bUa and gang but to experience a world I'm far more familiar with where all women who aren't your Mother or Grandmother are called "Auntie" and all men who aren't your Father or Grandfather are called "Uncle" .There is something extremely heartwarming about watching religious minorities struggle to assert their Indian-ness all the while trying to hide some of the stark differences they have with the rest.Its this complex mixture of apologetic awkwardness combined with a lot of pride and tolerance.

There are a few things I'll bet every Catholic kid had to face growing up. Well if they didn't face any of these things it was probably cause they grew up in a more enlightened society unlike me, who grew up in the suburbs.Firstly, no one accepts that you can be Maharashtrian AND Catholic. I'll bet half of them thought we had been dropped down here after being air-lifted from Rome. Second, I've had to answer some embarrassing questions that left me quite agog.One commonly asked one was whether we ate "chapatis" and I had to maintain a solid rhythmic nodding action while they gasped and oohed and swallowed the newly acquired information.Oh and lets not get started on our good names.I can't count the number of times I used to wish I was a Deepika or Devika.Another question commonly asked was why I didn't speak Marathi if I had the sheer audacity to say I was Maharashtrian. I'm sure a lot of you'll smirking aren't quite sure either so...here goes.A lot of catholics do speak marathi but due to inter marriages between Catholics of various regions ,like East Indian, Goan ,Malyali catholics etc alot of them had to speak English which is why the regional languages often got lost in all the rush to "put a ring on it".So, while my Dad's family spoke Marathi for generations and my dad could write Marathi poetry if he wanted to, on my Mom's side English was spoken at home so as a result I was the only little kid who knew everything you learn in preschool at two just cause the only language we spoke at home was English.

I'd like to make one thing clear though, the Catholic point of view I'm bringing up here is strictly one of a family that had been converted centuries ago and not of the recently converted Protestant/Christian scheduled class Hindus .I mostly wanted to make this distinction because they do not have the same lifestyles and habits as those who adopted everything they could of the European lifestyle all those centuries ago.There are however a lot of catholics who were converted by the "goras" but didn't move to the cities (Like my Dad's lot who were often taken to be Brahmin Hindus with their pale skin and fluent Marathi) ,so while their customs and traditions remained the same the only thing that differentiated them from their neighbours was their religion.

Growing up a lot of us heard a few horror stories of gruesome killings of missionaries but you shrug it off assuming that there isn't any eminent threat and that's just a small section of the public that resents the presence of minorities but then you have to wonder how political parties that have been openly anti-secular have been able to thrive due to large-scale approval.Isn't equal rights for all desirable or is it just a bothersome concern that isn't important enough in comparison to progress or infrastructure.(my little plug for Soniaji)

In a country where so much of patriotism is linked to Hinduism you have to wonder if a tiny bit of your identity was stolen when your ancestors were converted.It did make us different and different is so often seen as threatening and strange to so many people.After watching a film called "Delhi 6" I realized that there wasn't a single cultural aspect to the film I could relate to. If culture in India is so tied up to religion,does that make the culture of the Catholic sect a different one ? After eighteen years I'm still not able to kick off that feeling of wearing red to a "black and white" themed party.But its nice to know that there aren't differences anymore for my generation.My grandfather (Political Major and all round genius) still worries that i don't have any catholic friends.He assumes that "our kind of people" can only be friends with each other which might have been true when he was growing up but the consideration for one's religions simply seems diminished as religion doesn't really determine your way of life anymore does it ? We're all pretty much the same now-a-days anyway,while religion has taken its place as more of a personal consideration rather than a criteria for your habits,language or lifestyle.

I hope there was something enlightening about this post. I won't beg for comments though.. My writing merely provokes me to think and that's all..
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well,I was lying, I only write for public recognition.Please tell me you didn't hate it. Cheerio.
*Dramatically unfurls cape and vanishes*

And She's Hot Also

2009-04-09T23:36:00.004+05:30

I was watching an episode of Bones the other day and marvelling at how Bones manages to have a perfect bod and porcelain complexion while being insanely smart and kicking butt with as much testosterone-fuelled ardour as Booth. Then there's Liz Lemon from 30 Rock who is a woman so cool and so hot at the same time that it's a wonder her appeal hasn't turned tepid since the show's debut. There's even Dr. Juliet Burke from Lost who is such a genius that she had a male rat give birth (yes, you read right) but has a waist that Dr. Jack 'Hottie' Shepherd can span with his hand and hair so luxuriously blonde you wonder whether there's an ad campaign for L'Oreal being shot secretly somewhere.

I mean what. the phug.

Is it a case of life imitating art or vice versa? Are all women really that attractive and cerebral? I mean I like the idea of a beautiful nerd as much as the next person but is it a bit disconcerting to be bombarded with media portrayals of ladies who look like supermodels and think like Nobel laureates? There is a sort of inverse sexism at work here: we often bemoan the fact that airbrushed pictures on magazine covers send out the wrong message to girls that they can only be valued if they look like that. But I have a bone to pick with this perverse sub-strand of chauvinism permeating our popular culture which communicates to girls an even more harrowing message: it's not enough to be smart. You have to look like that anyway.

Why I say this is more damning is because in the first instance, the entire value of a woman is being placed in her physique but in the second, value is actually being wrested away from her intellect and bestowed upon her physical appeal. It reminds me a bit of the Beauty Pageant and the imagery it evokes of a swimsuit-clad siren answering presumably thought-requiring questions. She could answer a (arguably more intelligent) question on the road, in a boardroom, at a university debate...but she does so flaunting her figure on a stage. I never really understood that. I firmly believe that a beauty pageant should be just that: a BEAUTY pageant; stop trying to endow it with some misguided notion of political correctness.

Coming back to my earlier contention about media portrayals of women, I read this article a year or so ago, in The New Yorker (here it is: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/07/23/070723fa_fact_denby) which mentioned the invasion of the slacker-striver pairing in romantic comedies of the past decade. You have a useless, dim-seeming, nice enough , non-fugly bloke coupling with a career-driven, successful, very pretty woman and this has been passed off as a rather staple archetype in not just romantic comedies but also TV shows since the mid '90s/early '00s. The idea is that the woman cannot be anything but bright and upwardly-mobile, efficient and alpha, professionally powerful and of course, she must be gifted with long legs and perky breasts to boot (the 18-35 male demographic being the prime consumer of romantic comedies???). As the article asks, where are the women who aren't that awesome? Are they languishing in development hell as the protagonists of Oscar bait 'women's movies' or as sidekicks and dispensable love interests of the hero in another male-oriented 'dick flick'?

My truck with this rests on aforementioned social and aesthetic grounds. But there is one last angle to consider: what about the men? If you google 'good looking nerd' you'll only get a bunch of pages about the hottest female celebs who also have a brain. But why is it that men aren't put under the same microscope? It can hardly be because women don't mind ugly, stupid partners...although that's what Hollywood (and Bollywood, though its problems are way more complex) is conditioning females to believe. And I don't think women are less shallow than men and don't mind a so-so face as long as he can string a sentence together. Why wouldn't girls want to be in the company of great looking guys who are also very smart?It's also a little dangerous to be repeatedly hinting to women that they should just 'settle' under the specious marquee a seemingly feminist 'self-fulfilment' agenda.

There'll be whole bunch of evolutionary theories and sociological responses entailing 'social capital' rationalising this trend, I'm sure, but to be fair to the real world, I have seen far more evenly matched couples (in both the IQ and the GQ departments) than scruffy, semi-literate schmos hanging with overachieving Ms 10s. I speculate that this problem is more restricted to the nebulous universe of the media but worry about the kind of pressure this is exerting on young women to not only work hard towards academic success but whip themselves into an hourglass while they're at it. Will women never be taken seriously just on the basis of just their intellect, a privilege men have been enjoying forever? Must they always have an also attached to their worth?

I like that a geek can be lovely, but if she isn't, nobody should give a damn.

My phamily and other fenomena

2009-04-05T18:49:00.005+05:30

It was his 75th birthday. It was his day and our reason to celebrate. The man i loved and dotingly called dadaji . The quiet one. The eldest of the four brother. Everyone had turned up to see him, to partake in his happiness and ours. They were adorned in sparkles and smiles all for him.

It didn't matter that the sun was beating down on us. There was too much happiness to let that little consideration come in the way of a good time. Blood brothers and in-laws shared the same jovial, familial conversation. Merriment coloured the air with it's many vibrant colours. The littlest members of the party (intended) were all around knee-level. They avoided being knocked over and trampled with the lithe ease and speed of small gymnasts. The laughter continued up into the cool environs of the restaurant. Nothing made a difference as long as the family was all together.

They had set aside a little private area for us to be what we were: an exuberant family. And it's much easier to be exuberant when you're all to yourself, away from the scrutiny of others that might not allow or understand such an open display of enjoyment. The decible levels rose happily and soared around the room. The excitement, however overflowed: enough to fill many more rooms much larger than the one that we had. The tables were set and the food came out, into the equation.

The younger grandchildren regarded the cake with the eyes of lovers, longing for a piece of that dark-gooey heaven. Conversations were interspersed with reprimanding glances and guilty little ones abstained bravely from digging their curious, purposeful fingers into the richly iced edges of the cake. The chatter rose like fireworks, happily, from each of the tables. The women spoke of kurtas, khandvi and kitchen decor. The men mused about cars, constituencies and cholestrol (the last one with the air of it all being a good joke). The children's table was the key contributor in the melee of noises. But all was forgiven. There was happiness worth 75 years to revisit.

Every now and then everyone would pause to consider the oldest brother- the one that loved stamps and bridge, his grandchildren and books- the quiet one, the white haired one and his wife sitting at their table, overwhelmed at the love and kinship that had surfaced for them, all contained in that little room.

The older siblings of the little children sat wisely at their table meting out verdicts to decide who really spilt that cake and savouring their importance with a nonchalance that comes from holding the same post of honour for such a long time. A 4 year old squirming mass of muscle and brimming eyes was seized by the proportionately tiny waistband of his jeans and hauled kicking and screaming from under a table to be sat down at the table with a large hunk of a chocolaty bribe to keep him busy for a little longer. The youngest grand-daughter was prettily paraded around by both sets of her grandparents and always had a doting audience to shadow her pattering footsteps.

The grandmothers, the senior wives looked on at the younger bahus with a fond indulgence. The husbands of both generations continued to talk and the children continued their ceaseless merriment. The afternoon passed and the celebration wound down into the streched out good-byes though everyone knew that another similar reunion was not ever further away than a month's time....

The Tale of Womanhood

2009-04-04T21:24:00.002+05:30

When you read about a world that is coming of age, you expect something. You expect to move forward from something old and reach a new reality that is better than the last. And maybe the definition of better is different from one person to another, but really, how different is it?

Sociology has led me to understand how true it is that society is not the sum total of all it's individuals. It's not a larger corollary of psychology. It is a whole different deal. And so that leads me to believe that there needs to be a general consensus on how things ought to be. That isn't, agreed, the burden of one man or one dominant group but isn't there something that needs to define the way we treat other human beings? How can those fundamentals vary so insanely from one society to another?

All this confusing rhetoric comes with the fresh injustice perpetrated by our old friends. Women are wrong on all levels, to them and it is their innate duty to correct them. To SHOW them right. To HAMMER the sense into them. Women are wrong. Women are tools. The necessary implements to secure a sure channel for their DNA to continue competing in the real world. Women are wrong. Women are tools. Women are simply appendages: to be condemned at birth, yet to be used and raped till they bear the children that might receive the same treatment again, in that sick, perverse cycle. Women are wrong. Women are tools. Women are simply appendages.

When a man is the grandfather of his daughter's child; when he uses her body as the means to a financial end that would have been possible if he worked harder instead of separating her soul from her flesh; when he allows another man to condemn his flesh and blood to the perverse existence of the in-house-family-whore, that is when every woman should feel degraded. I don't know and cannot speak for the others, but i do. I feel used and soiled, burned and bruised, battered and forsaken and most of all, i feel a revulsion- not for men- but for myself.

The tales of womanhood as on today are not the triumphant, shining beacons of CEOs, President's and pop-goddesses. No. They are the nightmares that haunt women not just in the night, but all the day through. The tales of womanhood, today, echo with the cries of a woman who cannot feel safe, not even in her dreams. This is how we have managed to live so far.

The ones of us that lead "normal" lives are living a lie. Our lives are not "normal". They are charmed. They are the fairy-tales that others pine for, cry for, are punished for. How do you sleep at night when you know that somewhere, a woman is screaming in an agony that should echo through the ages and be remembered and remedied? How do you sleep at night....?

Oh right!
I forgot...soundly....

of the moment

2009-03-28T23:01:00.002+05:30

People might just end up judging me by this one. It's one of those things that leaves the nerd in me screaming with jubilation at being embraced and shown off. This is one of those moments when the nut in me takes over and i write what i find hardest to confess.

Ok! Enough of the build-up. The nerd-osity is in your face long before i say my first words and though, now, i occasionally pretend to chafe under the tag, i revel in it most of the times.

This one is about a little thing called exams. Yes, i know. I've written about those before. But this is different. This is one of those wacky confessions that is going to leave one half of it's readership in splits and the other half gaping in pity. I can never tell which is which. But getting down to brass tacks...finally... I love the feeling of pounding out a paper.

Exams give me this mad rush of adrenalin that's never bad. While the hours slither by like a sinuous boa in the sands, i am happily burning out the ink and spitting out page after page of what could have been crap, but what looks like a loopy and exhaustive answer. I know a tee-shirt that says: "If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, then baffle them with bullshit" and the marks will come a tumblin' at ya!

The soft rustle as a sheet of paper is turned, the random little coughles and the severely tense atmosphere in the room where feverish attempts are made to nail those ever-elusive marks are sounds of the most charged atmosphere to me a lot of times. You can alost hear as pens strain to grind through the paper and into the wretched grooves on the persecuted desks. You can sense the breathing of the person behind you, next to you, in fron of you....THREE ROWS FROM YOU...quicken ambiguously. Does it mean that she knows or does that mean that she's met her match? There's no time to tarry. Ponder later. Your own battle is still neatly smiling at you from the question paper.

You roll up your sleeves. Your tic takes over. Knuckles crack. Caps click open and shut again. That point evades you, slides into the folds of your brain and slips away among the many layers of things that you know that you should remember but can't quite tell what they were. The supervisor moves nervously. A cheat? Or just plain restless? She hasn't looked up for an hour now...is her neck ok? He looks like he's going to write clean off the page if he goes at that speed! And he's surely missing a thought. A student sees the supervisor looking. The look is a blank far off stare.

She's searching the silence for some action. Your eyes are tempted. They follow. But then that dull purple grey of the question paper has more for you to tackle. You look back. Seconds per word. The pace gets hotter.

Ah! That final point! But wait! I can't relax! Have i done everything? More crackling joins you as if in accompaniment. The papers have all been tuned and grooved to sound the same: battered yet strangely musical. The worst is over. Shaking hands wield a pencil. The ruler is forgotten. Time will not permit it. Sub headings are distinguished from that mass of anxious text. The final line skids to a halt!

Phew! Saunter out. Breathe. It's over. Until the next one.

Glossed Over

2009-03-20T20:05:00.005+05:30

Make up for the longest time to me was the few dabs of powder and the reddish pink wax my mother smudged onto her lips all the while hurrying me and my sister to put on our sandals before heading out of the house.Needless to say makeup wasn't a big thing in my home. Any shadow of interest shown by me was met by a slightly amused smile from mom and ridicule courtesy my sister. My initiation into Jr college meant a whole new world opening up for me. To me honestly the people(I don't want guys to feel left out) who wore it were much more interesting than the concept itself.It was worn on an everyday, sun or rain, light or dark basis by those girls. You know which ones I speak of.The ones who carry handbags that even match their carefully picked out eyeliner and who you secretly wish are evil.To me half the challenge of getting myself ready for college was waking up at 6.What I eventually found out was that there was this whole other species out there who were applying their face for the day while I scrubbed the tiredness off my face in the sink.Nothing shocked me more than seeing these seemingly ordinary people looking like they walked off a fashion shoot of some sort at that hour in the morning.Maybe they had mirrors for palms...I never quite found out..Anyway, like all 16yr olds I was interested in this whole way to play up your features. To me it was and still is just FUN.You get to experiment with your look and as our generation has lost any interest in expressing itself through its thoughts,ideas and personality in general it revels in expressing itself through various other mediums like cell phones ,backpacks,shoes and make-up included.I honestly never understood the concept of expressing yourself by strutting around in a few brands Daddy bought you.That's not expressing yourself ,that's barely posing as a mobile advertisement for the nearest luxury mall.For example do you believe all the people wearing Nike are sporty ? Snort.I'll accept there are exceptions where people really do express themselves through their look,like goth,emo etc. Anyway, that's a whole other argument.

Right so all parties must understand I hold no right or intention to mock or snub, I merely state that I don't particularly enjoy or recommend having to apply a load of gunk onto your face every time you step out of your home.At least not until you have to and shops offer you free products out of pity. There does come a time when it would be necessary to look particularly put-together but guess what ,17 isn't it .

Besides, I don't think you can really fool anybody into thinking that is really what you look like,people can use their imagination faster than you can say "eyelash curler" to picture what lies beneath all the cover-up. And you don't want anyone not recognizing you the day you forget (god forbid) to put any make-up on which could lead to some awkward moments. Basically at our age make-up is fun to play around with and use from time to time but don't be obsessed enough to let people only see you with it all on.All The Time. What the beauty brands which pitch products to teenagers don't tell you is that your face(I mean your real one) will probably never look as good as it does now and you don't need it to be perfect to define who you are.Just don't let yourself make it who you are.

ETA : The above was written two years ago. Now at 18 I still feel the same way.Consider it a lack of growth or whatever but I feel like the self-image of girls is at its worst and to have so many brands cashing in on it makes me sick.What worries me more is the consumers seem to be getting younger. Good Lord, there is nothing sadder than a 14 yr old Paris-Hilton wannabe with luminous glossed up lips doing something completely random like shopping. I refuse to believe its for "fun", its to impress, period.

The 10 Commandments of Watching a Movie With the Folks

2009-03-17T18:53:00.004+05:30

Scene. Saturday night. It’s been a long week; you’ve just wrapped up homework and finished with your tests. Time to unwind. And what could be a better way to do this than to watch a movie. Fine, there are tons of better ways to utilise your time like solving world hunger and finding a cure for cancer but work with me ok? Just as you pop in the DVD and the bowl of corn (geddit, geddit? Pop in the movie and popcorn), the metallic gnarl and click of the key turning in the lock shatters the calm and in barges your mother with the grocery and/or your father with the evening newspaper. (DISCLAIMER: This statement in no way reiterates the conventional gender roles in a double parent household and the parents' baggage can be switched according to the sensibility of the reader). And there goes the movie. Because you totally cannot watch it with the ‘rents. Can you?

1.Thou shalt not pretend to watch a “kid’s” movie to please your parents. Now exactly what constitutes one is open to debate but I’m guessing Village of the Damned ain’t one of them. Be honest. Don’t cheat. It doesn’t look nice when that ‘animated’ film turns out to be Sin City.

2.Thou shalt abide by the rating system whenever possible. The point being, films are classified for a reason. Don’t watch NC-17 if you’re not 17. Gladiator was R-rated but that was only because people below the age of 13 were probably going to die of boredom at some stage. If your parents are over 50, chances are they’ll be snoring through the second fight scene. Except your mum, who might stay awake a little while longer because Russell Crowe looks nice in a skirt. Quick, hide all the phones now.

3.Thou shalt not laugh, smile or show any emotions at all if a joke about sex is cracked. Pretend not to get it, act dumb or just keep eating the popcorn. If your parents laugh, do NOT laugh with them…that's exactly what they want, it’s a cunning ploy to get you to snigger at something you’re not supposed to know about till you’re older, whatever that means.

4.Thou shalt get up and go to the washroom/get some more popcorn/change into your pyjamas/sign up for military service whenever you sense a ‘lurve scene’ looming. We teenagers, world-weary and street smart as we are, know exactly when the two main leads are going to get it on. Disappear before this happens. If you don’t, you will spend the next few minutes pretending to disappear, which isn’t nearly as effective. Think of it as helping your parents. Be a good kid.

5.Thou shalt not relinquish the remote control to either parent under the worst kind of torture. It’s your film. You rented it. Sure, they paid for it at some level of your microeconomic setup but essentially, you went down to Blockbuster, you braved the funny looks everyone gave you when you asked for Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang at the only volume that video store clerks can hear, you waited till the oily haired schmo, who thinks he’s gonna sell his script for a million dollars and become the next Tarantino, punched in the name of the film you wanted FIVE times before he got the spelling right and it was you, dear reader who walked all the way from the mean streets of your town to get home with the DVD safely tucked away, braving muggers and video piracy cops. Ipso facto, the film is yours. Remember, she who has the remote, has the power. The parent will invariably sit on the remote at some point and the screen will go blank so you’ll have to restart or they’ll jab some button that’ll have everyone in the film speaking in Tagalog or they’ll try and increase the volume and will instead increase the brightness, making it impossible to make out what’s happening in the blinding glare. Then they’ll look sheepish while you cringe. Cue row. Avoid it. Keep the remote control with you at all times.

6.Thou shalt not mention the cast at any time unless it’s a movie made in prehistoric times i.e. an era with which the folks are familiar. Phrases like Keira Knightley or Jake Gyllenhaal might be hard for your parents to understand. That would make them feel inadequate, which is not something we want. Stick to the stuff they know.

7.Thou shalt not make any comments about the film’s storyline during the actual watching of the film. Do you know how annoying it is? “Yeah she’s the one who was in…”, “No, you’re confusing her with…”, “Hey isn’t he supposed to be the bad guy?”…”Ooh, they’re gonna blow it up aren’t they?” Watch. The. Movie.

8.Conversely, if your parents are the kind who discuss the plot threadbare and state the most obvious facts while watching the film, thou shalt feign temporary deafness or, better yet, make the remote control conspicuous. That’ll show them who’s in charge. Clear your throat if this doesn’t work. In a last ditch attempt, jump on the couch and proclaim undying love for the guy/girl on screen. Who am I kidding? This won’t work but do it anyway for kicks. It worked for certain people who shall remain unnamed. *Cough* Tom Cruise *Cough*. Your parents definitely won’t talk about the film after this.

9.Thou shalt never, ever acknowledge that anything on screen even remotely resembles anything in your own life. If you do, you shall be subjected to low budget indie movies about dysfunctional families for the rest of your life. Don’t nod your head or exchange glances with your parents at any time during a film, even if it’s Jurassic Park 3…they’ll derive a metatextual post-modernist theory about how dinosaurs attacking humans is a way of demonising the older generation for the younger one. Parents are strange creatures, as much as we love them. Refrain from eye contact.

10.Thou shalt earnesly avoid watching anything but PG fare and foreign films with your old man and old lady. PG stands for Parental Guidance. Means your parents have got to “guide” you. R stands for restricted. Means you’re barred from watching it with them. No, seriously, save the American Pie movies for the sleepovers. Watch obscure foreign films by people with exotic sounding names like Ozu and Truffaut (basically anything hard to pronounce…er…except Paul Veerhoven. He made Basic Instinct). That’ll convince your parents you’re a patron of the arts and have a sense of high culture. In this case you can also ignore Commandment 3 because in arty movies ‘getting’ the jokes will make you look smarter in front of your parents. Score the brownies!

Well, I suppose this is it for the moment. If I remember anything else the next time I’m watching a movie with my old man and old lady, I’ll take mental notes to enlighten you with, dear reader. Till then,

~Om~

यह आप कैसी बातें कर रहे हैं?

2009-02-26T22:51:00.005+05:30

फरवरी के एकदम अंत में यह कहना शायद थोड़ा फीका लगे लेकिन मुझे विश्वास है की यह एक ऐसा विषय है जिसपर जितनी टिप्पणी की जाए कम है - वैलेंटाइन'स डे। अभी चंद क्षणों पहले ही मेरी एक मित्र ने मुझे उस अतिउपयोगी माध्यम 'फसबूक' के ज़रिये एक तस्वीर भेजी, एक बोर्ड की, जिस पर वैलेंटाइन'स डे के विरुद्ध एक पूरा निबंध लिखा गया था। यह बोर्ड कॉलेज के बाहर स्थित था और हमारे महाविद्यालय के होनहार क्षात्रों में से किसी ने उसकी तस्वीर खींच ली। इस निबंध में नजाने क्या अनाप-शनाप बातों (क्या आप जानते हैं की कुंवारी लड़कियों के स्वाभिमान को इस दिन की कृत्रिम प्रेम-प्रणाली से ठेंस पहुँचता है) पर बड़े ही गंभीर रुख में अध्ययन किया गया है। मैनें सोचा, कितनी बेरोज़गारी हो गई है इस देश में जो घर बैठे निठल्ले व्यक्ति जिनहैं लगता है की भारत की लड़कियों को ज्ञान देना उनका कर्त्तव्य हैं। बाल विवाह, नारियों की बढ़ती निरक्षरता, असंतुलित स्त्री-पुरूष अनुपात शिशुह्त्या के कारण उनकी घटती संख्या , देह व्यापार एवं अनेक मानसिक, कानूनी और शारीरिक अत्त्याचार जो की इस देश की महिलाओं पर आए दिन डहे जाते हैं...ये सब कुच्छ लोगों के प्रेम सम्बन्ध होने से कम महत्त्वपूर्ण हैं। मानना पड़ेगा हिन्दुत्त्व विचारधारा को, यह 'समाज के ठेकेदार' और 'सभ्यता के रक्षक' हमारे देश की संस्कृति की 'रखवाली' अगर यूँ ही करते रहे तो भगवान ही मालिक है!

Why song writers are rich..

2009-02-26T19:53:00.006+05:30

I haven't been around for a while, partly owing to the fact that one of my pieces was deragatory to the young and stupid and we've had a lot of that recently so onto something I love and not strongly dislike.Also, its been hard to sleep at night when I know my fellow bloggers are typing away bleary-eyed.

I love music and I love making lists. This started up as a doodle and before I knew it I was hunched over my mp3 player, thinking hard and writing in margins. One of the reasons I love to watch American Idol is not just the talent that shows itself when you least expect it, but I love listening to songs redone by artists with different styles (The other reason is, I love guessing what paula is drinking from that cup). Originality is not big on AI I know, but even the slightest change in voice or melody or tempo is extremely exciting to me. Sometimes, I even like the covers better than the original *cough* Beatles *cough* Then there are the songs that have been done so many times, no one knows whom the original was by. Little tip ; its usually by the Beatles.Here are a bunch of covers I would recommed.

Here Comes the Sun - Sheryl Crow (The Beatles)
Hello - david Cook (Lionel Richie, I hate the original with a deep burning fire in my soul)
Always Be my Baby - David Cook (Mariah Carey)
Jealous Guy - Gavin Degraw (John Lennon)
Love me tender - Norah Jones (Elvis Presley)
Daydream Believer - Mary Beth Maziarz (The Monkees)
Don't dream its over - Sixpence none the richer (Crowded House)
Something - Jim Sturgess (The Beatles)
Free Falling - John Mayer (Tom petty and the Heartbreakers)
Umbrella - Mandy Moore (Rihanna)
Wonderful World- Joey Ramone (Louis Armstrong)*
Somewhere only we know- Lifehouse (Keane)
You belong to me - Jason Wade*
God only knows - Claudine Longet (The Beach Boys)
Hallelujuah - Kate Voegele (Jeff buckley)
At Last - Eva Cassidy/Matt Belsante*
You don't know me - Jann Arden*
Crazy Little Thing Called Love - McFly (Queen)
I want to hold your hand - T.V.Carpio (The Beatles)
All I want to do - Whitney Duncan (Sheryl Crow)

* My favourite version of a song done so many times no one cares to know who it was originally recorded by.

Okay so, comment with any good covers I could look into and I'll be back later with a Recap/Review of Delhi-Abhishek-dies-6-times .

On Behalf of Cigarettes

2009-02-23T16:27:00.003+05:30

Enough of this preaching. Enough of this ‘smoking kills’ overdose that is reiterated by non-experts over and over again until it gets me absolutely, totally irritated. And tired. There are the moral police. And then there are the cigarette police. How many of you cigarette-haters have ever bothered to check the numbers? Or look beyond the propaganda bombarded our way everyday?

No, I am not a smoker. Not fond of others blowing smoke all over my face either. But for once, I feel for them. It’s not always peer pressure or a lame craving to appear in vogue that gets people to smoke. (In any case, today the fad is to hate smoking, it’s simply not cool.) Has anyone considered the possibility that one may smoke simply because one likes to smoke? Ah, but yes, nicotine is addictive. So all smokers simply must be a bunch of lying addicts desperately trying to give up the habit, only sinking in deeper and deeper as they scramble harder and harder to disengage. Just another cliché! A lot of the smokers I know do not over do it. Perhaps a cigarette or two, once a day. Everyone has a way to de-stress themselves. Some have an ice cream or a chocolate (the latter is also, if I may add, highly addictive. And we even feed it to kids!) Others have chips. Are they really that much safer than cigarettes?

Obesity has become a much bigger threat among youth today. What about all those Maggie packets that come without any warning label whatsoever? Is there any propaganda and cant to hammer it into people’s heads that Maggie may damage our brain cells? Tobacco companies at least warn us. Do alcohol bottles come with a danger sign? Alcoholism is often followed by domestic abuse, which is, once again, a far greater concern today. And drunk driving. The consequences of smoking at least are, more often than not, limited only to the smokers. As for that matter of cigarettes may causing lung cancer and respiratory problems, the pollution in our cities is ten times more potent and chooses its victims much more indiscriminately. The possible dangers of smoking are over-rated and over-hyped. And do you anti-smoking tyrants ever give a thought to the fact that this cancer is only a possibility and not a certainty? I mean, how many things are actually NOT carcinogenic these days?

Anyway, smokers hardly even have a place to smoke today. Like one of the T.V. channels pointed out, there are few places apart from the bathroom and the bedroom where one may inhale these ‘obnoxious’ and ‘nauseous’ tendrils of poison in ease. So fears of the perils of passive smoking may lie at rest. Give them a break, for God’s sake! If you hate cigarettes and think them fatal, it is your decision and choice. Do not impose it on others. Let us choose for ourselves. Let them choose for themselves. They have made their choice. We all know that cigarettes are potentially (only potentially!) harmful. They have been warned. Let those who still choose to smoke, lose themselves in that haze in peace. It is our and their liberty. Smoking may kill. But so may eating, driving, swimming and flying. Indeed, even hiding under your bed or standing under a tree is potentially deadly. You’re going to die anyway. What matters is living your life, your own way.

Meanwhile, thank you for smoking.

(P.S. I’ve written this because I remembered our resolution to maintain continuity and carry further each other’s articles. Karishma’s tirade against smoking just reminded me of my own in favour of it. That was a very well-written post, but I disagree with the content more or less completely.)

An Analogy: The product of pointless and unnecessary resentment

2009-02-15T20:00:00.003+05:30

Sometimes old curios lead to more than just the acceptable levels of possessiveness of inanimate objects that are symbolic of all the things during our vulnerable tenure as a colony of the Crown.

Take for instance the Koh-i-Noor. Reduced to a mere 58% of it's original weight and placed in an array along with many more others of its kind, the jewel has been marginalised most brutally for the "glory" of just another monarch.

No one said life was fair but in this time of globalisation i have become more sensitised to the analogy that can be drawn from that magnificent gem and here i plan to make it known.

India was once an empire. Controlled, almost always, by a King not from within. The whole situation was characterised by a rule of "foreigners". Many "looted" but none as perfectly and as systematically as the British Raj. As much as we owe to them, they only gave in order to receive. The colonialism that we were subject to was capitalist colonialism at it's best/worst (where do you stand?). There have been a million tales of the suppression, etc, but that is not what i am going to talk about. Local rulers supress too and if you're going to tell me that's it's ok if the suppression if from within, then sod off!

BUT, look at the economy. Agrarian, we have always been but the manner in which we have been now scachled to the land is soemthing that could only have come along by manner of the metaphorical exodus of workers from their traditional occupations to tilling the over-worked, over-burdened land. The wealth of the country was whittled away on a starving populace and on the demanding sustainance of a domineering "mother country" though i only see HER as the cliched "evil step-mother".

Keeping up the flow of the income to match the serious disappearance of money and other significant valuables from the local coffers was worse than merely impossible and there came a time when that disparity in the flow meant that there was nothing left to give but more than enough to "owe". Keeping in mind that the salaries of first the E I Co.'s workers and then on the servants of the queen, plus the locals in employ and all the other day to day expenditures all came out of the trove at home, there is some seriously impossible accounting math to do.

Now add to that the almost-annual feature of a few famines sprinkled around, s'more unaccountable expenses and what do you have? A country that's going bankrupt...and fast.

Nothing feels better than freedom, eh? But what is freedom without the money...in this case or for that matter in any other? It's a little crippled. Not so much freedom as...well the sense of wings that won't work...right?

Pensez, s'il vous plait!

The Having Of An Opinion

2009-02-06T20:02:00.001+05:30

In college, the one thing I have had to come to terms with is the sheer volume of opinions. Everyone’s has one...they’re like majors, everyone’s gotta have ’em. There isn’t anything wrong with this of course, except when the pressure to have the right opinion becomes suffocating.

You have people sitting around and debating issues without really understanding each other’s viewpoints and what’s worse, unwilling to cede ground even when the other guy makes more sense. At this point, what could have been an interesting conversation about a contentious issue devolves into sophist one-upmanship (or up-personship?) with an obsession to prove oneself as being the one that’s gotten it all figured out.

It’s just pointless to begin talking about anything if the sole purpose of your ‘contributions’ is an attempt to oust your interlocutor from the ‘Smart’ category from the minds of those listening. Besides, then you’re not reaching any kind of common ground or solving the proposed problem or probing further into the topic at hand...all the functions of a healthy argument.

If you’re going to be vociferous about your assertions, and often this is simply a way of talking rather than any actual rhetorical exercise, then it’s fine as long as you acknowledge the other perspectives around you and try to make sense of them in the framework of your tirades. But arguing for the sake of arguing has become all too common, at least in Fergusson. And it’s worse than being stupid, it’s just unnecessary.

2009-02-03T20:42:00.002+05:30

People love making promises. They have the resolve to be resolved about an issue. But there's just no will to see it through. Like kicking the habit of smoking. It's looking like it's harder for the people who've just about started smoking for a couple of years to kick the habit than people who've been at it for at least a couple of decades.

There's some forbidden thrill to watching the smoke curl past your lips and nostrils, isn't there. There looks like there's some redemption in the acrid smoke burning through your insides to consume your body, slowly. The sheer numbers of teens who are making it look like they were all born Humphrey Bogarts with the cigarette (in their case not dear old Humphrey's...HE had a cigar!) clamped between their lips.

Young smokers make it appear that there's some lost and forgotten greatness to watching yourself turn into the image of the smoker. Black lips, greying teeth, the puffy face and the unusual weight patterns. There's little to counter the fad and there are people who are happy to support the insanity making it look like there's nothing better than the way life looks through the blue-grey haze of the smoke. They seem to revel in the nauseating stench of the smoke as it clings to them: their clothes, their skin, their possessions, their thoughts. They have it made for them, don't they, when they begin to shake and shiver when they haven't been able to get those precious drags off their potent "elixir" of life. They believe that the killer smoke will save them from their lives.

It's nigh impossible to see that there are lesser evils that help you battle all the "tremendous stress and frustration" that comes as a package deal with the life of an average teenager. They have their justifications that keep them more alive than their cigarettes and their smokes keep them more satisfied than a whole lot of other more fatal things. Tell them that they're going to die and all they can say is that they know. "Temptation" has always found herself to be the scapegoat in the situation and "peer pressure" lends it's assistance to every sentence of justification. There's nothing more infuriating than the hold of the blasted cigarettes on them. They'll promise to change. They'll be proud when they do. They'll make vows to keep people happy and then, at the drop of a hat they are enticed by the invitingly obnoxious tendrils of smoke that infiltrate their minds and make them slaves to the habit.

Smoke it all away...if you don't earn yourself, then it's the best way to LITERALLY burn away the money that once belonged to your parents that now goes to fund your suicide, your slow, painful suicide. Look beyond your own cravings; there are other people if not you who value your lives...

LET ME SLEEP!!!

2009-01-24T22:00:00.005+05:30

I have realised the that inevitable strain that i take on in my writings revolves around the realisations that have become the dominant part of my life as a teen in this country.

Keeping a people motivated was never an easy job. In the past there was constant and evident political turmoil that was enough to churn the social stew into decisive action without wasting too much time on the "Realisation process". However that was then. This is now. There is a dramatic change in the political climate, today. Not to be mistaken as a sobering up of leaders or any such work of fiction. NO! I mean that the people, the social stew, is less easily provoked. They have plenty of time to live and not enough time to be responsible for their lives.

The rate of that process of realisation has slackened to now represent the feeble attempts of a slug trying to run a marathon. Though the political climate is as charged (if not more; what with all the corruption and other general shit...) as what it used to be, there are less people bothering to get up and be moved or for that matter be mobilised by the various forces that, once upon a time, could very well unsettle the deep-seated complacency of the people. The people are less inclined to note that the downfall of the political system has everything to do with them. They aid and abet it and they will...WE will be the ones crushed by it as it reels toward redundancy. WE will be the perpetrators as well as the victims.

The sad irony is that we must wait for something like this before we even decide to move our muscles toward a new anything...beginnings aside, i will be supremely grateful even if we do manage to rake up a better start for the next chapter of our democracy. The advent of Republic Day has long since lost it's thrall as the general motivator of the masses toward sustained patriotism, real patriotism. Yes, we do love our country. But the days on which we are prepared to be agents of change can be counted on two fingers. And even then, that willingness will only last so long as the sun is low in the morning sky and the significance of the National Holiday has come heralding sleep-ins.

We are lost to realisations. We have drifted off into this realm, into a stupor that has managed to pry the real democracy away from our lifeless fingers. We have made the most of that lethargy. We have embraced it.

We cry foul, shout "bloody murder!" all at the drop of a hat. At the events that warrant more than just the disapproving shaking of fists, we hold peace marches and candle-lit walks. We raise slogans and paint angry banners. We "rise" together to battle that spectre of "evil" that invades our dreamy, fitful sleep. But that is all. We awaken to the nightmare but we are quickly cajoled into shutting our eyes again...like a child on a winter's morning...and we go back to the slumber to whom we have forfeited our ability to declare proudly that we are "Free, Independent, A Democracy". Our lullaby is soon to be our dirge. We surrender, we surrender. Take it. Our minds are yours. Just so long as you let us sleep....

College C: I

2009-01-20T19:30:00.005+05:30

There are Commandments. They must be followed. Lesson #1: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife (read as pal's crush/significant other/ex).

The tale begins innocently enough as a potentially covetable specimen steals onto the scene...or more often than not...swaggers in (amidst collective sighing and fainting) and begins to flash that dazzling smile, turning it on full blast for the benefit of the already weak kneed other half of the populace. Then the race begins. One person has to just mention it and then the epidemic is unstoppable. There's a new case of "iwantiosis fatalis" everywhere you turn to look. For most, it's an interesting experience. The swooning and the helplessness. To others, the spectacle of all those reeling bodies is priceless, guffaw-worthy even.

But the laugh dies on the lips. The silence presses in as you realise you stand alone. Friends have fallen prey and you have no way to reach through the haze and shake them out of their pitiful/pining/euphoric/manically depressing stupor and the fog creeps tentatively. It all begins at your fingers. Your good intentions twitch and die. Swiftly, painfully. You don't notice anything out of the ordinary until you become a part of the group that he/she hangs out with...sometimes...but often enough. You're a goner too.

But there are people who have more of a chance with that (lets make this easier for me to talk about...let's use the gender i associate this thing with...) King of Charisma. They're the ONE who has more potential simply by virtue of getting there first... So you back off. Reluctantly. Sometimes you know that the now-crush will go on to become her significant other and you seethe. You plot. You cov-v-v....

Shit! Commandment!

A PIFFin' good time

2009-01-16T00:48:00.005+05:30

I could only watch five films at the Pune International Film Festival '09. The reasons why and why not, well, they're too tedious to go into on a community blog. I shall leave self-pity behind and plunge instead, into giving you the dope on the five films I did manage to see.

1. The Deserted Station directed by Alireza Raisian

In a word, functional. The adjective perhaps doesn't befit the beauty of the film, nor its protagonist, essayed by the lovely Leila Hatami but the film truly works as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. It seemed to be about miscommunication and half attention. People pretend not to hear, get left behind, have to be fetched and so on. A sort of in media res snapshot of a day in a village school unfurled from the perspective of a woman who one doesn't even see till the first 5 minutes are over, the film tackles the basic idea of contact through themes of isolation, the interpersonal hide-and-seek people play and perhaps even the most fundamental form of disconnection with the world - death. There is an arresting scene in a stationary train which ties all of this together. And the ending - the little boy and the woman looking at each other through the open car window - was almost heartbreaking. 7/10

2.Persepolis by Vincent Paronnaud and Marjane Satrapi

Measured, relevant, poignant, comic and imbued with a female idiosyncrasy which is utterly absent in mainstream, andro-normative narratives. Named after the ancient Persian city and mining the childhood and young adulthood of a little girl growing up during the Iranian Revolution, Satrapi's autobiography provides a panoramic glance at a world that is insular and robust, that craves acceptance and is split between hemispheres and histories, much like its presenter. 8/10

3.In The Flesh by Christian Angeli

Predictable, inelegant and meandering. It neither involves one in the centrality of its protagonists nor allows you to admire the vacancy in its symbolic backdrops. The director struggles with the triteness of the themes and the ambition of the context.3/10

4.Overdose by Shmuel Imberman

Utter rubbish. By-the-numbers and banal. The only saving grace was its charming lead actress who portrayed her role with a panache that this deformed, plain and vapid vision did not deserve. Unrateable.

5.El Camino by Ishtar Yasin

Haunting, layered and compelling. A visual revelation that can be enjoyed on a completely superficial level, but if regarded with attention, excavates the deepest fears of the human soul. An almost tribal, spooky fairy tale with magic realist hints and a sense of horror that is distinctly Central American - all dark tropical jungles, resplendent butterflies, motley travellers and almost no dialogue - pervades the picaresque storyline. The marriage of otherworldly morality tale with a painfully realistic grit elevates the film, as do the sublime young actors and the stunning cinematography that explains the supernatural environment. It deserves multiple viewings. 9/10

भाषा निराशा

2009-01-15T00:16:00.008+05:30

यह विचार मुझे अचानक से ही सूजा है इसलिए भाषा शायद उतनी कलिष्ट और सटीक ना भी हो। जल्दी से अपनी बात कह दिए देती हूँ।

हिन्दीभाषी वार्तालाप तो मानो सार्वजनिक रूप में समापत ही हो चूका है। महाराष्ट्र में कुछ महीने रहने के पशचात जो एक बात मुझे बड़ी प्रशंसा के लायक प्रतीत हुई, वह है यह की मराठी भाषा को कितना सम्मान दिया जाता है। यहाँ की जनता अपनी पूर्वजों की वाणी का आदर करती हैं, इतने गर्व से उसमें प्रचार, विचार व सम्प्रेषण करती हैं...अंग्रेजी आती होगी, तो भी वे मराठी में ही बोलना पसंद करतें हैं।

जब मैं सोचती हूँ की हम हिन्दीभाषी, उत्तर भारतीय नागरिक ऐसा क्यों नहीं करतें हैं, अंग्रेजी की और हमारा झुकाव इतना क्यों है, तो मेरे सम्मुख कई ऐतिहासिक एवं सामाजिक-मनोवैज्ञानिक कारण प्रकट होते हैं। परन्तु मुझे ऐसा भी लगता है की हम उन कारणों को अपने ज़हन में बहुत वर्षों से, पीड़ियों से, अनजाने में लेकर घूम रहे हैं...मान लीजिये अंग्रेजी राज्य के बाद की एक 'सांस्कृतिक अस्तव्यस्तता' ने हमें घेर रखा है। यह उलझन हमें बड़ी ही निरार्थक वजहों के ज़रिये से विश्वास दिलाती हैं की अंग्रेजी के अतिरिक्त कोई और भाषा बोलना हमारी शान के अनुकूल है। भला यह भी कोई आधार हुआ अपनी भाषा को त्याग देने का? उठा कर बाहर फेंकने का?

अब समय आ गया है जब हम भी ठान लें की हम अपनी मातृभाषाओं का अधिकतम उप्योग कर और व्यक्तिगत तथा सार्वजनिक स्थर पर भारत की सभी बोलियों को हमारे देश के एहम विषयों के खंडन में तन्मय करें। यह सन्देश उस दिशा में एक छोटा कदम है।

धन्यवाद

Before the clique sets in...

2009-01-11T20:43:00.002+05:30

Actors are perpetually trying to evade them. There are a million people who would rather face social excommunication than have one of these and then there are those people who resignedly decide that they must live with them.

They are the tags of our nightmares. For the actors it becomes, not just the issue of the story (see Kangana Ranaut and her chronically mental roles) but also the case of the sound byte. For those less (or more...whichever side you pick) fortunate, like us, we either rebel against them, more unsuccessfully than we think or we succumb to them. Some people manage to change the tag they get stuck with from the moment they leave school to the moment they enter college. But then there are those people who not only carry forward the tags of school to college, they also manage to earn some more dubious distinctions on their new turf.

The sheer tenacity of those tags are is the most annoying thing. Sometimes you can ignore them as persistently as they follow you and at other times you realise that you must acknowledge that you get your fame only from what you're known as. You needn't try something as foolish as "break the mould" none of that mumbo jumbo works and so there's little that you can really do besides sagely look at the person addressing you by "Tag" and pretend it doesn't matter to you in the least.

While you go about living with the perception of you, you realise that there's no avoiding it and that it is possible to find it endearing (only in the most demanding of circumstances). Don't be fooled. They may seem menacing and relentless, but look deeper...all you see is a tag that craves attachment....TO YOU! :P

Don't be fazed...look on the bright side...it could have been worse...you could have remained unknown.... ;)

The Limerick Lament

2009-01-11T10:58:00.004+05:30

There was a young girl from Poona
Who wished she'd awake a tad sooner
So she could avoid classroom grog
And still write her blog
Such was the young girl from Poona.

Word.

Breathing, but not intending to inhale...

2009-01-04T20:04:00.005+05:30

Let's take a long, hard look at Retro Parkinson's Dance! Learn the moves, do the music! Keep it chilled and set the speed. Statutory warning: You may think you're moving at the speed of light but the real clincher is that YOU'RE NOT! The point is that you're too high to keep up with the things you do...life in 3D is the new and improved outlook!

I might not make sense...but the point is that you don't when you're like that. The effects of the smoke, even when you're not actively sucking it in through your mouth and then letting it pour out of your nose are unnerving enough. And all that for a couple of hours of flat-out laughter. It's all inconsequential when you wake up in the morning. I've heard tell that this is better. There's no hangover. You're just buzzed.

But yet, the purpose evades me. There's little to see if you're a mere spectator. They think that there's entertainment, but all that i could do was gawp senselessly and regard them with stupid indifference. The only thought that bothered me had nothing to do with morality, legality or the road to the other plane. Nope! The only thing that i was really worried about was me. I was feeling the effects of the dense clouds of smoke that filled the place. I didn't know that it was affecting me. I didn't know till i started to laugh convulsively at things that didn't warrant such delirious expressions of mirth.

Though they all managed to sleep soundly, if you discount those two who were apparently very busy with other pressing matters, it left me alone. All i could do was take in the mess. And then there was the warning: clear it up. Don't you people leave that there. So i cleared it up. I hadn't touched it. But i cleared the ash and the waste.

It didn't affect me in the least. I just needed to question: Why? What is the need? You don't even know that you're really having fun! But maybe that was what i saw it as, sitting on the side-lines; breathing, but not intending to inhale.

Is that a broom or your guitarist ?

2008-12-31T16:49:00.005+05:30

Chances are, if you have been to a musical concert with your friends its been a heavy-metal/rock concert.If you've been with your parents ,its a ghazal do.If you've been with your wannabee NRI cousins its been some schmaltzy jazz concert.hello ? Isn't something missing here ? Where are the concerts for those of us who prefer singing,and not screaming, and shimmying and not head banging or moshing with sweaty strangers ? Where are the concerts for those of us who want to listen to the rhythm guitarist behind the vocals instead of the constant shrieking and drumming that makes you want to clutch your chest to make sure your heart doesn't leap out and escape. Where are the concerts that don't have bands called Spinal Tap or Pin drop violence or something equally violent like piercing flesh or bleeding tears playing ? Or artists who look like regular people with slightly crumpled shirts or trousers and with hair that does not defy gravity or hang tangled and sweaty to their shoulders.Mainly artists who look CLEAN (and I mean that in a variety of ways). Where are the music concerts for those who do not want to hear incoherent screaming against the system,parents,the slutty girlfriend or whoever "they" are and the lamentations of pain.Oh puhlllease. People need to realise that the pain you pretend to relate to doesn't exist ,cause pain when expressed is not loud ,its not always aggressive or powerful.Its sad and thoughtful.Its hesitant, over analysed and preferably has a sense of irony to it. You don't feel the pain they speak about and believe me they're not singing about their pain either. Their pain is locked away for no one to see like most peoples.Its all a farce.I'd like to say there are however the bands that do express and portray troubles with class and depth and give their songs a certain beauty so I wouldn't like to blanket-judge them all.

Getting back to my point ,where are all the artists that cover or play music similar to john Mayer,Eric Hutchinson,The Beatles, Aqualung,Jason mraz,lifehouse and the like ?? I wouldn't mind a couple of McFlys here and there either !!

Has all of this obsession with rock concerts given birth to a generation of posers . A bunch of people that put on their eyeliner and head-bang and come home to their mommies to be tucked into bed all the while humming Enrique iglesias ? Just because there is only one way to be in this country- a metal head.

Note: I'm in no way anti-rock, although my preferences do lean towards the more mellow. This post isn't meant to strip rock of its position as a favourite amongst concert goers.

Please know no "rockers" were harmed during the process of typing this post.

For a Song

2008-12-25T23:05:00.001+05:30

I’ve been listening to Coldplay’s The Scientist ad nauseum these days, on my way to college. And the funny thing is I haven’t yet sickened of it. Blogging about an old, overdone song may seem like Christmas-induced verbiage but my intentions are straightforward: if like, will bore.

For some reason, I’ve rediscovered the beauty of The Scientist in the past week – its melancholy patterns, its lyricism and most of all, its sonic sweep over a particular image that erupts in my mind whenever I hear it. This odd visual is one that marries what I think is the minimalistic grandeur of the background with the clean, serious tonal trellis worked atop it – a young warrior of the ancient era is riding out to war, leaving his woman behind. Immediately after, the woman becomes a jean-clad, Chuck-heeled horse rider, pulling our man, still garbed in garments of yore, behind her on the saddle. This last is most in keeping with the ending of the song, when Chris Martin’s gentle quasi-yodelling guides us from the thought-provoking rhyme and rhythm of the second stanza into the end.

It seems to be the perfect union of old and new and a culmination of history and love, meditations on which the song always evokes in me. I especially like that one bit that goes: Questions of science/Of science and progress/Do not speak as loud as my heart. It just explains with such accessibility the whole poignancy of human evolution which we so often miss. I’m a pretty huge fan of Coldplay and this is one of my favourite songs of all time. Just thought I’d share.

Is that a lizard on your shoulder ?

2008-12-19T13:00:00.004+05:30

There are a lot of things you must know before you enlist as an Arts student.Out here The 8 simple rules of being the teenage daughter are simply turned on their head and have a smiley face drawn on them .Infact, the more number of rules you break, the more nods of approval and secret passwords you receive. For me personally all the things that made me stand out in my two years as a science student allow me to fit in as an arts student. My general aversion to clothes that "fit" , my need to analyse everything to pieces,my hair in my face devoid of glittery beads or clips,my inability to talk shizzle and fo' or get down with 'it'.My suspicion that Paul Walker is actually the Ken doll brought to life to ruin the world with his plasticity, and basically my need for something besides a maths problem to challenge me. Its all slightly hard to comprehend and surreal at first.You wonder how long you've been oblivious of this alternate clique and whether you do have what it takes to be a part of it or if you're better of turning away and banishing all memory. I'll take a crack at explaining it to you. Be warned though that this information comes from a single , hardly adequate, point of view so anyone that disagrees can stick their head back into their shells and pretend they never heard me.

We're all slightly off our rockers , which according to us, makes us unwonted (which is a good thing here, you'll see..).Call us weird and we'll shrug, trying in vain to hide our glee.Tell us our music taste is wack and we'll play it louder and sing along for everyone to hear. Its a place you can be yourself , no one's expecting you to be a non-scientific clone which is what I love about it.Most of the arts peeps have the supreme and invaluable knowledge that this isn't a competition and that what they are is what makes them special and you couldn't ask for more than special right ? Being different isn't a bad thing when everyone is. It just makes you another colour in the box of crayons.

There are also those who get obsessed with standing out in the crowd and risk addmittance into an asylum due to their various attempts at it, each more alarming than the previous. Announcing that you used to talk about the meaning of life with your stuffed bear doesn't score you brownie points.I'd wish to not call them fakers cause of my little respect left for them. They understand the significance of not being like everyone else but they lose sight of the whole point of being themselves.I never understood all this talk of "being yourself" before I got here. To me being yourself was just a catchy line amongst teens meant to sound cool ,awe-inspiring and rebellious even..? But the folks I talk about don't look like they put any effort into being the way they are so it can't be that hard or admirable. It involves just being.

I hope someday I'll look back on all this and not be as scared shitless as I am today of all the change and differences. I'll looks at us as being the "children of the revolution" . *cue T- Rex*.Unlike their parents, the kids who said no to brand names and who weren't impressed by the "phoren" or the superficial anymore,who decided that intelligence doesn't come in different sizes of S, M and XXL but in different shades and patterns.That what goes on outside your neighbourhood does affect you.That perception isn't reality . I'm so proud of this neurotic , dangerously self-aware bunch of people that destroy the boxes they have been placed in and make themselves impossible to label. Wave the freak flag ! Wave it high !

Those Winter Nights

2008-12-18T20:40:00.003+05:30

“A winter's day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow…”
I heard these words from the Simon and Garfunkel song and suddenly, the inspiration that had been eluding me lately made a comeback. Oh those winter nights… As December unfurls itself from its last year’s slumber, not so cold after all, (and there isn’t any snow either) but chilly all the same. All you want to do is tuck yourself into your warm blankets and imprison that safe feeling inside you forever…

That feeling of being able to give up everything, even a book or a good movie just to go by the window and stare (yes, just a simple and crass stare) outside. The sky is still the same inky blue, with bright white specks glittering every now and then around a waxen moon. Going and sitting on the swing in the balcony late at night, when everyone else is asleep and breathe the cold, fresh air. And the silence. To watch the dark shadows of the hills and the trees that stretch above, almost into the light, almost giving away their strange secrets. To strain your ears till you can listen to all the distant sounds far, far away. Till you can almost listen to the whistle of a faraway train as it takes off (always takes off and never arrives in your mind) and as the wheels slowly, periodically start moving, resulting into that eternal, clock-like ticking of train wheels gliding on the partly silver and partly rusty-red rails…

Going out on winter nights for dinner and then walking to an ice-cream shop, knowing that it’s going to give you a cold and you will wake up the next morning with a bad throat, but eating it all the same. Ah that guilty pleasure… The taste of the frozen, whitened, hard surface on your tongue as it slowly melts and gives away. Those red and green Christmas lights and decorations put up on trees to welcome Christmas, although most of them haven’t been taken off since Diwali. And the feel of the wool on you skin, smoothening the goose bumps as you race home on your bike, longing for the warmth it will bring.

Waking up early in the morning, sheltered and warm in your soft bed. Never wanting to wake up and drift through the mists and labyrinths of reality but to drift always in the warm safety of a clear, cold December.

Conspiracy Theory or Groundbreaking Exposé?

2008-12-18T00:32:00.002+05:30

With uneasy times reigning over the country and good citizenship being increasingly equated with being an agent of paranoia, I have taken it upon myself to put forth suspicion and alert my fellow Fergussonians and Puneites to a danger on FC Road.

Once upon a time, (right now actually), there was a diner opposite Fergusson College. It was called Savera. The people who frequented it were called Saveterans (they are now anyway). And it’s where all good Fergussonians retired to in times of crisis and ennui. Interestingly, it also seemed to be the place where the majority of Fergussonians were likely to go after retirement from whatever gainful employment they could finagle after graduation (snigger). But that’s neither here nor there. What I am about to reveal about this diner is shocking, incendiary and sure to keep you away ever after.

This blogger, after much deliberation, thought and of course irrefutable evidence has come to the conclusion that this is no ordinary eatery but a front for all manner of sinister activities which may or may not include guerrilla warriors, terrorist troops and most scarily of all, rogue gastronomes from Vaishali. It is always easy to spot this last species because of the condescension that drips, nay, cascades from them while ordering, a supercilious quirk of the eyebrow here, a wrinkling of the nose upon seeing the food there etc. etc. But I digress. While the Vaishali vendetta looms in the background everyday anyway (are they in fact spies who have come to steal recipes or lure Saveterans over to the dark side?), we mustn’t let that blind us to the very real possibility of bombs being manufactured in the kitchen and the waiters secretly being trained in the art of gun kata. Before you think this is some horrendous mash-up of Fight Club and Equilibrium (I’d mail the treatment to (R)Idley Scott , you suckers), consider the facts of the case.

Have you ever seen the speed at which those chairs outside get stacked up? It’s unnerving...one minute they’re there and the next minute, nothing. Only ninjas can be so quick (remember what they said about Kung Fu fighting? It’s fast as lightning!). This also applies to their niftiness when it comes to taking orders, bringing food and generally whizzing about the place. They’re never in one place long enough, like that Taz from Looney Toons. How?

For some reason, the staff looks perennially distracted and tired in the morning. Why? What have they been doing all night that drains them of so much energy. Oh, gutter out. What else have they been doing all night? If you think I’m lying, observe them around 7 a.m. They’ll be red-eyed, groggy, yawning. The restaurant ‘closes’ by 11 p.m. and they’d probably go home just to hit the sack. So, the only plausible explanation seems to be they don’t go home at all. They remain there, practising their insanely arcane ancient martial art. Unassuming restaurant by day, samurai commune by night.

How come they’re all dressed alike? It’s to prevent identification. OK, I know, it’s an Udipi. They have uniforms. Yada yada. But c’mon, the buttons almost disappear into their chins...what are they hiding in there? My guess is that at the slightest hint of danger, they’ll rip open those shirts and reveal a whole range of high-tech weaponry stitched into the shirt flaps. Bring a water gun that looks like a real gun the next time you go.

Then there’s the kitchen. Of course, it seems as if you’re free to breeze in and out through the double doors whenever you like, but really, who’re we kidding. If you ever peep in, you can never actually see much, except for smoke. There are weird steel counters and stoves...or so they would have you believe. If you don’t believe me, ask for a tour of the kitchen. You shall be refused. If there’s nothing fishy going on there, why all the secrecy? What have they got to hide? Unless, those contraptions they’re trying to pass off as kitchen appliances are in fact...*dramatic music* weapons of mass digestio...I mean, destruction.

And finally, as a concluding salvo, something from personal experience: once, a guy walked in wearing a Che Guevara shirt (that infamous fashion ubiquity will be discussed in another post). Shyaam Anna, the head waiter, asked me who he was. When I told him he was a Latin American revolutionary, the man’s face literally beamed. He asked me to get him his biography. Why? I mean I heart Shyaam Anna but really, since when are mild-mannered supervisors of respectable eating houses so enthralled by violent men with Spanish accents?

I’ve saved the most compelling argument for the end. The benign gentleman who mans the counter looks like a Kannadiga Mr. Miyagi. End. Of. Discussion.

I sincerely hope that I have done my duty insofar as apprising my fellow citizens and students of the situation we have on our hands. Especially the FC crowd. Trust no one. This is in no way a ploy to keep everyone away so that my friends and I can have the run of the place. Totally not a ploy.