Dreaming on...

Off the top of my head- 6

2012-01-15T02:30:00.002+05:30

Three years can change a lot of things in one's life. It can change cities, perspectives and life itself.

When I first walked down the pigeon path in college and got pooped by those ever diarrhoea-ic pigeons, I came back to the room and shampooed my hair clean! Today, after three years, I walked all the way back to the room as a matter of fact, understanding that where there are pigeons, there would be poop, and simply washed that part of my hair and my hands and went back to my routine.

At times there is no time to shampoo. All we can do is remove the crap from our heads as quickly as possible and go on with our lives. Off the top of our heads, literally!

Lessons in life

2012-01-09T19:22:00.000+05:30

Certain days are not about striking things off your personal lists of to-dos. Instead, they take their own course and make you meander. Today was one such day.

There were loads of things that needed-to-be-done. I thought I had it all planned and under control. The day, however, had a mind of its own. Instead of making me geared up for my aerobics, it made me sleep excess. Instead of edit, it gave me interesting conversations and discussions. And instead of buying my new hard disk, it took me on a ride all over the city!

Probably the day was not meant to be about all these three big things. Maybe it was just about all those things not happening, leading up to the simple finale- ending up on Ashram Road in front of a small street side sop selling Chanaa zor garam- something I've been craving to eat for the last two months!

The delight of digging into that paper cone of the mouth-watering snack was a crowning glory to an otherwise unproductive, but enjoyable day, nevertheless.

Maybe we all expect too much from our everydays, from people, from life itself.

When somehow you learn to string together your simple stones instead of diving for pearls, you might just end up with your own wacky piece of original and wonderful jewellery.

Maybe it is not about the milestones, but just about the long and winding journey to end up with your favourite cone of chanaa zor garam on a cold wintry evening!

2012-01-06T04:18:00.000+05:30

never ever
don't trust
it's never gonna be okay
but then you'll sail through
cos you are you
and amazing too
and somewhere within
you found a treasure trove
and you'll be great
maybe lonely
but great nevertheless
and that's all there is
there isn't anymore

A loving adieu

2011-12-31T19:15:00.000+05:30

A long time ago, I was a romantic fool. I had notions about the world that made it so rose-tinted, lacy-edged and splendid sounding, that I used to weep when it didn't live up to these expectations.

Everything changed in 2011. I grew up. I learnt.

...that your dealing with life is your own. That you cease to expect and start to live. A simple theory of self-settlement. And my peace was bought.

Last year, I dramatically wrote a letter to year 2010 asking...no...make that pleading...for 2011 to be at least marginally kind. It was more than that.

Meaningful, propelling and simply happy, 2011 was the year I found myself beginning to discover who I might be.

To the year that was- so special so splendid, here's a loving adieu! You'll be remembered fondly, and hopefully the one ahead has some nice stories to write as well.

Here's wishing everyone a promising new year!

One of those days...

2011-12-13T20:03:00.000+05:30

It is one of those days when everything looks bleak, uncertain and painful. When nothing seems to work. The cards don't stay still and form my little paper castle. They fall. Over and over again.

I know this too shall pass, and I shall be okay, or I shall somehow make myself okay, because I have recently discovered that I can be anything I want to be, if I want it truly enough. That I am a malleable chameleon who can change shades if she wills to.

But today I demand that things get okay by themselves. That some miracle knocks on my door and sweeps away the dirty floors and dusts off those cobwebs for me. That I don't have to do my dirty work, make sense of my life with difficulty and overcome hardships all by myself!

I demand that my movie gets made. And not by hook or crook. But in that way I saw it in that first vision, the way I have nurtured it, polished it, chopped it to show off its finer bits. I want to make it in that just-right manner.

But why does it get tougher and tougher everyday? To fix the tiniest of things? To bridge the smallest of gaps? Where are my minions who will want to set things right?

Why do things that can make it happen be at an unattainable perch?

There is a limit to complexities. But well, mine was crossed long back. In every aspect of my life! I shall still grin and bear it and somehow, I know this film will happen. I just hope it happens soon. Before strength, money, time and my sagging spirit fail me!

The Best of Quest- a book review

2011-12-13T01:25:00.000+05:30

Time and history are recorded not just in history text books, but also in its art. Literature and art have over and again frozen that slice of time for us to revisit it with every piece of fiction, a dance form from an era or music that haunted the days of yore. Somewhere in all these, one can read chapters of what-was and relive it for its course.

In this, magazines also play a very important role. Opinions, words and verses of contemporary writers and thinkers get recorded between the pages. Nissim Ezekiel’s Quest magazine, started out of Bombay in 1954. Meant to be “a quarterly of inquiry, criticism and ideas”, it went on for about two decades, publishing the thoughts and expressions of many of yesteryear’s greatest in the form of essays, fiction and poetry. Unfortunately, it had to be shut during the Emergency period and was never revived, until recently, when Arshia Sattar discovered the whole stock of the magazine, lying by her bedside.

When she discovered what a wealth of perspectives lie in the trunk, she knew she had to share it with the world. Thus was born, The best of Quest, published by Tranquebar and edited by Lafeq Futehally(who worked as the Literary Editor with the Quest for over twenty years), Achal Prabhala(a writer and researcher) and Arshia Sattar(who writes and teaches classical Indian literatures and narrative at various institutions across the country).

The book begins with a memoriam to Nissim Ezekiel- the man behind the magazine. This is followed by the essays and opinion sections. From politics to Indian writing, caste system to cinema, a plethora of topics have been examined in detail in this section. Interesting, thought-provoking and widening one’s perspective, the essays are authored by many major names such as Dilip Chitre and Mujibur Rehman.

The poetry section has Kamala Das, Nissim Ezekiel among others playing with words in verse. Once again, the topics are varied, quirky and eloquently dealt with in rhyme and blank verse. Anita Desai, Keki.N.Daruwala and many other fantastic writers are featured in this collection- their writings as refreshing as ever!

What is splendid about such collections is the fact that it holds a mirror to the society as it existed then. Through the essays, one gets a glimpse at the kind of opinions and systems that prevailed. Anthologies such as these, puts the reader on a retrospective mode. One after the other, they present the changing face of a nation and its outlook on various aspects of life and society.

Apart from the historical relevance of such anthologies, the literary relevance is of no less importance. The kind of writers that have been scooped under the umbrella of Quest is simply amazing. It shows how there was once a voice in India which in different timbres, expressed freely, in prose and poetry and went on to generate opinions, criticisms, statements, perspectives and shape the course of a literary awakening of sorts.

The best of Quest is a must-have for all literary buffs who want to trace the path of Indian literature, immediately after her Independence. It is also a thing of joy for all those who obsess over anthologies; this is a gathering that merits attendance! Most of all, this is for all those who simply would devour the written word- such a variety of food that hides between its covers that you just cannot possibly resist!

This review is a part of the http://blog.blogadda.com/2011/05/04/indian-bloggers-book-reviews" target="_blank">Book Reviews Program at http://www.blogadda.com">BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

happy random

2011-11-30T01:50:00.000+05:30

secrets you don't have to spell
stories you don't have to tell
a mild music to sail your hopes on
a wild song to tune your tapes on

randomness is the word of the hour. and happy randomness. where i don't feel like using capital letters. where rules can go hide in closets and wait for a peek-a-boo. where simple everyday targets are what i think of getting to.

like the sweet juice pouring forth from a luscious pear as you bite into its perfectly textured interior, my days have, by some miracle, become simple and meaningful.

somewhere as you grow up, humour becomes your wayfarer, and a joke in every big issue sure makes it into a no-big-deal. maybe i am growing up well. or maybe this is totally the wrong way to react to things. but if i am happy, i guess anything goes.

CRIBFEST-1!!!

2011-11-25T18:36:00.000+05:30

The blanks. The spaces. The effort to bridge it is probably what is testing my patience right now. To realize a film and make it happen, never was easy. Thankfully, I knew this fact, before I signed up to make films in my life. Much as work keeps happening, there are these times in between where you feel paralyzed. Where you just want to kill time. Do something absolutely useless.

Guilt is a wise leader. It reins me back from slipping back to chai gate for another chai, or opening unsecure to watch a film/sex and the city! I feel obliged to work and get things moving quickly, so that I can shoot as per the mental schedule I charted for myself.

The effort that life is demanding out of me seems insane, especially in terms of my film. And nothing happens easily as well. Permissions, people, fixing, sprucing- it all takes a toll on your spirits! A little sprinkling of easiness would be well appreciated, anti-force.

My crib fest does not stop with my efforts alone. It transcends to money matters as well. A self-sponsored diploma project is no mean feat. Money sublimates and I am left empty handed most of the time.

The vision will make me pick up my work again. Somehow. But for now, I feel blah and like cribbing and giving it all up and going back home and laugh at Melissa and Joey on Star World with my sister, or explain that Phoebe is pregnant with her brother's kid through artificial insemination, to my mother, or teach my dad to make grin smileys on chat.

*sigh

Such a demanding world! :(

Off the top of my head-5

2011-11-19T12:07:00.000+05:30

Times change swiftly. Before you can blink, an era has ended and another one begins. I have always had my struggle with such transitions. Much as I like them for the growth they bring...or wait...let me rephrase that...much as I have grown in those phases, and hence, grudgingly learnt to accept them by sheer lack of choice, I have not been comfortable in them.

Vulnerability and questions hold hands together and trap me in between their arms. I walk with them flanking my sides every place I go. Most of the times, I try to ignore them and learn to live with these two shadows instead of one. But sometimes, just sometimes, the space gets too cramped. Like when I lie on my small cot that can't fit three, I feel suffocated for breath, for reason and for truth.

Little did I know that this day shall come again and make me start again. For the thousandth time. Or maybe it is the zillionth... I have nearly lost count and too tired to try to begin from the start.

There is an attic I am building within the house in my head. The house is a cosy small one to fit just me. The attic, however, is beginning to look like a palace! So much to store. So much to keep away from my daily routes and encounters. They cannot be thrown away. I don't even wish to discard them, ever. They still have the sweet fragrance of a preserved rose between the pages of a favourite book.

There is clearly just one path to take. A path of go-where-it-takes-you! Not like there is a choice. Sometimes I wonder, where exactly do I fit in, in my own life?

Am I the protagonist who courses the tale? Or just a mere extra who fills the screen.

Sadness and depression are not buckling feelings. They are like a bunch of thieves- hiding and waiting to pounce on you with stealth. And they do. Everyday. To steal from your treasure, one more of something you treasure- a smile, romance, a happy thought, a thrill... Sometimes, they steal the truth, and you don't know anymore what is right and what is wrong. What is real and what you imagined!

Off the top of my head-4

2011-11-17T17:12:00.002+05:30

I spend half my days sipping chai in the chai gate, looking at passing traffic. Bikes, cars, cycles and all sorts of vehicles pass by and sometimes in such fast speeds that I cannot comprehend what they are. Sometimes while sipping sweet cups of "bina-adrak waali" chai- over and over again, songs begin to play in my head. And keeps afloat the hope to finish a film I've wanted to make for the last six months.

Progress is such a cheat-word. It traps us into becoming lazy. It mutates our being by making us run around in circles.

Long walks in the mornings. Chai again. The lovely calming lawn in the night. Me and the monument. A book to write. Somewhere in these, I forget myself, my film, everything. Somewhere there is a calm.

Why do we grow up and become sane?

Waiting for the Winter

2011-11-15T08:47:00.001+05:30

Everyday, as I wake up in an east-facing room full of light, I crave for the cold touch of winter. Winter, with its layered clothing and gloomy sunless mornings, are what I have anticipated ever since I landed here. But the seasons haven't changed yet, and sunny skies brightly attempt to dismiss the cobwebs away.

I have always enjoyed sadistically the exaggerated loneliness of winter. The walks alone. The icy breath of the wind increasing your vulnerability. Thoughts that come in verse. Something about winter is painful and so, beautiful. I want my frosty mornings, howling winds, pairs of old-fashioned socks, cup of steaming black tea and a book to cuddle with. Winter reminds me of my strength to fight. Will power. A blend of everything that the other seasons are, but in just the right amount.

Off the top of my head-3

2011-10-24T21:33:00.001+05:30

There was a moleskin notebook I eyed in the Hyderabad airport the other day! Rs.1360. For film critics. Not that I am one, although I wish to be one someday! I am working towards it. Hopefully. You can never be sure of these things, can you?!

Anyway, about the moleskin notebook. It looked delicious. I wanted it. To cradle it in my arms. To scribble in it meaningful words and, like a kid who's tasting ice cream for the first time and it tingles her mouth- to give that rapture-look!

Soon. I will earn it!

***

This time I wanted to learn to fly. Somehow, from when I was in sixth standard, flights fascinated me. They still do. There's something about them; those cottony clouds that I can almost taste!

It would be nice to forget everything earthly and float amongst the clouds. To be in the sky, at dusk, seeing the stars wake up one after the other, expecting a 'pop' sound when they appear!

To be able to see the world like a scaled model below you and wonder at how small everything looked from above!

***

They looked like pink swabs of cotton that a girl used to dab off the extra blusher from her cheeks, and threw haphazardly, just before she hurried to meet her love waiting by the stairs. Those clouds...they smelt of the dreams of that girl!

I saw them yesterday when I went for a walk. Clouds, me and my music. A bunch of random songs I often hear. It was twilight. Slowly the pink turned indigo, as deep as the hands of a playful kid who spilt ink all over them!

A lazy wind tossed about. And firecrackers burst without a warning, like a shower of golden sparkles from the sky. Sometimes there were purple stones raining. Maybe, an angel broke her string of pearls.

There was something around that could not be seen. Something like the laughter hidden in the crinkle around the eye. You know it was there. Like an elf it sneaked upon me and made me smile. That moment I didn't care. Mid-song, I lost myself to it!

***

I borrowed words from him. His name was Michael Ondaatje. He was a writer. I was jealous of him. I hated him. He knew the song of my heart. He split it into a million different pieces. With every piece, he wrote paragraphs. He made books out of it. Every time I read anything he wrote, I feel the pain of a heartbreak. I hate him for knowing me so well. Who told him my secrets?

***

Sometimes, to be idle is to surrender. To let time bathe you. Allow the world to play its video, as you lounge in the easy chair without a remote. Once in a while you get up as your legs ache with inactivity. But mostly, you sit in the chair and watch. Restless-Lazy. Happy-Sad. Brooding-Calm. In opposites, you slowly let time get the better of you and speed up without giving you a chance.

Whatever you feel, you just don't complain. That was in the old times. Now, you know you can do nothing but wait. And hope someday, that video has you playing the protagonist.

***

Words are syrupy today. 'Pandemonium' is a cake that has gone crusty on top. 'Myriad' is a cocktail that is green and glistening. 'Chateau' is a cheesy lasagne.

Such like.

***

Off the top of my head-2

2011-10-12T21:19:00.000+05:30

There are patterns. Predictable patterns. They bore me. Surprise startles me.

Isn't there a delectable in between that one can live in?

Off the top of my head-1

2011-09-30T08:58:00.001+05:30

In a life that is increasingly becoming dependent on people, instead of the contrary; where time, money, efforts all ebb away in directions I don't seem to decide, and where I seem to have less control over anything that happens around me, little things that actually occur right, begin to add value.

It is not like I am having a meaningless life. I guess there is a lot of meaning in what I have and what I do. But there just seems to be a lot of effort and patience that is being demanded of me on an everyday basis. And more and more things fail me, repeatedly, everyday!

In times such as these, a walk in the terrace under the scorching sun with an ipodfull of favourite songs, waking up to watch Castle and messaging your best friend throughout the day, do count as things to cherish. I have never been caught in this "undefinable" state ever in life. A chronic categorizer, this phase in my life would remain to be called 'uncategorized', like the tag of this blog post.

Interesting, yet difficult times are ahead. But as long as my wee sma' happiness are mine, I shall manage to smile.

To Anoodha Kunnath

2011-09-28T20:46:00.004+05:30

Squirrels that produced sudden chills. You christened them. Then there were alien babies who resembled lighthouses. And other flusterations who aspired for them. We spun threads of connects with chai, cold caramel drinks, foamies with a bit of coffee, a rich cake-that-must-not-be-named so that they always remain just ours, and loads of Kellogs Smacks and Parle-G biscuits.

In camphor and incense we spoke at length of yesterdays and today(sometimes 'todays'; for it really couldn't have all happened in one day!) and of the maybe-tomorrows. Mostly the maybe-tomorrows haunted us. And like sister souls ought to, we clung to one another's spirits and whispered that everything will pass and we will get stronger. Sometimes we paused mid-sentence and questioned why we needed to get stronger?! Sometimes, we cried. Mostly, we laughed.

In my background was an audible, yet faint, music that put me in a trance, sometimes. I clung to it. You helped me stick my hands on to its slippery surface.

In your background, was thunder and fierce storms. I shut your eyes and ears from them. Atleast, tried to.

When we had spoken it all, we sipped chai and watched the world slip by in a pace we couldn't comprehend. And as we bit into our chai-dipped soggy biscuits, like two old-fashioned English ladies, we accepted that this is what we always will be, and smiled.

Right off my head...

2011-09-11T17:03:00.000+05:30

Like a familiar friend, worthlessness embraces me.

***
There was music. High notes. Low notes. Jazz and heavy metal. Silences and sounds.

And suddenly I stopped liking the music. So, I broke all the instruments.

***

What if the clouds don't reach? What if they are having a lazy day and don't deliver my messages? What if...?

***

Hopes are fickle friends.

***

What if questions keep piling up? On and on? Will it someday reach the sky? Can I climb on it like it is a beanstalk? Go up and whisper into God's ears? Demand answers? Someday?

***

I try to gather myself. There are a million pieces of me. Because no one really wanted the whole. They wanted only bits. They said the whole was way too overwhelming and an assault to the senses. They may have whispered snide abuses. But I chose not to hear.

Now I am going about, collecting and reclaiming the million bits to stick into one whole. But, there does not seem to be enough glue!

***

Why can't we choose to be where we want to be without waiting for money, people, situation and time? Why can't places be a thought away? I would be in Greece. Drowning in the blue. Soaking in the sun. Forgetting everyone. Forgetting everything. Most of all, forgetting myself and all that I want!

***

There are days when nothing makes sense. Ambition seems too hard. The friend you want to talk to about nothing in particular, over chai, too far. Even chocolate, incompetent. Only words hold you together. Your words. Words that rush out of your fingertips and want to be written. So a little bit of your discomfort with yourself is siphoned off. Stored away in some megabyte of memory to rot. So it doesn't poison you and make you feel disillusioned and lonely.

***

What I mostly need is to tie up loose ends. Pick the threads of my life I've left mid-way, string them together in a vaguely sensible manner, leave them dangling and find new threads to cling to.

God/whoever that be- will you help?

***

Speed up things! I am sick of this long arduous wait to finish, to find, to seek, to explore, to forget!

Illundavoor Tale-5: THE NIGHTINGALE POLICE

2011-09-07T01:13:00.006+05:30

(Dedicated to Aparna Rajagopalan)

Of all of Illundavoor’s tales, the tale of Srirama Iyer was the most famous. Mothers fed little ones with the story. It was what families recounted with a laugh, sitting-as if in a round table conference-just after the satisfaction of a Kalyana saapadu*, in that little time just before the nalungu** began. It was what one can sum up, as an Illundavoor legend.

Srirama Iyer, was a Palakkad Iyer whose great-grandfather had resettled in the town of Illundavoor. In his heydays, Srirama Iyer, was the postmaster of Illundavoor. He lived in his spacious Injiperumaal Street bungalow with his ageing mother, plump wife Jaya, and his hyperactive son. His lawyer father had left him the house, and his father-in-law made sure that he got a motor cycle as a dowry*** back then. So Srirama Iyer had, what one might call, a very comfortable existence.

He was a man with a B.A. degree in English, which came in handy as the town’s postmaster. He would read for the unlettered and correspond on their behalf as well, for a nominal sum.

Srirama Iyer was a man respected by all and feared by many, as it was well-aware that he was a man with an easily ignited temper. His six-foot appearance only added to it. People generally held him in reverence and distance, unless absolutely needed.

Time went by. And with old age came senility. The once terrorizing Srirama Iyer became delusional. The son, Devan, married and a lawyer of repute like his grandfather, ruled over the household.

There were days when Srirama Iyer would start remembering things that had happened thirty years ago. At that time, they had just begun constructing a house in Tellinoor, the neighbouring town. Srirama Iyer would suddenly come and tell people in the house that the carpenter has come to repair the cupboards or that the contractor has come and needs cement.

He was so physically strong, despite his delusions that he used to haul around furniture at will. It was almost impossible to restrain the six footer!

There were other delusions as well. Of nightingale insects and daffodil insects feeding on crumbs of food that he would spill while eating. He would trace their trail with his blinking 5-year old chamaththu**** grandson Natarajan, whom they fondly called Nattu at home.

“Inga paaru da Nattu… theriyaratha… andha daffodil poochchi apdiye ennodu kaalu-la oora-pakkarathu!*****” he would startle the poor boy! Sometimes, he would recite whole chunks of letters he read or wrote in the bygone days, as a postmaster.

And then he had a quirky habit. At the ripe old age of 72, with his mind playing games, Srirama Iyer would suddenly wake up in the middle of the night and watch television. Old black and white films on Tamil channels, TNT movies and the occasional lingerie model on FTV (Much to Jaya Mami’s embarrassment).

Our legendary story begins one night in the month of Aippaci******, when rains persisted to drum on the roofs all night, and frogs croaked in the backyard. The entire household was asleep, when a thief snuck into the house of Srirama Iyer.

He entered through a window that had snapped ajar in the kitchen. Slowly, he made his way inside the house. Now, the house was very old-fashioned, unlike the one that Srirama Iyer had built in Tellinoor. Meandering passageways lead to innumerable store rooms. The inhabited part of the house was somewhere near the front.

After opening many a store room door and only discovering moth eaten sofa cushions and immobile cupboards, the thief realized that he had to slowly make his way to the front sections of the house.

Now, just as he crossed the long passageway, into the mittam******* and across to the living room, who did he see but our very own Srirama Iyer, sitting and watching “Guns of Navaronne” on an English Movie Channel!

The thief was taken aback to see that there was someone awake, right in the middle of the night, and most surprisingly, watching TV!

Srirama Iyer, noticing him, miraculously gathered his senses, jumped on to his feet and imposingly screamed, “KALLAN”******** and woke the entire house. The scared thief, grabbed the box from the table near him- the only object he could make out in the darkness as he whizzed past. He traced back his path and jumped out of the window before anyone could reach him.

When Devan asked his dad rhetorically, as to how he managed to raise an alarm sensibly, the old man seriously answered that “the nightingale police” had warned him.

After much search it was found that only Jaya Mami’s denture dabba********* had been stolen. “Toothless thief,” Srirama Iyer was often heard screaming in the afternoons at passers-by.

***

GLOSSARY

Kalyana saapadu*- Wedding feast

Nalungu**- A light-hearted post-wedding ritual involving the bride and groom and their families where games like ‘rolling the coconut’, ‘breaking the crispies’, ‘finding the ring’ etc are played amidst singing and other fanfare.

Dowry***- the payment in cash or/and kind by the bride's family to the bridegroom' s family along with the giving away of the bride

Chamaththu****- obedient

“Inga paaru da Nattu… theriyaratha… andha daffodil poochchi apdiye ennodu kaalu-la oora-pakkarathu!*****” -“Look here, Nattu…can you see? Those daffodil insects are trying to climb over my leg!”

Aippaci******- The Tamil month that falls between mid-October to mid-November, known to rain in Tamil Nadu.

Mittam*******- Courtyard

“KALLAN” ********- rogue

dabba*********- box

2011-09-04T12:25:00.002+05:30

Loneliness, sometimes, is your only friend.

Always around. Always understanding. Never deserting.

click, close, click...

2011-09-02T14:20:00.000+05:30

For a while, I'll repeat these mechanical movements.

...click, close, click.
click, close, click.
click, close, click...

They give me peace. Nothing to think about. Nothing to fight for. No questions. No answers. Just existing. Flowing. Breathing. Realizing.

To just be.

Without any doubt and with the sureity of its occurrence.

Raja's Tales- 1

2011-08-30T16:29:00.000+05:30

Long long ago, very long ago, when Raja was a little boy, he used to live in Ernakulam. He also lived in Trivandrum. Now he is so old, he does not remember where exactly this incident took place.

Raja and his brother, along with their cousins, used to frequent, what we shall assume from now on as, the Ernakulam Palace, every Friday. This is a story that happened on one fateful Friday, as he remembers it.

The King of Ernakulam lived in the Ernakulam palace. The palace was shaped like a square, open on one end with a huge mittam* in the middle. The King used to organize huge feasts every Friday in honour of the lord. Every Friday, he would walk out of his inner chambers, stand for a minute and survey the crowd that gathered in the courtyard. He would then climb on to his special pedestal to eat lunch alongside his subjects.

The Friday Feast used to be a grand affair. Many many cooks from all over the land used to prepare the rich meal with the finest of ingredients. Work started in the wee hours of the morning and would only just about get done on time.

That Friday was like every other Friday, except that, somehow for some strange reason, the cook had forgot the Pachchadi on the menu.

The crowds had gathered, and the King was just about to come, when the head cook realized his folly. But nothing could be done and so he instructed everyone to keep mum about it. He hoped people would not miss the Pachchadi, relishing all the other extraordinary items on the menu.

The King walked out of his inner chambers, looked left, looked right and twirled his mustache, satisfied at what he saw.

As the cooks brought out urlis of food, the clouds suddenly huddled together. The world grew dark and an unearthly voice resonated, "Pachchadi vechchilaingyil, Vechchadi edukkilya!"**

The head cook trembled. All his assistants looked perplexed.

The King was shocked and stood still to his ground. He pleaded to the voice, "O Divine Lord! Pardon us! The Pachchadi shall be made at once". He looked at the head cook and ordered him with a look to proceed.

The cooks at once scampered to make the pachchadi. The world stood still. The clouds stayed huddled. There was something unearthly that everyone felt in the air. No one spoke a word. Ten minutes seemed like ten years. and a pachchadi fit for the gods was made.

The cooks wheeled in the urli and waited. A gust of wind blew over the mittam, sending shivers down everyone's spine. And just as suddenly as it had huddled, the clouds parted and a beam of sunlight streamed. The King gingerly took a step forward. Nothing happened.

The crowd broke into a thunderous applause!

mittam* courtyard

"Pachchadi vechchilaingyil, Vechchadi edukkilya!"** If you do not offer the Pachchadi, you cannot take a step forward

2011-08-30T14:30:00.000+05:30

In work we trust, and in cinema.

And in dreams of travel we pin our hopes.

Book Review: Bombay Duck is a Fish

2011-08-27T21:30:00.001+05:30

I had always been fascinated by the medium of films. And when in my final year of under-graduation, I realized it is not brick and concrete I want to chase, but capture stories through moving images, it was truly a moment of realization. A calling.

I signed up for this book mainly because it was about the Bollywood film industry. It's blurb read interesting, real and also entertaining. Almost like a dhamaakedaar film that scorches the screen on its opening day!

'Bombay Duck is a fish' is as refreshing a book as its title. The allusion to the misnomer in the title, very precisely suggests what the book mockingly narrates- how Bollywood is not as glitzy as it seems.

It places itself much higher than any chick flick, but falls a tad short of being a layered master-piece of fiction. But what it ends up as is an enjoyable must-read.

Kanika Dhillon most interestingly delves into the life of Neki Brar, an aspiring filmmaker from Amritsar who leaves home to Mumbai, and joins as the last AD on the sets of Fiza Khan's multi-starrer film. Being a student of film, I have my wee bit of experience in being on film sets and dealing with the exciting madhouse that sets could be. The accounts in the book were absolutely authentic and had a lovely progression of action in it. It played like a film in my head, although Farah Khan kept playing the role of Fiza in it! The supporting cast of the film...book remained true to what Bollywood and the author claim to work most of the time- stereotypes. And quite justifiably so, stereotypes exist for a reason of convention and association that the majority of the audience have been trained to understand over the years.

And so in Kanika Dhillon's book, we come across the typical 'Mumbai-mein-struggle-karke-naam-banaana-hain' dream of small-town girl Neki, the success-hungry-doing-favours hero Ranvir Khanna whom Neki falls for, the petty jealousies between lead actresses, the powerful Prateeksha Devi and well..., in short, there is the entire Bollywood package in place, albeit in a tongue in cheek fashion. Other interesting characters like Zoya, Sam, PJ, Aslam, Punjabi and Goku make the ride through the book interesting and liven up things immensely.

What makes the book un-put-downable and highly entertaining, is the fact that it does not let itself be just a racy story, but goes beyond it and throws in philosophy, some really good wisecracks and situational authenticity.

The letters that Neki mails her mom after every incident would remain the best part of the book for me. The contrasting nature of the letters from Neki's reality is sheer wry humour.

In the season of cameos and item songs, can a book on Bollywood be far behind? Our author brings in the inimitable Shahrukh Khan for a little role in the book. (It might be noted, that in reality , he released the book). The cameo, however, seemed a little forced in the book, as far as situational flow goes. One feels that the author could have as seamlessly strung it in, as she did the rest of the incidents in the book. The author's real life adulation comes across unabashedly here. I DO know that it is difficult to not be awe-struck by the amazingly self-made man that SRK is, especially in an industry dominated by starlets. But somehow, one wishes that the wide-eyed wonder could have been kept a tad under control.

I was glad that the end did not turn out to be a mushy tear-jerking end to a masaledaar hindi flick, but instead became a bit surreal, and therefore, a better end. I would have still preferred a different end to the book, and I must say, it left me a little disturbed. Anything more I reveal here, and I'd be killing the book for you, and hence I relapse to omerta.

For once, one can judge the book by its cover. A special mention must be made of its wonderfully designed cover by Rupin Suchak: yet another reason for me to pick this book.

On the whole, however, I would recommend this book to every one who loves their Hindi films. Here is a book- vibrant, interesting and honest, although dealing with the world of the larger-than-life. So go, pick it up, and get lost in a world that oscillates between the reel and real worlds of Neki Brar and Co.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

On a dark cloudy eventide

2011-08-12T00:27:00.002+05:30

It is one of those days you are glad you were alive! A gray storm of clouds gather darkness around the world. Wind beats agains a sheet of tarpaulin as if to warn mere humans against the wrath of Varuna. Rains, they shall pour and how! A lightening breaks out like the menacing fangs of a wild untameable beast.

They threaten to tell us that we cannot hide. Each drop shall unleash havoc. A murmur goes between the clouds as thunder. Like a dark curse, they gather closer and with one last cry, like a lament, they burst forth as rain.

***
inspired by the words of Rohit Keluskar.

CHANAKYA’S CHANT- A review

2011-08-11T18:53:00.001+05:30

Political dramas never interested me. In fact, I always felt they were a tad too serious and too boringly prosaic to kindle any amount of fellowship in me. In such a scenario, when Chanakya’s Chant fell into my arms, I had my own set of apprehensions. Something about the historical promise the book made in its blurb, is what made me pick it up and begin to read through.

I must agree, it completely vanquished my suspicions!

The book was engaging, riveting and extraordinarily rich in style, language and research. I wonder why people like Ashwin Sanghi, the author of Chankya’s Chant, don’t write history books. As Prahlad Kakkar laments, “I wish our politicians were literate enough to read it”.

The book traces two different and yet extraordinarily parallel characters. As suggested by the title, it acquaints us to the life of Vishnugupta, also known as Chanakya(son of Chanak)- the erudite Brahmin whose skill, wiliness, absolute disregard for morals and masterful knowledge of governance and people helps him install his pupil, Chandragupta, on the throne of the Mauryan Empire and also send back the powerful armies of Alexander the Great from India. In this process, he most importantly succeeds in reaping revenge against the evil Dhanananda who had brutally murdered his father, the scholar Chanak.

Around two thousand three hundred years later, a similar avatar of Chanakya is born in the country, in the form of an equally crafty, scheming, ruthless and extraordinarily intelligent Gangasagar Mishra. He catapults Chandini, an ordinary slum girl to the seat of power in the country through his tactics, manipulations and cunning.

The most impressive part about this book is the fact that Ashwin Sanghi so deftly uses words to make politics so engrossing! What my school economics books made me shun, Sanghi makes un-put-down-able!

His words are sculpted so wonderfully that the dialogues that Chanakya and Gangasagar mouth make you want to whistle in parts. The raw and menacing struggle for power is captured to its barest detail in such a realistic fashion that it makes you shudder. And then you realize that Sanghi’s fictional universe is not far from the existent power plays in the political world around you today, it does make you sad and fearful.

The murder, deceit and plotting that run through the pages of the life of Chanakya(or Gangasagar in the present day) make you feel like you are a witness to a charming game of chess played between a grandmaster on one side and imbeciles on the other. Such is the brilliance of move, detailing of action and sleight of hand!

The book leaves you in a shocked and stunned silence at the sheer brilliance and intelligence with which it engaged you.

I cannot wait to try Ashwin Sanghi’s “The Rozabal Line” now. The reviews of that book also seem to suggest an extraordinary piece of work.

If his two books are any proof, India has got herself a wonderful and captivating author in Ashwin Sanghi.

And in his own style, we send him the Chanakya’s Chant to help and guide,

“Adi Shakti Namo Namah! Sarva Shakti Namo Namah!
Prathama Bhagavati Namo Namah!
Kundalini Mata Shakti! Mata Shakti Namo Namah!”

“Primal Shakti, I bow to thee
All-encompassing Shakti, I bow to thee
That through which God creates, I bow to thee
Creative power of the Kundalini
Mother of all, to thee I bow.”

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Short Story- 27

2011-07-26T18:40:00.006+05:30

Did you say you pinned up hopes on a card on your window pane? With those fancy little stick on magnets that kept the paper firmly on the glass, holding it from both sides? You put it up for the world to see? Oh dear!

Nothing... Erm... darn it! Well...I saw the Nasty Little Killjoy eyeing it! I saw his big ugly eyes water with green slime. And then... hmmm... and then he stuck out his long forked tongue and 'phatttt' lashed at your hope card!

And...well... you know what happens when he does that! Hmmm... Something bad begins to uncoil from that little drop of spit he leaves on your card, quietly, just like a bad smell spreads across the room.

And whether you like it or not, I tell you, your hope will die.

I feel sad for you, you dear thing. But you should know better, really! I mean, you are old enough. Why would you pin it up? Who did you think would celebrate with you? The whole world? Really?

Sometimes, I think you are delusional fool, dear. I mean, you live in some alternative universe... no... I'm just saying... well... think about it...

Book Review: All and Nothing

2011-07-03T20:11:00.007+05:30

'All and Nothing' by Raksha Bharadia begins with an interesting premise- almost as interesting a setting as Anita Nair's Ladies Coupe.

Tina, caught in a turmoil in her life sends letters to a bunch of her friends- all caught in crucial and complex situations in their respective lives as well. She invites them, in her letter, to a weekend's meet at her Mahabaleshwar holiday home. Not revealing details in the letter, she promises all will be clear when they arrive.The story unfolds in parallel narratives tracing the lives of all the people who are to meet that fateful day.

Here is where the book fails to catapult itself on to a higher level! The descriptions are overtly simple, the prose is predictable and the emotions- both of the character and what it stirs in the reader are at best momentary. The plot by itself could have been so much more layered and delectable, dialogues could have been more realistic and one wishes the style were more original and unique!

Where Raksha actually wins, is the fact that her writing evokes an anticipation in the reader. One only wishes that she capitalized on it and made her book more evocative. But she makes the story too hurried, too racy. There is nothing remarkable about it, despite its dramatic blurb.

There are few parts that stand out as visual and engrossing like Antara's seduction and the Manas-Gayathri love story. These are the more fleshed out parts that actually engage the reader.

Somewhere the blurb is what is to blamed. It promises an interesting tale of a lot of lives entwined as one, in its grief and bitterness. A good book keeps the promissory note it writes on its blurb to the reader and infact takes them on various experiential planes.

A good book, in its words, reveals and conceals, plays with the mind and leaves the reader with an experience over its pages. It goes as much as to making them dive into what it holds between the covers and forget the real space around them. Ladies Coupe was one such book. Maybe in my hasty correlation I expected too much out of All and Nothing! Maybe... But even otherwise, the story follows a very narrow structure of 'beginning-middle-happy end' too closely to let us meander on other emotions.

Throughout the book, the characters hastily jump from one emotion to another. Things happen too fast. The transition state is barely present. And transitions are what make a reader to fall in love with a book. It is in these intermediates that reality gets reflected. How often do we decide one day that we will be single all our life and suddenly, in the very next second, decide we want to get married? And even if we actually do, when conveyed in a written form, the shift requires an authenticity for a reader to believe its abruptness. This is where the book disappoints.

Although the author does manage to engross the reader enough to want to read till the end, the book does not offer a deeper conversation while engaging with it, or a conscious musing after having done with it! It is a book you read once to just know what happens in the end.

All and nothing turns out to be just that- promising all and delivering nearly nothing!

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

BLOODY WORLD

2011-06-23T07:20:00.003+05:30

There are certain times in life when the most important things never seem to go right! JUST NEVER. And it sets off a domino effect and tumbles down every other thing that is going right. So you end up with a parcel of bad moods.

That is kind of my state now. Everything that is of tertiary, quarternary and quinary priority(I just learnt these now!) in life is happening smoothly and effortlessly. And the top priorities are... sigh... screwed up!

Not funny!

I know it is important to have ups and downs to enjoy life and all that jazz. But what happens when you fall into these phases of blah-ness? Where there are repeatedly only questions after questions? And if I decide to ignore these like my friends always advice me to and "Chill and don't think so much", these questions pile up more, take up gargantuan forms and numerous complications.

No wonder people go into depression, run away and wander as mad people and do all sorts of crazy things! There is absolutely no peace in this world. I am frustrated with the Indian Railways, with timings of every damn thing in my life, with bloody goddamn distances between places that keeps playing cruel tricks with me in a million ways and just plain everything.

And unless and until I get a damn ticket, get a few questions answered, I swear to be in this bitchy crabby mood and spoil the mood of all around me!

So friendly warning: stay away so I can grunt!

She wants a ticket to ride!

2011-06-22T08:42:00.003+05:30

It is so infuriating that one cannot get a ticket when one wants from the Indian Railway. Before you can reach the reservation office, a queue that could stretch from one end of the country to another, is already inside in various levels of sleep and wakefulness. I suspect some spent the previous nights on the station steps just to get a ticket!

And if you sit and decide to book online, well, the available tickets keep reducing like a bad gambler's money!

I wonder if I should go sleep on the steps tonight...

Fistful of dreams

2011-06-21T19:14:00.004+05:30

Every passing day is like a lyric in a song. One line at a time. The song, on the whole makes sense. To this lyric, I add a footnote, everyday.

Just that, this footnote happens to be a song.

Long ago, a stroke of luck dropped a lovely silver ipod shuffle on my lap. In my usual silly romantic fashion I named it 'Maud'- after my favourite author, as well as a secret acronym which for obvious reasons, I'm keeping a secret!

Travelling and music are as cliched as food and wine. And yet, resorting to that cliche every morning when I travel to work, is one of the most delightful experiences of the day.

A fellow music lover told me recently, that listening to music apparently dulls your mind and makes your productivity less. But the next instant both of us decided, "What the heck! Who cares?"

My ipod shuffle is like my own bottle of felix felicitis. A fistful of it is all I need to delight in!
I wish I could engrave on it the quote "Not all those who wander are lost: J.R.R.Tolkien". Not that I am an LOTR fan; I have never been able to push beyond pg 120 in the book. But music pins light wings to your back and takes you far far away. I barely realize where I am, unless the familiar visual of the office lane drags me back to reality.

It used to be similar during undergrad college bus rides. One and a half hours of a floaty sensation. Every other day, a new set of songs or an old favourite rehashed, according to my mood.

Anbe Sugama for wistfulness
Sunscreen for philosophy
A select songs of The Beatles for normal everydays.
Paolo Conte's Sparring Partner for vague moods.
Agni Nakshatram songs for dreams.
Julie Delpy on loop for a strange romance.
Anil Srinivasan and Sikkil Gurucharan's Saadho for rains...

Ah... rains... Music on my ipod. Balcony. Feet on the sill. And somewhere in between, for just a while in that stupor, I feel like I've figured out the meaning of life.

Every once in a while, when human company is too tame or too lame, I snuggle with the wires and my ipod and cozy up in a world of my own. And little dreamlands are born in the head.

Red blue green marbles in the sun. glinting and gleaming to the beat.
Startlingly blue sea spreading like cheese on toast
anklets... with their water-soft tinkle
sheep jumping over meadows in careless abandon
and people serenading on sleepless nights

An ipod shuffle-a midget sized gadget that stores in my moods; talks to me in tones I want it to and sings me my soothing melody!

A world fitted in my palm. And I can put in thoughts into it- thoughts in songs. And what a world it becomes!

Dell Inspiron page

Short Story 26

2011-06-15T23:20:00.002+05:30

In the flattened top, she saw the bald bony forehead.

That little suzhi (loop) was the socket for the eye. The empty complimentary space invisibly completing itself to form the other eye place.

The curved bottom looked like the toothless lower jaw of a grinning face. She finished the upper jawline with her mind's ink.

The Tamil letter ஒ ("oh") always had reminded her of a skeleton head.

Short Story 25

2011-06-12T21:31:00.003+05:30

The auto slowly crawls by the bus stop.
Enticing.
Slowly a metronome of its engines adds a beat.

My legs twitch.

The taillights wink at me. A ravishing red lights up the stagnant streak of water, still fresh from the evening's downpour. The beats turn into a hum. The tyres screech an operatic melody. The front tyre does a little jig inviting me for a dance.

My legs unconsciously begin to tap to its advances. The antennae of its radio nods and clicks its fingers, luring me.

I pause.
Resist one last time.
And then... succumb!

I jump into its plush arms. It takes me on a dizzying ride!

Soon

2011-06-10T20:57:00.006+05:30

dedicated to my blue-eyed baby!

*****

Little crumpled post-its hidden under sleeves
make-shift melodies paused and played
drifting like flute tones in the wind
a rare earth bound twiglet rooting itself
eyes, nay, searchlights reading chapters in the clouds
wrapping texts of thought beneath the skin-folds.

Bide your time, soon the storm shall come
no, maybe this time a gentle summer rain

*****

Short Story 24

2011-06-09T18:16:00.002+05:30

“…Time goes by, people lie everything goes too fast.

Time went by, and then we died, and everything went too fast.”

Julie Delpy buzzed on in the background. She closed her music player and walked out to the balcony.

The clouds were painted gray. The kind of gray that hid rains in them for a long while, stalling so much, enough to make you decide not to take the umbrella, decide not to carry a Ziploc for your mobile or wear those all weather sandals.

The clouds seemed wistful. Like her.

She rewound those memories and played them again in her head. She wondered over how beautiful it was that dried flowers could be preserved. Just like her memories- fragile, but intact; almost crumbling but never quite; pale and mildly fragrant; and most of all intoxicating.

Intoxicating. When that word opened eyes in her head, the rain poured. At once in torrents. And in the patter she once again heard the song,

“You said our love was stronger than an ocean apart
Time goes by and people lie, and everything goes too fast.”

Short Story 23

2011-05-16T09:00:00.002+05:30

I lost my clarity the last time round. It ran between the pages of my life while I ran behind it, panting, in a wild goose chase. While I whizzed past little shops selling memories, its shopkeepers called out to me to re-buy them and claim them. And somewhere in between, fascinated by a blue bottle of the clear sea I once saw in my dream, I paused. And clarity ran away forever…

Short Story- 22

2011-05-15T21:38:00.003+05:30

Two tracks raced to my left, fiercely competing with one another, sunlight picking little metal points to glimmer their speeds up, vying for my attention.

And suddenly unannounced, they crossed paths, merged into one in a stunt, and continued sprinting, throwing a flirty metallic grin at me, who was safe behind AC II tier glass window, unaware of their inaudible cheap words!

They then split once again into two and raced on whistling.

Suddenly out of nowhere two bright red trains, loudly sounding their horns, raced ahead and crushed both of them to death. The trains looked ancient with wizened compartments aged with remembrances- brooding and serious. They lifted their hats as if in an apology for the misbehaviour of their kind and came to a halt noiselessly.

I went ahead, as my train serpentined on, wanting to retch!

Illundavoor Tale- 4

2011-05-14T13:22:00.003+05:30

(Glossary below the story for those of you who are not familar with Tamil)

(Dedicated to that temple pond)

“One

Two

Three”

She jumped down step after step, her two ponytails bouncing along with her. She then proceeded to jump up on to them.

“One

Two

Three”

And in this repeated activity, she somehow seemed to be content.

It was a breezy morning. She had been woken up at 5. Her mother had planted a big kiss on her chubby cheeks, and whispered, “Ezhundukko ezhundukko da kutta! Inikku Seetha chithi-kku Kalyaanam. Koil-kku poganam”.

She had yawned, rubbed her eyes together and somehow managed to go through the motions of getting ready. She had fully awoken when her mom had puffed powder onto her face and tightly wound her curly mop of hair into two fat ponytails on either side of a central partition on her head.

With trays of clothes, sweets and nuts, loads of bags of various paraphernalia, they had boarded the cars to the town temple. She had sat on her mother’s lap near the window seat and looked out.

The sky had just been slowly stirring up from its sleepy gray robes. She had fallen asleep on the way. By the time she had got up, two minutes later, they were already at the temple and the first rays of dawn had lit the town of Illundavoor.

Lines of marigold flowers had been entwined around the stone columns. The temple elephant, Kuttan, had been bathed and was surprisingly not smelling of dung. Sanjayan, the mahout was applying fresh sandalwood paste on to its forehead while Kuttan was shooing flies away, with his trunk.

The function had begun and her mother soon left her with one of the older kids to take care of the million works that crop up during weddings. The older kid had lost interest after a bit, and found another kid to play hopscotch near the temple kolam.

She had also tagged along but made to sit in the side and watch. She soon lost interest and began her own game in the temple steps.

“One

Two

Three”

She jumped down step after step and then jumped up again.

That is when he came. With his red shorts and black checked shirt. Hair neatly oiled and parted in the side, socks with a Mickey Mouse print in the middle, and a handkerchief tucked into his shirt front pocket.

He laughed at her.

“Enna thaniya velayaadindrukka?” he questioned

“Unakku enna vandhudhu?” she asked screwing up her face in offense.

“Susu!” he replied and laughed again at his own joke, cupping his hands in front of his mouth to control it.

She turned away angrily. Idiot-boy, she thought.

She walked down some more steps, putting distance between them and continued playing, lifting her red paavadai with its gold border slightly above her ankles so she wouldn’t trip.

“One

Two…”

“Un paer enna?” he questioned.

“Unakku…” she began, “Nee po! Naan unkitta pesamatten”.

“Yaen? Un paer enna? Sollu” he asked.

“Nee bad boy! Solla matten”.

“Seri sollathey! Enakku pudhu game theriyum.”

She did not reply immediately. He did not go away either. He sat on the steps. Propped his chin on his hand and looked at her jumping.

“Enna game....?” she asked slowly

A grin spread over his face.

“Vaa kaamikkaren,” he said and walked up to her. He took her hand in his and they jumped down the steps till they were near the water.

“Kaala ulla vei” he instructed.

“Ayyo vendaam! Jill-unnu irukkum” she said, her eyes looking like saucerpans, apprehensive.

“Onnum irukkaathu. Vei” he encouraged.

She slowly edged her toes to the water surface. Her little finger touched the water and impulsively she retreated.

“Sonnen la! Jill-unnu irukku!” she complained.

“Ayyo! Bayanthaanguli! Ippo paaru!” he said and proceeded to put his left foot inside the water.

Instantly fifty small fishes came and nibbled at his toes. He wriggled and laughed at their ticklish pecking.

“Dei! Kaal edu daaaa...! Meen kadikkaporathu” she squealed frightened.

“Idhu saami oda meen. Onnum pannathu. Try pannen” he said

She held on to his hand tightly and looked at him cautiously. He grinned encouragingly. She smiled and put her left foot slowly into the water.

*****

GLOSSARY

“Ezhundukko ezhundukko da kutta! Inikku Seetha chithi-kku Kalyaanam. Koil-kku poganam”- Wake up wake up, dear one! We need to go to the temple for Seetha aunty’s wedding.

Kolam- Temple pond

“Enna thaniya velayaadindrukka?” – Why are you playing by yourself?

“Unakku enna vandhudhu?” – Translation:What is your problem? Transliteration: What comes for you?

“Susu!” - Pee

Paavadai- traditional skirt

“Un paer enna?”- What is your name?

“Unakku…” –You

“Nee po! Naan unkitta pesamatten”- Go away! I won’t talk to you.

“Yaen? Un paer enna? Sollu” – Why? What is your name? Tell me!

“Nee bad boy! Solla matten”- You are a bad boy! I won’t tell you.

“Seri sollathey! Enakku pudhu game theriyum.”- Fine, don’t tell me. I know a new game.

“Enna game” – What game?

“Vaa kaamikkaren” – Come, I’ll show you.

“Kaala ulla vei” – Put your foot into the water.

“Ayyo vendaam! Jill-unnu irukkum” – Oh no! It will be cold!

“Onnum irukkaathu. Vei” – No. It won’t be. Just put your foot in.

“Sonnen la! Jill-unnu irukku!” – I told you , it will be cold…!

“Ayyo! Bayanthaanguli! Ippo paaru!” – Oh god! Scared cat! Look at me now.

“Dei! Kaal eduda! Meen kadikkaporathu” – Hey! Take out your feet. The fish will bite you

“Idhu saami oda meen. Onnum pannathu. Try pannen” – There are God’s fishes. They won’t bite. Why don’t you try?

2011-05-13T22:25:00.002+05:30

there was a family of children
girls.
one boy.

they all grew up.
frocks turned to sarees.

and one lone shorts was slowly lengthening into pants.

one saree turned bridal
puffed up
gave out a baby

i was born

i went back to that village
to see if i could find those discarded frocks and that faded shorts

i see it somewhat.
i wish it other-what.

my joyride begins.

Short Story-21

2011-05-09T23:44:00.002+05:30

They were all of a faded brown colour, with creased ears, one eye at the middle of the forehead, a stick like nose and a perfectly round mouth of pink of point three millimeter diameter.

They had transparent white wings with silver veins running through them like a leaf. And they all were exactly one millimeter tall!

hey were all spawned by the first ray of the full moonlight that hit the lotus that bloomed on the city pond. At once! And they all knew what they had to do.

They quickly organized themselves into groups of ten and took up a street each in the city. They had a red glowing mole under their chin through which they spoke to one another to convey finished work, or to ask for help.

They diligently slept behind the clocks in the houses, all day through, and in the night, they executed their evil purposes.

When people were sleeping, snores echoing off crumbling walls, they stealthily, yet quickly crept into carelessly tossed handbags and pegged up backpacks.

They made their way into little pouches and secret compartments, leaving no trail, rousing no suspicion.

And with a giggle you'd mistake for a cricket's sneeze, they knotted up all the earphone wires tangled beyond comprehension; and satisfied, they went back to sleep.

Illundavoor Tale- 3

2011-05-03T12:29:00.003+05:30

They had become like to prides of lions! Just that they painted, instead of Urinating to mark their territory!

There were blows exchanged at rare times. Ooruga, thankfully had escaped those. They all knew he was a simpleton. And they knew he was automatically following what he was being asked to do. No party preferences, No territorial lordship!

Ooruga was not always called so. He must have had some other names. In his godknowswhere house that he ran away from when his dad beat him, that fateful night for a petty crime.

But ever since he came to Illundavoor and served mango pickle at Pandian Mess, he had been called Ooruga.

He did not always know he could paint so well. But when he accidentally picked up Sarala’s(Pandian’s daughter) colouring book, his life took a turn.

Carefully he filled the clown’s eyes.

Beautifully he painted the nails of the princess.

When party officers came around with vats of paints, Pandian, a staunch PDCZ supporter, sent Ooruga to paint the wall posters.

It was late evening. Ooruga picked up his bright orange paint can and walked to the wall that had the party;s water bottle symbol drawn across it.

His brush looked like it was having a bad hair day. But in Ooruga’s hand, it plied to obey.Referring to the paper in hand, Ooruga sketched the Tamil letters precisely to read Kannaiyya- the party’s local candidate.

The weirdly bright orange paint was stickier than usual. Slowly Ooruga swirled the paint on to the brush, and finished off the background fill. ‘VOTE FOR’, he added on top as specified.

It was growing dark and the paint started to glow. Ooruga looked at it in wonder. It was glow in the dark paint!

******

Little Ooruga, who was then named somethingelse and not Ooruga, sat with his older sister in the thinnai* of their house.

His mother was braiding his sister’s hair into two fat oily plaits. She was filling colours into her book with her new paintbox.

Ooruga dipped his finger into the tiny paint bottle. His sister hit him on the hand and wiped it off with a waste cloth.

“Vendaam da! Idhu aai!”** she said.

Ooruga grinned listlessly. His mother smiled.

“Kuttykku colour pannanama?***” she asked

“Avana colour pannavei ma…,****” she instructed the girl and retreated within the house.

His sister picked up his hand, made him clasp the paint. She dipped it inbto the glowing black paint.

“Idhulendu, raathiri light adikkum,*****” she explained.

They drew and eye with the black, washed the brush. Then they filled the iris yellow. A bizarre yellow eye that glowed in the dark that night. His sister and he had laughed over it.

“Ooh! Naan poochaandi! Unna kadikka poren…,******” his sister play-acted with the painted eye held on her forehead.

Ooruga had giggled madly.

The next day, he got beaten, he cried, and he ran away forever, with a crumpled paper in his pocket. Of the glowing yellow eye.

Ooruga laughed again. Sitting in the corner of the street, staring at his work of art glowing in the dark.

People walked past, barely noicing him. Ooruga was prone to such outbursts of laughing and crying. But he was harmless. He’d soon get over his bout and walk back to the mess and serve the mango pickle as he had done so for the last 25 years. This was just a ‘meanwhile’ cry or laugh.

He laughed again. Glow-in-the-dark Kannaiyya, he thought! As if he would open his name-eye in the night through the paint!

Ooruga got up and walked past to the mess.

*Thinnai- long narrow platform attached to the front of the house, overlooking the road and shaded by the roof that extends beyond the house

**Vendaam da! Idhu aai!- Don’t touch it! It is shit!

*** Kuttykku colour pannanama?- Does the little one want to paint?

****“Avana colour pannavei ma…,”- Make him colour.

***** “Idhulendu, raathiri light adikkum,”- This will glow in the dark

****** “Ooh! Naan poochaandi! Unna kadikka poren…,”- Oh! I am a demon. I’m going to bite you!

Short Story- 20

2011-04-30T15:08:00.001+05:30

‘PRANKS FOR SALE’- the board outside the shop in Creek street read.

Old Mrs.Banham dusted the shop windows, trying to poof away the cobwebs that miraculously sprung up every morning. It was probably from the ancient street where a million spiders lived in peaceful unity.

Dust, the thickness of a ‘Complete Works of Shakespeare’, had settled on the road. People rarely came in there. “Unless they knew what they wanted,” as Mrs.Banham would say, her gray eyes gleaming for just an instant!

Old Mrs.Banham, with her frail figure, a set of pearlies she doused in Listerine every night and a mop of fluffy white hair, was not the kind you’d ever suspect would giggle if a Fartalot were to be snuck below your cushion. Neither did she appear like the kind who would clap with glee if you were hit by the Invisible SneezyWheezy. But she was very much the kind who would do both, with a ‘Mischief Managed’ sort of grin on her face.

Little childish pranks she brewed in her tiny workspace behind the shop. Her thin elbows exactly knew how not to move and set off a pile of AngelicallyAbusingChild keychains. Mrs.Banham also knew that in the secrecy of the forgotten street was the safety and success of her pranks.

Mrs.Banham was that lady who secretly dropped an Evaporating Chuckle pellet into your handbag if you looked upset. She would also carefully dust the finest WailingWeeper dust into your eyes if you were rude.

But the biggest prank she ever played was on herself. When she brewed MakeBelieveMojo on that fateful day when she turned thirty-two.

Thirty-two. That was exactly how many cockroaches she had to collect. Tears streaming with the rain and running in muddy streaks on to the gutter.

She sliced them. One after another. The prothorax aside, the abdomen beside it. In two neat rows of sixteen each. Honey warmed to feel like a cat’s paw. A teardrop. Three petals of the marigold raised on a bed of dead maple leaves. And a trickle of the glistening purple powder. Mix and heat till it turns black. Dark as thoughts. Dark as reality. Into that which would change reality. Prank her into believing whatever she wished to.

To become a widowed, successful lady, content with life, and with no memory of the past she wanted to erase.

Illundavoor Tale- 2

2011-04-29T00:54:00.000+05:30

read http://thedreamydryad.blogspot.com/2011/04/mamis-memories-illundavoor-tale-1.html

and now...

Nasreen Gopal nibbled at the edge of her pen with a thoughtful expression on her face and eyes twinkling with a sort of un-placeable excitement. She was, in what she called, a ‘writer’s itch’, where she just HAD to write and keep on writing as if the mere thought of stopping would stifle her!

She laughed at the recollection of the incident that had been narrated. As flashes filled her mind, she began to pen down furiously, the snatches of words that could best describe the events of the preceding evening, and what I deemed was the best way to tell yet another of Illundavoor’s tales…

Little Dimple did not like Motu Uncle’s language! Such a different language from her Hindi, she bitterly thought. It wrung her soul and she tried many actions to convey to him that she was thirsty! And what was he doing? Thinking she was in need of a new toy, or a ride in the dizzying Giant wheel, giving her exactly what she had not asked for!

Little Dimple had not anticipated that her 7-year old self would be sent in the sweltering heat to the neighbouring village fair. As a matter of fact, she had not imagined that the 2-monthlong Dakshin^* trip, (now thankfully coming to a close) that her parents had planned would be so boring!

All they had done so far was visit houses after houses of scary old people, with wrinkled faces and toothless smiles, forcing her to kiss their sagging cheeks. Not to forget getting her little brother Anup’s hair shaved off in some “Tripathi” where big muscled men had tonsured heads, appearing like thugs from a Hindi film, and crowds waited in cages to see a god for less than a second!

Little Dimple had been so bored when Anup was having his mid-noon nap, that when her mother suggested that she go with Pazhani uncle to the neighbouring village fair, she had agreed almost immediately, considering she had nothing better to do.

Dimple did not mind Pazhani, alias “Motu” uncle. He let her poke his fat arm with her finger and see it cave in. He also promised her (“Chinnamma”)^** that he’d let her pour water in the dent to see if it will stay. Much as she tailed along with him throughout the day, Dimple was slightly jealous of Pazhani when he told her that there was a city named after him! So she set out for the fair with thoughts of ice golas and gray green bangles.

And what did she get in return?! A rickety car journey followed by a heap of things she never asked for! Why did NOT Motu uncle speak Hindi? She tried once more at telling him she was thirsty. Miraculously, this time, he seemed to have understood and set off, asking her to wait, into the neighbouring water stall to fetch a bottle.

Meanwhile, Ramu Mama, Janaki Mami and Mr.Gopal, after having got an amazing darisanam^*** of the Ramar-Sita-Lakshmanar idol, were standing nearby, talking about the fair’s proceedings with fellow villager Narayanan.

“Adhu Illai-da Narayana(It’s not like that, Narayana),” Mami was saying, “Last time the tiruvizha(fair) had more bhakti than show. This time round, calling all these actor-actresses to inaugurate the temple dances made it too commercial, I say! Namma Ramar tiruvizhakku actor Rangarajan edhukku-da?(Why do we need actor Rangarajan to inaugurate our Rama temple fair?)”

“I agree one hundred percent with you, Mami! Next time my family’s going to be in charge… and I’ll make sure we don’t do such things. Amaam… Mr.Gopal…Nasreen enga?(So, Mr.Gopal….Where’s Nasreen?)”

“She’s gone to cover an assignment in Chennai,” Mr.Gopal replied, “She was feeling very depressed to have missed the tiruvizha! You see, she always loves all this festivity.”

Thus having concluded, and parting ways with Narayanan, Mama, Mami and Mr.Gopal beat the retreat. On their way back, whom should they meet, but a crying little Dimple, sitting on ‘Mookkan’ Thatha’s(Big-nosed Grandpa) thinnai(resting stone bench, part of the porch in South Indian homes)!

Having been made to wait an annoying ten minutes, pushed and pulled around by all and sundry till she was lost and frightened in the crowd, Little Dimple had somehow squeezed her way out into the open, and chosen that thinnai to seat her distraught self. Oh… where WAS Motu Uncle?!

Motu uncle had come back with an icy bottle of ‘colour’, only to find Dimple missing. “Chinnamma….,” he had screamed into the crowd, but in vain. Scared and angry with himself to have wasted five whole minutes smoking an OC cigarette from the shopkeeper, he rushed off to the nearby telephone booth-diagonally opposite ‘Mookkan’ Thatha’s house!

Here, Mami’s heart was moved at the plight of the crying child. Mama and Mr.Gopal scanned the crowds to find some search party but found none. “Times are bad and kidnappers are aplenty. Indha kozhandaiya inga vidarathu enakku seriya padalai”(I don’t think it is wise to leave the child here)- Mami’s words sealed their minds and little Dimple entered the portals of ‘Tejas’- 34 Ramar Koil Street.

Mr.Gopal informed pookkari(florist) Govindamma at the temple step about the child and asked her to direct any search party to 34 Ramar Koil Street.

Enter Dimple into ‘Tejas’, and the weeping child subdued on escaping the heat of the noon. The cheery faces of Mama, Mami and Mr.Gopal also calmed her down.

“Konde, un per ennada?”(What is your name, child?) Mama enquired, smiling and pinching Dimple’s red fat chubby cheeks.

Now, Dimple had a habit of throwing anything that was at hand if someone pinched her cheeks. Mami’s precious spare glasses became her object-of-smash this time and her anger only melted at the sight and sound of the fragile glass breaking into smithereens.

“Siva Sivaa… Enna da? Yaen ipdi ellathayum pottu odaikkaraai?(Lord Siva! What is this? Why are you breaking everything?) What is your name?” Mami asked, a mild irritation at the brutish behavior, colouring her tone.

Dimple giggled, revealing a missing front tooth and figuring out that they were asking for her name (Hadn’t scores of these weird-language people ask her the same question? And hadn’t she been instructed to say “Dimple” as an answer? Oh… how can she forget the annoying times?)

“Dimple,” she answered as practiced.

“What a cute name for a cute girl…,” remarked Mr.Gopal and pinch pinch pinch he went on her ruddy cheeks!

Dimple was enraged! How dare these old people insult her and pinch her!? Letting out a wild scream, she ran around the house in circles, madly flinging her arms and pushing every object at sight.

Now Mama, Mami and Mr.Gopal could initially not comprehend the child’s act of blitzkrieg attacks! But once reality sunk, they scooted off their old bones and started chasing the girl.

Runs Dimple into the kitchen and plop, the Chinese bowl breaks.

“Ayyoda! Idhenna kodumai,(Oh! What kind of a torture is this?)” Mami screams between gasps of breath.

Runs Dimple into the Pooja room and clang, drops the Feng Shui bell.

“Dimple! Don’t run! Dear kid… stop…stop… stop… amma… I’m not able to run,” pant-screamed Mama.

Jumps Dimple though the common window and into 35, Ramar Koil Street.

“Aiyayyo! (Oh my god!)Now it’ s my turn I guess!” screeches Mr.Gopal, fleeing out of ‘Tejas’ and into his own ‘home sweet…err…collapsing home’.

And there stands Dimple, near a life size Geisha doll that Nasreen had bought from her official trip to China- all stunned and awed.

She gave an angelic smile, turned around and looked at Mr.Gopal, saying, “Bahut Sundar hain!(Very pretty!)”

“Huh? Mmm... Whatever you say,” Mr.Gopal hastily jabbered, grinning foolishly, but relieved that the pesky kid was somehow not in her maniacal mode.

By then Mama and Mami had panted their respectful selves inside, in a state of frayed nerves and disarrayed appearance.

Dimple visually weighed the three of them with interest and finding in her mental picture, the perfect treble to play “Queen! Queen!” game, proceeded towards the oonjal(swing) and throned herself.

“Ab Suno! Tum- Soldier,” she ordered at Mr.Gopal.

“Tum Minister,” she appointed Mama.

“Aur tum-meri dost aur sevak,” she uttered, pointing at Mami.

“Main, Queen,” she declared with a beatific dimpled smile.

Mr.Gopal, having a miniscule knowledge of the national language, proceeded to explain to Mama and Mami that the devil incarnate has chosen their esteemed selves as her fellow playmates in the game where she plays the Queen.

Finding this game a hopefully less destructive one than insanely running about the house, the three meekly obeyed Her Majesty, the Queen on the Swing!

“Soldier!” she clapped,” Mujhe bhook lagi hain. Khana lao!” She pointed at her tummy. Her lips quivered slightly and her eyes welled up with tears of hunger, but gulping them down bravely, she regained composure.

The soldier instantly marched to the kitchen and brought every edible item possible to shut Her Majesty’s mouth.

After an extensive meal of 3 bananas ( “Kela mujhe bahut pasand hain!”), a pack of Marie biscuits, lime juice(“aaah! Nimbu pani?!”), chips and murukku(“Theeka jalebi?!”), Her Majesty Dimple, ordered the Minister and friend to provide her some entertainment.

“Mujhe bore ho raha hain. Naacho! Gao…,” she screamed herself hoarse. Rejecting Mr.Gopal’s desperate attempts to switch on the TV, she started crying and asking them to stage a cultural extravaganza in her honour.

Where any other power fails, a kid’s pleading and lung power succeeds. Mama and Mr.Gopal, who had never danced in their life, and never, even in their wildest moments, ever imagined to see themselves dance, performed a little jig to Mami’s rendition of “Kurai ondrum illai maraimoorthy kanna”(I have no worries, Krishna)-an ironic song to be sung when troubled by the imp of a girl.

Dimple, on the other hand, was clapping her hands in glee and swaying in the swing with the most delighted expression on her face.

“Filmi gaana gao.. Film.. F-I-L-M,” she yelled.

Knowing better to yield to her wishes than suffer the worst, Mami broke into “Unnai Ondru Ketpen”(Let me ask you something, what do I sing?) from Parakkum Paravai.

What more could have happened, one can only imagine. For one- the capabilities and ideas of kids range from the whacky and bizarre to downright innocent and wonderful. What dimple might have asked them to do might have been anything from rocking her to sleep with a story of marching on the road in a royal procession.

Thankfully for them, the infinite possibilities of torture disappeared in a whiff when Motu Uncle turned up with pookkaari Govindamma at the door. After profusely thanking the battered three residents of 34 & 35 Ramar Koil Street, Motu Uncle whisked Little Dimple away.

Just before Dimple left, she hugged and kissed Mama, Mami and Mr.Gopal on both their cheeks and with a “Nalla aadareenga! Enakku onga ellarayum rumba pidikkum! Bye bye!”(You dance really well. I really like you all.) she giggled and left!

^*South

^**Little Mistress

^***View of the holy rites

^***

Mami's Memories: Illundavoor Tale-1

2011-04-29T00:26:00.002+05:30

Ramu mama’s snores sounded through the common window separating 35 and 36, Ramar Koil Street, and could be heard from where Nasreen Gopal sat next door, cross-legged. With nothing better to do at that time in the village of Illundavoor, and no one to talk to (as Mr.Gopal had left to Chennai for the opening of another cafe at Mambalam), Nasreen sat playing with the ends of her dupatta. Suddenly, she thought she would go and have a mid-afternoon chat with Mami and after bolting her door, she immediately knocked on the adjoining one. Janaki Mami opened it carefully, lest she woke mama up.

Ushering Nasreen into the huge dark storeroom, Mami at last opened her mouth, “Onna thaandi-ma nenachen! I was just thinking of calling you to help me clean some old trunks.”

“Of course, mami. I was so bored,” Nasreen replied, “Tell me where to begin!”

Mami and Nasreen went to one end of the room where about five sturdy trunk-pettis stood. Mami opened a dingy green one. It was full of photos, papers, letters and certificates.

Nasreen and Mami patiently went through them- Mami as a blushing bride – her now beautiful self, looking more vibrant, more beautiful and young; Mama on his graduation day, wearing a trailing gown; Mama and Mami’s son, Suresh as a little boy –now working in America; Mama’s numerous articles with rejection letters from various magazines and newspapers he had sent it to out; Suresh’s various certificates singing praise of his scholastic and non-scholastic prowess. The twosome carefully dusted the aging stuff and segregated them, neatly putting them in the transparent folders in various albums.

Next came a brown trunk with a golden plate reading Janaki Radhakrishnan. Mami began, “I used to study in a convent. I’m just a sixth pass; but I always was a good student. I used to take all my clothes in this trunk when I went to the hostel. But after my sixth standard, my father,” and she paused and fondly ran a finger on her father’s name etched in the gold plate and with a sigh continued, “My father lost all his money in business. He couldn’t send me to school. My mother- who cared more for my father’s money than him- took ill on hearing his loss and I had to take care of the household. She died after a few years and later I got married to your mama. My father passed away ten years back.” she concluded, memories clouding her face.

Mami opened the trunk and what an assortment of clothes there was! Incidentally, Suresh was enthusiastic about plays and dramas. He had been educated in the nearby town, known for its theatre culture. He had taken part in many plays and Mami had treasured all the costumes he had worn in them. She had made most of them herself. Nasreen could see what deft fingers Mami had- the sewing was intricate, the embroidery very detailed; and the sequins and chamki patterns, exquisite. Rich materials for the Rajas from old pattu pavadais; old shirts reduced in size to fit the lad; a perfect policeman outfit made from Khadi (Mami revealed that she had got the buttons from a retired police officer who had been their neighbour then!) and plenty of others. A few dirty ones they kept aside to be washed. Mami decided she had better donate the good ones to some orphanage but Nasreen very much doubted if these fanciful clothes would comfort anyone but a dramatist’s theatrical soul!

Next was a huge black trunk with brown leather straps. It contained old utensils- silverware, bronze ware (the bronze almost about to do the disappearing act) and lots of other stainless steel paathrams and plates. Mami could tell her who gave her which of those items precisely after all these years. “Ah… this dabba,” she would begin, “Devika of Tillainathan Road gave. She is now in Muscat. This piththalai paathram, my Ambuja Mami gave when I went for her golu. She was my mother’s cousin’s wife. Now this silver plate- Mama was gifted this by his senior-most officer during our marriage. You see, he worked for the Indian railways then in the accounts department,” and on she rattled as Nasreen picked one or the other object and enquiring a “who gave you this?” or a “Oh, really? Amazing!” Mami decided to give a few items to Shanti, their maid. She kept them aside.

She then opened a red leather trunk. Lots of walking sticks were there. Nasreen was amazed and enquired, “Oh…you’ve preserved all your family’s walking sticks? Mami you are some hoarder of stuff-letters, photos, utensils, clothes and now… sticks!’

“No… no… this is totally Mama’s doing. When he was young he loved to play with walking sticks. He was a very bright boy and everyone loved and petted him. Whenever anybody died, they left their walking stick to him. If they didn’t, he took it anyway! This one here is his paternal great-grandfather’s who lived to be 94. Look at the material. Pure sandalwood. Smell it. Oh… wait,” she said and wiped it clean before handing it to Nasreen.

“Smells good and mami, it’s still so sturdy!”

“Old things never die. They live on due to the love and care once bestowed. Now this was his maternal great grandfather’s. He was 80 when he died. This is scented rosewood. He was a very rich man, a diamond merchant way back in those times! He had to travel alone and through dark forests. So this one has a built-in sword to threaten the thieves who dared threaten him. Mama still believes that two notorious thieves of the nearby forests were never found after his grandfather passed that way once! He claims his grandfather killed them and threw their bodies to the vultures. I don’t know how far it is true. But yes…there is a sword inside,” and she drew out the sword á la Jhansi ki Rani (incidentally, didn’t that rhyme with Janaki mami?)

The sword gleamed in the dark and a chill ran down Nasreen’s spine. The sword still looked sharp and polished with not a peck of rust visible. Nasreen mouthed a ‘wow’.

Mami then took another walking stick and said, “This was my father’s. He bequeathed this to Mama. My father was a famous lawyer. He used to carry this always with him as a mark of dignity. This is a very finely carved one with gold edges.”

And on she went, detailing the history of every walking stick. The last trunk remained. Mami opened it and it gave out a rotting smell on opening. What a sight Nasreen beheld! Old drishti lemons hung once over the door; alums of every shape and size; a dozen rosary beads; a cardboard sheet having some weird circular diagrams in what looked like blood; different packets and parcels of age-old manjal-kumkumam-vibhoodhi; tiny crystal rings, beads; radium balls; twigs and other odds and ends!

“Goodness! Mami, what on EARTH is all this?!” Nasreen exclaimed.

“God’s blessings and a few great yogis’ gifts and good-luck charms,” Mami triumphantly declared.

“These…? Mami! You are just being superstitious!” she said, puzzled, as if that was the last thing she had expected Mami to be.

“Rubbish! These are prayers,” Mami retorted.

“A nice way for these Yogis to dupe gullible people like you and swindle off your money!”

“Dear me… no! Why… Yogi Devadutta gave me this ring so that I recover from Measles and the very next day there was not a spot!”

“Oh Mami… it was just a coincidence! Come on… throw them away! It stinks!!!”

“Heavens no! These are precious properties that have guarded our house all along! I dare not throw them away!”

“OK… Let’s assume these are God’s gifts!”

“What?! No need to assume! They ARE God’s gifts!”

“Alright…alright…they ARE God’s gifts and their power has already been utilized for some purpose or the other. So now, you are free to throw them! You don’t want an insect raid here, do you!?”

“Konde! No!!! Even now they have their magic”

“God Mami! You are so naïve!”

Mami was so taken aback that she cautioned, “Nasreen… don’t ridicule God! You won’t believe it, will you?! Fine. I’ll make you believe. See this?” and with determination writ clearly across her face, she proceeded to show Nasreen a radium ball and a stick and continued, “A kudukuduppai kaaran gave me these. If I chant the mantra he taught me and rotate this magic ball thrice anti-clockwise and twice clockwise and then lift the magic stick five times chanting another mantra, Suresh will call within an hour! Remember he calls only once a week? And he just spoke yesterday… now keep that in mind and see if it works!”

As advised, Mami muttered some incomprehensible mantra and performed what Nasreen believed to be a “ridiculous act with a peepul stick and an ordinary radium ball!”

She completed the task and put everything back into the trunk, locked it and placed it back. The day’s work had been done.

Getting up she took the utensils and the clothes. Nasreen and she came out of the store room. Mama was leaving for his evening stroll.

Minutes trickled by and the tension slowly began to show on Mami’s face. She was so keen on proving her point. Lest she hurt Mami’s feelings, Nasreen quietly helped Mami in cutting up the urlaikazhangu for dinner.

Only five minutes remained of the challenged one hour. Mami looked upset as she roasted the urlai. Just as she kept the vaanali of nice brown oil soaked urlais on the counter, the shrill call of the telephone was heard.

Mami ran to pick the phone. “Hello?”

“Amma… Suresh here. For a while I kept having this weird feeling that you wanted to talk to me. So I called… is everything OK…?”

That night, Nasreen wrote in her diary,

“Whether love or superstition reached out, I shall never know…’

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

Reference:

MAMI: Aunty

MAMA: Uncle

DUPATTA: a shawl or coverning worn on a salwaar-kameez, a traditional Asian dress.

TRUNK-PETTI: A trunk

CHAMKI: a type of glittering flat sequin

RAJA: a king

PITHALAI: brass

PAATHARAM: a container

KHADI: hand-spun material

DABBA: a container/ vessel

GOLU: a Hindu festival during the Navrathri/9 day season where people arrange dolls of gods and goddesses on steps and perform holy rites for 9 days.

MANJAL-KUMKUMAM-VEEBHOODHI: turmeric-vermillion-sacred ash

YOGI: a saint

KONDEY: a child, called affectionately.

KUDUKUDUPPAI KAARAN: a soothsayer who rattles a rattling-drum

MANTRAM: incantation

PEEPUL: a tree

URLAIKAZHANGU/ URLAI: potatoes

VAANALI: a wide-rimmed vessel for deep-frying

AMMA: mother.

Stories

2011-04-28T17:34:00.001+05:30

Some stories never end. Like little plotting phoenixes, they prepare their own rebirths! A never ending comma.

These are the kind of stories that sky-rocketed themselves into outerspace at their very opening paragraphs. And then the cosmos had so many things to discover, forget and refind.

It is said that the stars laugh at the continued fascination they have for themselves.

These stories live happilysadlyfightinglypeacefullyquietlynoisily... and they live ever after!

Now, listen to me Time!

2011-04-25T23:46:00.005+05:30

In footsteps
soft and nimble
you slipped away
from my sleepy hands

I am no market companion
for you to drag me along
window shopping across life.
Blurred, the shops pass me by!

I want to swim in your private pool
soak in the cool waters of present
buoying up on my dolphin float
with sunglasses to keep off glare!

Stop scolding me for looking back
no, there are no devils behind.
Stop slapping me for drifting off
I will not fall into the gorge!

Time,
I like you shiny bright and new
tossing your glossy curls behind
and walking beside me
whispering and giggling into my ears

Time,
now, listen to me, Time
We go slow and soft, and dance to the tunes
that mermen play from the sea
We then pick up shells and wear them like beads
and sip on juice and tea!

Time, dear time
vague friend of mine
listen to me this once
play by my rules
and don't run away
and leave me dazed and confused!

__________________________________________________________

Farewell, dear Ahmedabad. Two years ended too soon. Chennai, here I come... happy-sad!

Ahmedabad, I will miss every bit of you! *sob, sniffle, quivering lip*

Bye bye Ahmedabad!

2011-04-23T10:37:00.004+05:30

And a chapter comes to an end. The road forks to lead me back home.

Two years of a dream lived. Memories that refuse to get categorized, jump into suitcases, get themselves a ticket and travel with me back. Memories that jerk at my hand and tell me- "Stay back, you moron. We were all born here. We want you to relive those times with us!"

Living life to the hilt, finding new ways of seeing and thinking, growing a whole-new-me from the seed that I was.

I've found many new things- from within the crannies of me, I have discovered strength and spirit, from around-some friends for a lifetime, from the place- a beginning in a journey of knowledge. There has been so much learnt and unlearnt, so much loved and gained, some- lost forever in this place.

Every inch of wall, in my nest of a C-201, has stories to tell. Of tears shed, my tryst with loneliness, fatigue, fear; also in those swirls of red, yellow and blue are many many tales of mirthful evenings, happy movie-watchings, art and poetry, heart to heart talks, dreams dreamt,got and lost, and a gradual growing up I'm slowly sensing within.

I came here a jumping stone trying to be everywhere, dancing with joy. I'm leaving as a more rounded stone, who is aware that she could either be a jewel or a door-stopper, and in this knowledge has slowed down and is looking at herself differently.

The city has made me independent, confident and happy. There are little memory notes I've left behind in many loved spots. I'll come back to them, time and again, rewind my tapes and play those times again in my mind! Yes Ahmedabad, our love will never be over...

A wonderful journey's major part comes to an end. I'm one diploma film away from finishing my course here.

NID has given me wings, I'm going to flap them and try them out. They look shiny, not sturdy yet; they look fancy and pretty, not beautiful yet; but they are my wings all the same. I'm going to try and fly...and yes, fall many times and hurt and cry, but then I'd have still moved a few babyflaps ahead!

Salvation!

2011-04-08T01:31:00.010+05:30

Indira. Aravind Swamy. Thoda thoda malarnthathenna.

What is it about the film that makes me so happy-sad?!

Eternal love, I say!

"Mary Anne Julie Fernandes. Dussu Bussu" :D

Aravind Swamy as Thyagu is perfection defined to a 'T'! :D

"English Vala vala" back at you Thyagu!

*sigh*

*dreams away*

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

"Mary Julie-nnu ellaam yaarum kadaiyaathu!
Indha graamathileye enna pudichchu vechchudu vaanga-nnu thaan poi sonnen.
Onna thavara vera endha ponnum illai"

"Theriyum..."

WHATTEY!

*************
"Enakku therinju, Indian Penal Code-la Maaranjeri Meenkutthigai patthi ethuvum illai"

:D

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

"Thyagu...!"

"Ey Mandu! Vaa Polaam!"

:D

Short Story-19

2011-04-03T19:47:00.001+05:30

It was one of those days. Long hours of work. Sitting in front of a computer. She was typing away on the keyboard.

It annoyed her that it had dirty marks on it. All the vowels and a few consonants. The O had a small patch to its top left corner. The F was barely visible. Aah, all the swearing secretly on chat!

The V had a fingerprint etched, almost! Her print for her boss's name. The numerous mails she had to type with Vimala in brackets, before she could get her signature.

The control, alternate and delete keys were also not spared. Her rotten system that hung every two seconds. She needed ctrl+alt+del for surviving with it!

She scratched away at the dirt slowly. She noticed how crumbs of he doughnut she had everyday was lodged between P and [. How a line of dirt ran between the function keys and the numbers on top.

The num lock glowed.

She sighed, and typed

Thanking you,

Yours sincerely,

She pressed the dirtiest of them all enter key. Thrice.

[Vimala Sriram]

We bled blue on the world cup and how!

2011-04-03T01:22:00.002+05:30

Rajinikanth was in the stadium. Hence, India won! And... I missed you Dravid. Ohsobadly!
CONGRATS Team INDIA and Special congratulations Sachin! You deserved this earlier! :)

And somehow, I cannot seem to forget the thrill of winning the T20 WC we won four years back.. That catch by Sreeshanth of Misbah Ul Haq. OHMYGOD! Was just thrilling as hell. Although my craze for cricket is much less now, today, standing in the mess with about the entire college, staring at the whitewashed wall where the live telecast was being projected, was quite awesome.

And yes, Dravid. I missed you!

Today

2011-03-31T17:22:00.002+05:30

Maybe the palmist was right. The time is not yet right.

Things won't happen. Plans won't take off. But it'll be better than last year. Definitely better, he said.

It is.

***

There are certain times I want to see if I can stretch. Make my hand extend to reach the treetop. There is a small little box there. It has a tiny wing. I want that wing.

***

The reel plays over and over again inside my head. It has psychedelic colours. And they all form patterns. They are abstract to everyone else who sees it. To me, they make shapes I know.

***

2011-03-27T15:31:00.000+05:30

“The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order: the continuous thread of revelation.”

- Eudora Welty

2011-03-22T14:34:00.000+05:30

and in slumber
shapes appear
little golden sheep
and tortoises of bread

potatoes crackle over the stove
jackets getting roasted to russets
little soft hands lull you
back to the whitehead of softness

happiness like wine
turns the senses to sleep mode
barking dogs outside my window
have their scream fest

my thoughts' cacophony
slowly sorts itself into piles
one by one I stash them back
into shelves in my cupboard

fingers ache from a day's movement
feet cry at the cracks
lids shutter down like shop windows
and I breathe to the fan's hum

sleep, blessed sleep with many arms
sandman's gift blown into my eye
slowly you smuggle me into your wings
I fall. i faaallll i faa.....ldiueirjdfhdsj/.............

___________________________________________________________________

P.S: Happiness and sleep are a wonderful combination. After an unforgettably brilliant birthday, a proud and happy 24 year old is off to sleep! :)

light wings

2011-03-20T03:01:00.003+05:30

I have sprouted light wings
in the wee hours of the morning
the wake biding sleep to wait
in the happiness of being

There is no particular reason. And yet again there are a series of little beautiful things since the new year.

:)

Where do I begin? Happiness is so difficult to put to words! :)

Short Story- 18

2011-03-11T01:30:00.003+05:30

(Attempt at a piece of love-writing. Bear with me if it sounds dumb and hollow! :P)

Last night, you came in my dream. After...what...ten months?! And today, I've not forgotten you. Yet.

All those words are coming back. The ones you used to sweet talk me to silence. How could I speak? Words seemed so inappropriate. I was hoping my silence was more eloquent.

The same colour rushes to my face now as it did when you used that voice of yours to claim me for your own. This time, the colour rises for other reasons- anger? pain?

Or is it embarassment? At having bared open my soul to you and let you camp there? It took me so long to painfully pull out keg after keg that firmly kept your tent down. And every time I removed a keg, my flesh hurt. Smarted with all the love I had just imagined.

Thank god for the distance that separated us- then and now. Blessed distance that kept me safe from my vulnerability.

But sometimes, I wonder, would distance have actually made these plain talks, real? Made meaning of what seems like a stretch of once-upon-a-times?

Today you refuse to go...image stuck in my eyes. Persistance of vision and memory. The colour of your smile...once a cool aquamarine to my senses, now a murky un-understandable brown. Those little crinkles around the corner of your mouth...perfect geometric lines chiselled on to your face, now an ambiguous clutch of arrows shooting out everywhere. And then those almost brown eyes...aah... those that were both warm and cool, trusting and loving; now an intangible white mass with a black pinprick for an iris!

What happened to you? the you I knew, talked to, laughed with and shared life with? Did he die? Did he disappear? Did all the hopes and promises sublimate?

You have changed, and hence, I have changed, and when in dreams we meet, we live another lifetime, the one I once wished into my life!

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

Coming soon... the journal pages from my two week trip to Landour(the lovely lovely world of Ruskin Bond)! :)

Blogsville, I am back! :D

I will meet you yet again

2011-02-14T00:35:00.000+05:30

(Mein tainu pher milan gi)

—-Amrita Pritam.

I will meet you yet again
How and where? I know not.
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe, spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas,
I will keep gazing at you.

Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine, to be
embraced by your colours.
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where –
but I will meet you for sure.

Maybe I will turn into a spring,
and rub the foaming
drops of water on your body,
and rest my coolness on
your burning chest.
I know nothing else
but that this life
will walk along with me.

When the body perishes,
all perishes;
but the threads of memory
are woven with enduring specks.
I will pick these particles,
weave the threads,
and I will meet you yet again.

Delusional Angel

2011-02-13T10:58:00.002+05:30

Daydream delusion,
limousine eyelash,
oh, baby with your pretty face,
drop a tear in my wineglass,
look at those big eyes,
see what you mean to me,
sweet cakes and milkshakes,
I am a delusional angel,
I am a fantasy parade,
I want you to know what I think,
dont want you to guess anymore,
you have no idea where I came from,
we have no idea where we're going,
launched in life,
like branches in the river,
flowing downstream,
caught in the current,
I'll carry you, you'll carry me,
that's how it could be,
don't you know me?
don't you know me by now?

- Poem by the poet by the riverside in 'Before Sunrise'

I have always been deeply moved by this poem and the randomness of it. Even when I had to do a film dissertation early this year, I took this film and the conversations in it for study. It was lovely...watching those beautiful conversations seamlessly blend into one another and flow like satin.

Conversations have always fascinated me. I've always wondered how words always want to get out of us and pin themselves in the air around us, or incept themselves in the minds of people around.

Before Sunrise in that way, has achieved immense success in the way its conversations are structured. You feel so involved with the characters!

Random

2011-02-12T23:45:00.002+05:30

If life were easy and decisions were simple, there would be no thrill at all. But there are always certain points in life where one needs to make a choice. The 'two roads diverged in a yellow wood'. Taking a path less trodden is a very very difficult choice. But making that choice is what makes me respect a person.

It is easy to walk till that point and then decide to go in the road that has been walked over by millions of people and follow the mass. But to stand by your gut feeling and go take that road where no one has dared to take, uninfluenced by facts and history, and to just feel that nothing can go wrong- that takes courage and genuinity.

My first film :)

2011-02-11T20:22:00.002+05:30

Mami's Memories from Sandhya Ramachandran on Vimeo.

‘Mami’s Memories’ takes us through Janaki Mami’s and Nasreen’s act of cleaning old trunks on a hot afternoon. The village of Illundavoor, where this story is set, still is full of old-world charm and ancient beliefs. Although sons are sent abroad to study and work, and educated daughters roam the streets, the older generation is still holding on to its past. Nasreen represents the changing face of Illundavoor’s society and Janaki mami of its past. As both set out to discover the past and discard selective bits of it, some myths are broken, some beliefs reaffirmed, some more questions are raised… A simple slice-of-life from the village streets…

This film was selected from the Chennai Talent Campus, produced by Cord/Chord Studio and screened in the 4th Chennai International Film Festival.

Once again, Thank you Suresh for the understanding, Pradip for the editing and my family for all the love :)

On a lazy saturday

2011-02-05T17:47:00.003+05:30

It is early evening. The stars must slowly be rising from slumber for their night duty. I am looking at some old mails and wondering how much change has been a part of my life.

New words and states of being have entered my life over the past seven years. Such radical changes, such altered behaviour and a new wisdom tooth poking its head as if to authorize all of this.

I wish sometimes chapters of life were written on a word document and stored in a pendrive hung around our neck when we were born. And for a certain amount of times, we must be allowed to rewrite or alter paragraphs and phrases to make amends.

It is actually a decent state I am in, right now. Moderately aloof and disconnected with the world at large. Happy for simple beautiful things. Having certain sensible dreams. An almost-acceptance of being what I am. Few regrets. Few wistful wishes. And a small stash box full of sense and straightforwardness to steer ahead.

It is one of those days meant to be spent cuddled in the room without a thought in the head. But one still can't stop wishing for a distant migrating bird to drop a dream on my lap before I sleep.

thinking

2011-01-26T18:10:00.003+05:30

Today is a day to write as there are little noises disturbing my head and making me think of things I shouldn't be wasting my time anymore on. Yes, there are always things to forget. Have you noticed how that keeps piling on and on and you actually end up remembering what all there is to forget?!

Sometimes people are the strangest of creatures. How much they change over time? How much things change over time. What seemed the most meaningful, one fine day, in one sweep of a moment, becomes non existent?!

Digestion of facts needs far more roughage of good deeds to aid. I am slowly piling up good things in my life. My new dust pile. My very own, humble one with simple joys.

2011-01-26T17:39:00.000+05:30

recap

is a cruel word

Thoughts

2011-01-23T01:01:00.003+05:30

...and what do I talk of jealousy- possessing and full of visions? That which you seek but can't have?

Someone else's goods.
Your misery gifted them their luck.

You'd always treat it better- because you never had what they took for granted over time.
You'd always fantasize about owning it- it never was yours.

And that object that has been thwarted by the owner, and still wills not to be owned by you- that kills you with its disregard of your want.

Jealousy, that pounces at you from between the pages, through fumes emerging from the dark corners of the room- like termites festering on wood- eating the insides first.

Short story- 17

2011-01-18T01:17:00.000+05:30

"It had set into a rhythm. A long chat after work. Lazing in the room. Settling with a cup of food and her. They'd talk. Endlessly. About everything. Sometimes about nothing. It was a ritual. It meant something. Or so he thought.

But the more deep the waters got, the more the swimmer's life is tossed into the mercy of the sea. And thus one day, when all this depth of sharing and caring and meaning grew over bearing, he panicked and ran.

A coward."

Grandma looked up from The children's tale book of the big bad world. The kids looked at her with eyes full of pained anticipation.

She sighed. Then smiled. And continued to read.

Published!!!!

2011-01-15T21:37:00.005+05:30

Presenting
Kavikala: a visual poetry project, in collaboration with 33 artists and
33 poets, aka the Madness Mandali. Check out my illustration at 0:26 secs. Yay! I'm published! :)

Check it out here!

Inklings!

2011-01-14T00:35:00.002+05:30

It is probably too early, but what the heck?! I have an inkling that this year is going to be a really really good one! For starts, it started with bonfire in the beach, constellations winking and firecrackers exploding into a star shower just above our heads! You can't possibly ask for a better new year's night. And well, it has also lead to a makeover and nice things happening.

I just have a good feeling I'm slowly crawling back to happiness. Or probably, leaping into sunshine like a deer!

Many little Tinker bells are flying inside my soul!

I feel blithe!

:)

Short story- 16

2011-01-11T01:21:00.004+05:30

She scribbled and a tear smudged the paper. She folded the sheet and gave it to the grave-etcher. Her eyes looked pained. She nodded and departed, leaving him standing with the folded bit of paper.

He picked up his tool bag and slung it on his shoulder. He opened the paper.

"Here lies the grave of a coward who couldn't appreciate the beauty of things he had. Who played a million lies throughout his life. A man, who despite being loved truly, did not want it. A man who died, in the end, wishing to change his past. May his pitiable soul rest in peace."

I

2011-01-09T21:58:00.002+05:30

I am your guilt,

I am your want.

I am your forbidden fruit.

I am the dream you hide from yourself

I am the thing that scares you away.

I am a bit of you, you never knew, existed

I am that one thing you shall never have.

Yes, i shall remain the star you can never reach,

for you wanted just the tree tops!

Artsy beginnings

2011-01-06T08:45:00.002+05:30

Two online magazines carried my art work as a feature in their recent issues!
It feels great! :)

Pyrta Journal- Winter issue:
http://www.pyrtajournal.com/

Spark Magazine- Anniversary Issue- January 2011
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=1124

Dear new year,

2011-01-05T08:58:00.004+05:30

Your older sister was a mean bitch. She made sure I felt lonely, weird, confused and afraid. She also teased me with promises and left me in the middle of nowhere. Occasionally, she took me out for coffee and treated me decently- as if to erase her evil bouts. And just before she left for good, she took me on a trip to this beautiful place called Diu, gave me an almost-unblemished time. I must say that was actually quite decent of her.

Now that you are here, everyday, I just want to sort a few things out. WE MAKE PEACE. Yes, we do. No matter what.

We also treat one another nicely. That way you get to see me happy genuinely. Also that way I get to spread the joy that I generally used to do sometime in the past. And trust me, everyone is going to love you for it. Now that is more than a fair deal!

Importantly, I have certain questions that are eating my head like lice. And these, you may have to answer this time. Let me rephrase that... you MUST answer this time round.

We go places together. We feel life.

Good work= No bitching. So you better get me there. I shall do all the investment of work, time and honesty.

If ever I dwindle in my sanity(which I highly doubt I ever would. I am blessed with boring clarity), pull me back before I do something silly.

I am too dumbly nice to people even if they look at me like they'll drive a stake through my heart. I am plump. I am messy with my things. Help me get meaner, leaner and cleaner. It is your moral responsibility.

Let me, for a change, not be blah, bleargh, urgh-y or any such random-noised-words-y.

For now, this sounds fine. We shall review the terms of contact on the way I suppose.

Welcome home!

Regards,

Sandhya Ramachandran

P.S.: Please be good to me!!!!!

Short Story 15

2010-12-26T16:10:00.003+05:30

"He hurts me more than anything else. Every failure is related to him. Every success is a proof to what he's missing out. He's too embroiled in my everyday." she sobbed and wrote.

Her tears touched the paper and turned crimson. The book ripped open. A gash was formed, and as if from a hidden mouth the painful wail of a woman was heard.

The book burst into a million droplets of blood. They splattered the wall. They splashed on the lone hurricane lamp that was flickering beside the table. The fire turned red.

Three dwarfs in one

2010-12-21T11:25:00.002+05:30

Grumpy

Sleepy

Droopy

And not because anything happened, but maybe because nothing ever does.

2010-12-13T15:48:00.002+05:30

a ribbon of moonlight
alone
drifting where the wind takes it
not belonging
a sliver
of silver longing
looking for reason
to persist
or perish

2010-12-12T19:16:00.002+05:30

Writing is my self-defence. It is my way of making peace with myself. Somehow, when you see words shaping your thoughts and insecurities, everything seems lighter.

I don't write for anyone. I know a few people read me. But I don't write for them either. I write to send a fragment of me into the cosmos. To get rid of that excess baggage of thoughts or emotions that can't seem to be held anymore in my pea-sized brain.

I'm glad I can write to vent things out.

*phew!

Quote- 1

2010-12-02T03:44:00.003+05:30

"Immersed in centuries-old art and architecture, the young couple in Before Sunrise search for meaning and clarity in their conversations, hoping that the connection they are forging will give them something to cling to in this potential shipwreck of life. Yet it is only when we revisit the couple nine years later in Before Sunset that it is clear these lessons have been internalized. The Celine and Jesse of this film are so young and unseasoned that they don't realize just how special this connection and their time together is, and it is only after nine years of struggle that they are able to put what they had together in Vienna into its proper perspective. The magnitude and rarity of their Viennese Brief Encounter is only evident through the perspective that the years provide."

By Dan Jardine in "Before Sunrise and Before Sunset: Laden with Happiness and Tears"
ref: http://www.slantmagazine.com/house/2010/01/before-sunrise-and-before-sunset-laden-with-happiness-and-tears/

*sigh*

Time gives perspective.

PART 1: Trichy

2010-11-15T08:56:00.004+05:30

A trip of three days. Three cities. Trichy, Thanjavur, Srirangam.

I went knocking on old worn-out stones. Some that had grayed with age, some that still had old scripts paving lines on its ruggedness. We went through meandering streets which stank of money and material, into a stone den that once had my mom captive. Still does. I seemed to smell maiden dreams in the air, probably the ones my mother spun some twenty five years ago, when as a demure lass she walked through the same entrance into the Malai kottai temple of her Uchchi Pullayaar, eyes alight with hope, friends in tow and simple joys to define everything.

Distant bells echoed in my head- all the bells my mother would have heard through her three years in the city of Trichy, where every weekend meant a visit to the Rock Fort temple.

Old stone talks to you. In silent resilient tones, after withstanding years of hands that touched it: crassly, gently, caressingly and cruelly; some defying the holy scripts that run their breadth on the walls by imposing shaky hearts and etching lover names on it.

The million steps to climb seemed an invitation to heaven-hewn out of rock and made to obey the dictats of humans by enclosing it within corridors spanned by lofty gopurams.

And when we reached the top, after folding palms in front of the other many gods you have to pay respect to on the way, I was left shattered at the stark negligence with which the sanctuary above had been renovated. Cold impersonal sparkling granite in black and gray stared with brutality. Stark and bright tube lights stole away the sanctity and the few old stone columns wept silently, forcibly rendered to watch the ruin of their times.

For once I wished I could cry out loud how much the climb above had not been worth it. As the entire city of Tirichinapalli lay sprawling beneath like a little architectural scaled model, I wondered if any heart had bled when they had mutilated the beautiful stone hall that had years of prayers resonating within. In the name of renovation, a sanctuary had been violated, thoughts that drifted across times and secreted in stone had been cladded with death cold granite blocks.

And suddenly, I could not hear the whispers of my mother and her friends that I suspected I was hearing all the time I was climbing up.

My tryst with the past remained unfinished.

Short Story-14

2010-11-09T22:52:00.004+05:30

She piled up the stones one after another. This was her joypile. There were thirteen stones in all. One for the little blue mug. One for the feather of the Azure-winged magpie that her uncle got from China. Then there was one for that day she got to climb the hill and saw a rainbow.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, and the stones toppled over.

Thirteen was always unlucky.

Short Story-13

2010-11-08T23:25:00.004+05:30

Once again she collided with the wall of the past. It had grown longer, sturdier and thicker somehow. Piled up, she thought.

She wanted parts of it broken. Will a slap do? Will anything heal?

Some walls cannot be broken. They'll be there to shamefully remind us of all our failings. To taunt.

Short Story- 12

2010-11-07T08:54:00.005+05:30

There was a time when all I had to do was reach out. And a rainbow would be mine. It was a life of sunbursts and glittering rains. Answers were simple one words. Worries were bound between school textbooks and were left behind once homeworks were done.

And then I grew up.

Perspectives got added. People walked in and out of life like I gave them a choice. Things that mattered died with time. I never thrilled the same way when I saw a touch-me-not shrink within itself. It was too familiar a sight. I shrink almost everyday. From people, events, truth.

The delight of being home

2010-11-04T10:53:00.004+05:30

I wanted a dose of a new city. To flap my wings and stretch it and put a sort of litmus test to my existence. Ahmedabad happened and opened my eyes and intellect to the big good-bad world.
*A Whole New World plays in the background

But every once in a while there comes a point where I get saturated with my freedom, limitlessness and the fun and hard work of NID and I crave for a whiff of home.

And when I DO FINALLY get into an auto to head home, after the painfully stretchy last days at NID, the feeling is un-word-able! A sudden hyperactivity seeps through my veins and I begin looking forward to everything from that warm first hug from my sister to the undeniable Koovam.
* Sorgame Endraaalum plays in the background

Nothing can quite equal the first morsel of favourite food- mostly vethakozhambu and urlakazhangu roast- that you down with all the attention from the family.

The home-bound happiness is Part A of the joy of returning to the turf. The familiar sounds that lull you, the smells that waft from your kitchen that you can predict with a sniff("Amma... vendaikka roast pannariya?"), the clockwork precision of sleep-rise-sleep, the fights to shun the sob serials of Aththipookkal and Magal and other crap, the stolen moments of TLC that warm my heart, familiar niches where I curl up to read and write, windy walks in my terrace and the good old jolliness of the family become therapy to a home starved kid.

Part B cause of joy would be the public transport itself-Share autos and struggling for bum space and leg space, the heart-wrenching "anna" word you can use to call out to the bus driver before demanding a ticket to streetnames that roll of your tongue so easily and unconsiously(Thambiah reddy road, G.N.Chetty road, Pondy bazaar, Ranganathan street) and the train journeys- especially at dusk when you see tributaries of Koovam transforming into romantic silvery pools as your train whizzes past.

The C cause of joy are the favourite haunts in the city. The Kleios visit that is soon-to-be, Bessie beach that seems to be on the cards multiple times, good old crowded Station road, mad Deepavali obsessed T.Nagar, the stately majestic Sardar patel road, The Landmark tucked under Apex Plaza, Spencer's from the outside, Express Avenue that is enchanting me with a promise of Escape, Okkiyam lake that I might skip this time, Vivekanada Coffee for the brew that can never be matched anywhere, Khivraj automobiles as a reminder of a long ago's perfect day and dear old Gemini flyover for being the stable icon of my life. My list would be blasphemously incomplete if I ignore my very own(ahem! excuse me dear owner whoever-you-are) Satyam Cinemas and their tub of caramel popcorn and the visions of that lovely spice jars that they once had to flavour one's buttered popcorn.

The D cause of joy is just the smell of Tamil. There's really something to the language. When you hear snatches of street fights in a Chennai by-line, it simply fascinates me, whereas a similar incident in Ahmedabad wouldn't be even quarter so interesting. The language has a charm that is indescribable. The films that are made in Tamil have an essence that nothing ever seems to duplicate. A well made Tamil film or revisiting one of my old favourites is enough to keep me smiling from ear to ear in a way no other film can do. After all, this is the land which gave me the joy of watching Sam Anderson who can cheer me up anyday!

The E cause would be the calmness that the city seems to inject into my system. What do you have Chennai, in you, with you, that you seem to gift me every once I return? No matter how battered, how disturbed, how lonely I feel before I touch foot on your sand, you seem to erase it all and charm me into becoming your dutiful slave forever!

I am sure I will travel immensely and may end up working in some other distant city. But Chennai is and will be to me something that no other place can ever dream of being. My own, my precious dear home nest! :)

Poetry in the wee sma' hours- 2

2010-10-30T01:26:00.002+05:30

It is one of those nights
when moonlit coldness
yanks at memory pools
and raises questions
that have no answers.

where hands grope for a clasp
and feels an empty room
and searchlight eyes
meet darkness as a guest.

It is one of those nights
where the jigsaw puzzle is scattered
and pieces go flying
some get lost in cranny abysses
some hide themselves under bedsteads
and some get crushed in the edges
and the pile that remains
just can not fit right.

It is one of those nights
that in endless armour
fights your defenses
teases your meaning
and raises questions
that have no answer.

Poetry in the wee sma' hours-1

2010-10-30T01:21:00.003+05:30

images of sepia past
whizzing on small screen
while reality paints
a contrary messy picture

mind transfixed in random past moment
goes through a monotonour mindless reel
rewind
replay
rewind
replay

pity washes the feet
with its cold clasping hands

once again questions are raised
that have no answers.

2010-10-30T01:02:00.002+05:30

There are things to talk on dreamy winter evenings
when cold fog hugs cold feet
and toes wiggle to the tune of chattering teeth.

Remember coffee cups
and hot fumes rising
brown liquid bubbles
burst dead by the cold.

There are things to tell on dreamy winter evenings
tales and confidances and wholehearted jest

When hands reach out
to tease the rising flame

There are walks and talks
and forgotten laughter
There are some memories
pleasantly to be made.

Short Story-11

2010-10-16T18:38:00.006+05:30

(Inspired by the Rupali theatre in Ahmedabad)

The reels must play over and over again. Even in the stranded hall. Light still came through perforations that made their way through wasted concrete. Little specks of light through little holes.

The moth eaten chairs stripped naked, foam exposed, with a stench that rose in the air stood testimony in silence. After all could the halides and nitrates stop shimmering! They were still around, suspended on dust that floated thick around the echoing halls.

Images rose- black and white, faint traces of colour-yesteryear's forgotten dreams rekindled.

And voices...they resounded, one over another, music interlacing through it-chaining them captive like memory.

And once again, cinema was born...

2010-09-30T02:53:00.000+05:30

Ripple

Across still waters

Reminding how

Trifle sized things

In moment’s notices

Could upset balances!

2010-09-21T00:17:00.005+05:30

My precious dear you!

Many many years ago, this day, you were born crying into this world. Something I could call my own. A sister. So small, but who'll grow up along with me. I vaguely remember being happy that there is someone now who'll always be around.

In the first few months of you entering my life, I slowly grew to feel left out. No one paid any attention to me anymore. I was not exclusive. I was going to share everything from now on. This pang lasted a while, but only later did I realize what a wonderful thing it is to share.

As we grew up, the fights exceeded the fun I thought we would have together. We barely understood each other, we were contrasting personalities- you the supposed quiet one, me the chatterbox. Little did we realize how beautifully we complimented one another and taught each other little things every day.

I remember how dainty-you kept her things clean and tidy, whereas scatterbrained-me was more of a messy freak. Your neatness and orderliness, even at such a young age, made me ashamed of the lack of them in me.

You had a style of your own even as a kid. You'd doll up beautifully, spend hours in front of the mirror, whereas in those days, I barely spent a second dressing up. You taught me what it meant to present oneself well.

My temper, my impulsiveness and emotional graphs got toned down in the presence of your maturity, composed nature and sensible self. Was I really the older one, you dear thing? You have taught me so much!

Not until we grew up to our late teens, in complete confidences, and long terrace walks; in mutual trust and simple sweet sisterly love, we discovered finally a wonderful friend in one another.

You know my ways, I have an obsessive compulsive disorder to explain in detail and give long descriptions of the why-how-what of my emotions! I have tried to tell you in a million ways how precious you are to me. It still somehow seems insufficient.

To my bundle of joy, my steady sweet support, the one I rush to every time I need, the one little thing that seems to love me so much despite my gazillion faults and failings, the person I miss acutely during happiness and sorrow, to my own precious little sister...

I wish you the best of birthdays and every single thing you dream of in your life at your feet. I wish dearly to be there by your side now, getting you a cake and showering you with gifts. But since I can't be, I am telling you that I wished for all of these. So forgive me for not sending you any gifts this time. :D You shall get them in double measure when I return!

Love you loads da! Miss you so much.

**hugs**

Short Story-10

2010-08-25T19:56:00.004+05:30

Is there ever a point of no-return? Or is everything such a point?

Where are lines drawn? Will they always be blurred? Or should we necessarily detail everything to its last dot?

What is right and wrong? Isn't it just a perspective? A view we take with ourselves due to what life has dished out to us? Will different things apply differently to different people?

Where is truth? What is?

Too many questions bogged her down. She wished she had a ctrl+alt+delete to manage the tasks of her life at will. She could have closed one application, started a new task with ease or just plain hibernated from all the crap and escaped a hang.

She decided, sometimes, life was better left a rhetoric!

Thoughts-5

2010-08-10T13:13:00.003+05:30

Potatoes.
deep fried.
like the feet on hot summer afternoons.
slaking thirst with lemonade.
bottled as a drink.
wine is something I should try.
Bunjee jumping.
With an umbrella?
Mary Poppins and her frilly skirts.
Vintage thoughts.
Ball dances with Prince Charming.
Anastasia.
Things I yearn to remember.
thoughts.

Thoughts- these are how mine are fashioned. This is an attempt to shape them on paper.

Check out my art work on Behance Network:

Click here on the Project name: Cobweb Crawls

Or type the following on your browser window:
http://www.behance.net/gallery/Graphic-art/633672

Thoughts-4

2010-08-08T19:09:00.004+05:30

Certain thoughts,
I tuck between the lines
It is my escape route
of having said, and yet
left things unsaid.

I may
shimmer clear like crystal to you
in dazzling white tones
little do you know
there is a vein of rouge
in undertones, running through.

Look between the lines
under the sheets
things are hidden
meanings are laid thick
stashed away.

Thoughts-3

2010-08-04T16:58:00.000+05:30

I want to levitate, or like Mary Poppins, fly away with my umbrella into far far away. It is raining and I think the world would look more wonderful from up up above than at human eye level.

Why agree to view the world from mere living eyes. I want an elevated version of it.

When the rivers of slush wade in and out of my toes, my feet get caked in the mud. The earth wants me rooted. I want to fly.

Maybe when I put distance between me and this life, I'd appreciate it more. Maybe...

Or maybe in those skies are answers I stupidly search for down below.

An umbrella, the wind, pellets of rain and me... romance never had a better description!

Thoughts-2

2010-08-01T17:42:00.002+05:30

A crumpled paper
set on fire
curling up
edges singeing
rocking in fetal positions

Thoughts-1

2010-07-30T20:27:00.003+05:30

ratiya kari kari ratiya
ratiya andhiyari ratiya

The voice dug holes into her spirit. Her eyes announced a vacancy!

raat humari toh
chand ki saheli hain
kitne dino ke baad
aayi woh akeli hain

She looked around at the colours that invitingly asked her to crawl within their swirls and strokes. Thick enamel stuck with obstinacy on white washed walls. Walls, oh yes, she knew she could colour walls; but...

andhera rootha hain
andhera baitha hain
gumsum sa kone main baitha hain

A little hole in the wall was what she wanted- to crawl into. It would definitely not make her feel restless.

andhera Pagal hain
kitna ghanera hain
chubhta hain, dasta hain
phir bhi woh mera hain

In the sadness she found love. A love that was hers and hers alone. Romance layering itself thick and falling like a shroud over her. An envelope of sorts. Where she needed no postage stamp to travel. It was the destination in itself for once!

uski hi godi main
sir rakhke sona hain
uski hi baahon main
chupke se rona hain

Tears betrayed her by refusing to give attendance when they were sought. Their stark disobedience built up the rebellion within her. She could learn to make conversations with pain in the absence of tears. After all, a stone had crept within and built a fortress over her heart.

ankhon se kajal ban
behta andhera aaj

Black swirled in her cup of tea. Layers of dust magically had inked the water in black. Black. black. black. The more she uttered it loud, the more thick it tasted in her tongue. Thick like the hurt that festered within. Like a thick undergrowth carpeting the floor, daringly questioning the entire existence of the floor below!

samjho ki baati bhi koi bujha de aaj
andhere se jee bhar ke karni hain baatein aaj

She had made a tryst with pain when she decided to be born into this world. She had kept happiness as a hostage back there.

Ekphrasis

2010-07-03T17:11:00.003+05:30

As part of our Music Workshop conducted by Vasu Dixit (lead singer and rhythm guitar, Swarathma), we were asked to go freewheeling on words or images as we heard a piece of music play.

The music we heard was the background music of a Dutch industrial documentary short film called Glas(Glass) by Bert Haanstra about the glassblowing industry. The music was primarily jazz and the way the music enhances the visuals and vice versa makes it worth a watch.

We did not know that the music was from a film as we just heard it. We had to create something with the music for inspiration- 'ekphrasis' as Plato would call it.

Here's what I wrote, before realizing that I was absolutely off the mark! :D

Tiptoes and cats
slender tall woman
smoking a pipe
Holly Golightly?

Furtive taps on
black and white keys
sleepless nights and serenades

Metal holes
fill with music
resonate within four walls
along with wine glass clinks

Red
and also a faint tinge of blue
waterlights and romance

rolled-up ball of fur
purring in delight

bristlestrokes of yellow
like cat eyes
shards of black
like hers.
canvases on walls
fairylights winking.

"a little more cheese, please
a sour dumpling of it."
Crispies breaking
and getting soggy in the mouth
heavy viscous sour cheese
zing
tang
explosion of taste

a twirl here
handclasps
flirting eyes

***********

dissonance
metal telephone vibrations
android calling home
"CSE04 reporting discontent
among species of the alienship"

music breaks
symphony freezes like the icefloats

Time has been broken down
opened up to let
another dimension pop in.

******

like a bad dream forgotten
music sets right
romance
rosepetal smells
sprinkling of salt
on ovenhot curry
white crystals
shining a second
before being consumed
by the everyday colour
of the curry.

a moment before forgotten
in the moment that came by
to overwrite

a joyous abandon
classics on Tv
plush sofas
hearty embraces
sip on wine
delicious cheese
a meal for two.

******

Short Story 9

2010-06-25T12:07:00.002+05:30

The two of them walked in the mystery of the twilight, holding a promise in their handclasp. Wordlessly, they seemed to know where one's footfall was going to be. They seemed synchronized, as if they were both a part of some magic spell that bound them together. Perhaps, there was a magic spell!

She stole a look at him. With blatant disregard for societal norms, she was one to express what she felt. Yet, how much can a person look at another and not creep them out with the hunger of one more vision?! So after a while, she had to satisfy herself with these stolen sidelong glances, noticing the bridge of his nose once, looking at that sparkle in his eyes or seeing how his mouth crinkled up when he smiled.

He always noticed those sidelong glances, and turned around to see her eyes sprinting across his face. He loved it that she did this, as it gave him one more reason to look at her. See the calmness and excitement taking alternate hold of her features. That quest in her eyes, the steady nature of her gaze and the loyalty of her smile. Her face was a promise he wanted to hold.

It had been some days since they went on these trysts. Every evening, he would come home, and she would accompany him. They would walk, sometimes wordlessly, other times, throwing in a word or two. Mostly, words seemed unwanted. They spoke through some unworded language that only the two of them understood. A bat of an eyelid, a fleck of a hand, a suppressed smile and one knew what the other was saying.

Today had been the day when they had finally confessed what one meant to the other. It is not like they gave it a tag or began building airy castles of marbleburst and glass. It was yet again a kind of acknowledgment- now in words- that life was meaningful in certain ways because they had found in one another something undefinable yet deep. It was not as if an unbreakable seal had been formed, but more like a hope of something beautiful had fluttered for the first time.

They had suddenly found beauty in life together, and they wanted to see where this journey would lead. There were no conclusions, it wasn't even a beginning. It was just an understanding, and probably far more beautiful than any of those verbose promises and grand declarations that the world had seen.

A few genuine questions

2010-06-11T13:59:00.004+05:30

The more films I watch, the more I seem to be looking at them from the audience's perspective instead of a director's. Yes, all I want to be, in my life, as of now(and probably for the rest of my life) is a director who makes interesting films out of interesting stories. But somehow, I still seem to be trapped as part of an audience, still thinking out of their shoes.

And every time I watch an Indian film(and here I'm using it in terms of Tamil and Hindi that I predominantly watch), it saddens my heart that 8 times out of 10, I end up being disappointed.

As an audience, I feel cheated out of my three hour worth time and as an Indian, I feel that most of our films pay meagre interest in the rich possibilities that our country's culture offers.

A few questions, invariably keep popping in my head time and again, after watching these so-called 'formula films'.

I totally understand that the Indian film industry is the busiest and churns out a phenomenal amount of work for around 750 crores per year- this money being equivalent to what one man swindled off through the Satyam scam!

But I don't understand why directors have to resort to doing the same kind of films over and over again, with just a change of star cast and location and probably other things like costumes, crew etc, repeating the same story again and again!

Our folk tales offer a rich source of inspiration, everyday occurences kindle a lot of situations and more than anything else, we have such a talented bunch of actors, technicians and other facilities that remain to be tapped.

The same story gets repeated in half-a-million different ways year in and year out. It ANNOYS me that the audience is treated like an idiot that asks for such things on screen. The blame game between audience and the industry can only be resolved by the industry. How can we decide that the audience likes formula films only, when we have barely exposed them to any other kind of films!?

If Subramaniapuram won the audience hearts, if an Eeram provided a sensible supernatural thriller, why can't such audience reactions ever be considered the next time anyone ever makes a film?

Why do we keep getting just one kind of film? Agreed that there has never been a better phase for young filmmakers to bring out their ideas on silverscreen than now. But such films are so few and far between.

One really wishes, as a part of the audience, that we don't get repetitive cliched characters. It irks me to see women portrayed time and again as mere dolls on screen. It is high time the actors take a stand and demand a scope for acting rather than just paste make-up on their faces, stand in the sideline, make a guest appearance and get reduced to glorified extras!

Even the heroes are time and again, larger than life, can-kill-anyone-with-a-mere-blow demigods, celebrated by their community. Villains are dummy caricatures who mouth uncouth dialogues and have thugs following them to probably even the toilets.

Why does a country that produces such brilliant cameramen, editors etc fail to make solid scripts? Yes, languages are plenty and probably a course in scriptwriting does become a tad difficult. But it is definitely not impossible!

I'm sick of hearing the Tamil parallel of "We have a situation here"- "Naan oru kudumbastan" time and again in every goddamn film!

When people can figure out fancy locales and stunning stunts, where does the creativity get stoppered when it comes to sensible plots and interesting dialogues?

I hate to accept that we watch more 'foreign' films than Indian films in our class when it comes to learning about any wing of filmmaking. There are a few Indian films that we end up watching as exemplary ones.

In a country that is so rich in every aspect, it really pains me to see no variety being offered to the Indian film audience.

I'm tired of watching the same old thing. I want something different from normal, films for kids, supernatural thrillers, film noir, drama, MUSICALS!

The star power probably does have a role to play, forcing directors to resort to time-tested plots. But it saddens me that if we watch a random muted song sequence of many actors, it is so difficult to figure out which film it is from, since they are all so alike!

Yes, we have such a song-dance subculture in India that we SO don't utilize. Songs and dances could be beautifully woven into the plot than having them as a breather in between the drama.

This is an immediate reaction after watching a recent formula Tamil film.

I hope we get to see something different soon. And yes, I also hope I'd someday soon be given a chance to attempt something different on the big screen!

Short story 8

2010-06-09T23:34:00.003+05:30

Somewhere, by the sea, Krishna laments, playing his flute. I can hear its faint notes. For all the games he has played- with minds, hearts, lives... he laments.

"I too am a mere toy of fate," his song claims. A plaintive note arises. A struggling breath, choked with tears he dare not shed in front of those who worship him, finds its way through bamboo shoot and musical voids and begs for forgiveness!

The sky. The sea. The earth. Early stars standing testimony for the cosmos. And the dying embers of a smouldering sun lining the horizon. He prays to the Panchabhootams through his music, pleading to be relieved from his bounden duty of playing his crafty game- turning kin against kin, twirling destiny between his thumbs.

The faint sounds still visit on rainy days like this one... Between the patter of the drops, I almost hear Krishna's sobs. In the breeze, I still can hear the lull of his flute and when the raindrop touches me, I feel a love so pure, so gentle and so trusting. Who else, but Krishna could touch that way?

Is it just me?

2010-06-04T09:14:00.004+05:30

1) When something goes right, something wrong usually follows.
2) Volatile is my new middle name
3) Figuring things out makes me lonely and not figuring things out makes me claustrophobic.
4) Wish there was an undo-redo-delete-home-end-pg dn-pg up button in life.
5) Ghajini's Sanjay Ramaswami/Singhania's short term memory loss could be used at will-on myself and others.
6) NID could be shifted to Chennai.
7) Wish shopping was the single biggest meaning making substance in life and I desired nothing beyond that!
8) Wish I did not have so many expectations out of my own life!
9) People were a lot simpler, thoughts could be read and hatred erased from all of the universe.
10) a+b=c (but heck, no... it HAD to be a complex equation!)
11) I could put things back in their place and not live in a messy pig-sty-ish style.
12) I could colour my life when I found it drab, like walls and switchboards!
13) Wish growing up was easier and childhood had less fancies about adulthood.
14) I could travel when I blink.
15) Machines were reasonable beings to whom you could talk and get them self-heal or self-destruct!
16) Food was always good EVERYWHERE!
17) That you could allow family in baggage.
18) Thoughts and ideas could be beckoned at will and brilliance was on speed dial.
19) Memories could be altered and obliviated.
20) All my life could be spent in watching films, reading, writing and painting.
21) Intentions were visible in comic stylized thought bubbles.
22) Mood swings did not exist!(sigh!)
23) Life was not such a complex game, or I was not so simple in the head.
24) More focus, more strength, more I-don't-cares!
25) The little butterfly that is fluttering within could be let out to soar to great heights.
26) Happiness was an over-the-counter medicine.
27) Certain things in life were not mutually exclusive and certain others were not mutually dependent!
28) I had sturdy wings to fly away from everything and soar awhile for some self-discovery.
29) I could talk less, think more and be more independent.
30) I could actually cheer the world and myself easily. *sigh*

_______________________________________________________________

Beginning stages of homesickness. Unrest. Cramming for time. Searching for inspiration. Wanting more meaning. No heart to go anywhere or do anything. Beginning of the blah. Desperately wanting Mysterious Mentor for whom I wish for every-goddamn-day ringing my doorbell!

Probable solutions: Endless mugs of tang. Shopaholicism(being followed to a 'T'), self-motivation(urghh! I detest the word), a trip to the mountains, new Rahman album like one of the really old ones, a little more meaning, one single rain, a bit of indifference, a slice of maturity and some more home time!

*sigh*

I really wish life was a little more easy! :(

Random Jabberings

2010-05-18T22:58:00.002+05:30

I have come to realize, over time, that there are a precious few people and things that stay with you forever. And by forever, I mean an illusion of a really extended period of time over which these people and things almost become a permanent fixture of your already short lifespans.

If there's one thing that scares me, it has been separation- from people and things. But life is washing over me with its astronomical strength that I have had nothing but to accept certain separations- from home, from friends, from people, from things with equanimity.

I'm being forced to not think of what-may-have-beens and concentrate just in appreciating the what-have-beens and what-is. It is hard. VERY hard to accept things and life as it comes. I almost wonder how generations have survived this, and this very same thought is what motivates me to reconcile to situations and accept whatever that causes a tremor in me.

Time slips away through my fingers like fine dust. I feel like I just left home, biting back tears and not showing even an iota of all the tension that was mounting within me, and now I'm almost near entering my second year!

SO MUCH has happened. So much has been learned and unlearned in the pages of this one year. I must say, I've emerged stronger, and maybe a tad wiser. Sometimes I wonder, why we accumulate all the strength and all the wisdom? Something always proves what you have wrong!

Probably there have been lessons I've learnt that have only lent more credibility to whatever person I've always been, and some others that have made me proud of my good upbringing. There have also been lessons learnt that have smarted my ego, told me not to be so impulsive and naive and oh-so-trusting.

In a world of confusion, somedays, my clarity of thought drives me crazy. I am always so sure of exactly what I want. It annoys me when people don't see the point of my actions when it stares so clearly at me. I've learnt to accept people for what they are. It is easier to forgive and forget this way.

People- they still continue to fascinate me. Their actions still scare, strangulate, surprise and soothe me. It takes all kinds of people to make the world, alright!

My first year in NID has been a beautiful learning experience. But soon as the academic year was over, I couldn't wait to get back home. I needed my old things that belonged to me. My space! My heart is slowly pacing up at the thought of leaving all the happiness of home.

Home has come rushing to me, or rather, I came rushing back home, at a time when I couldn't bear to stay a minute longer away from it. When I wanted the comfort of the familiar, when I wanted reassurance and support and just simple happiness of honest and pure love of family and friends.

And today, when I sat with not a care in the world, forgetting all the bitterness of growing up (which is not turning out to be as simple as I once imagined, nor as honest, direct and truthful an experience), I realized that home has come as a balm to me, preparing me for the challenges that await when I go back to fight my battles alone. Friends there are, and family too, to support me even there, and I feel blessed to have both. But well, this time the battles are going to be tougher, the challenges more intense.

There is still a voyage of self-discovery left for me, and I've barely begun. Scary, yes, but I'm willing to take it so I make mistakes far less than I have. With a few regrets and holding strong to all the strength and happiness, I shall keep rowing.

P.S.: Just some random jabberings!

Short Story 7

2010-05-17T13:43:00.002+05:30

Niti switched off the radio as the radio jockey jabbered on. It had been a long day. Too much work. Too little satisfaction in it. And a horrible head ache to top it all.

"Come here kitty-cat!" she twitched her cat's ears and let it curl around her feet. She dug into the box of cookies and tossed one at her foot and popped another into her mouth.

She wished something could unwind her a bit. The radio couldn't and neither could the book. Way too heavy to read after a day's work, she thought.

Something to soothe her and make her feel comforted...

The lights got bright. Something zipped in through the window. Her jaw dropped. A parade of musicians had zipped in through her window. Eyes popped out, jaw still frozen mid-air and voice in a knot, she managed a gasp.

"Hello and welcome to Wishwhatever works inc. We operate at your deepest requests and needs. We just received a neurospiritic signal from your internal systems requesting our services to unwind you. So here we are, presenting the Interstellar Orchestra," a man greatly resembling a smiling Dali declared.

The musicians started to play and two men handed out tall glasses of some frosted drink to a still-shocked her. Finally managing to come to her senses, she almost started to protest, when the drink handlers gently nudged her to sip her drink.

As she sipped her drink, she found her muscles relaxing and her heart pacing back to the normal.

As the lilting jazz number drew to an end, the Interstellar Orchestra sat on their knees and drew out a rose each from within their neatly brushed jackets. A baffled, but calmer Niti, graciously muttered a 'Thank you' and managed a smile.

At the sight of her smile, they bowed and disappeared in a blink.

"Kitty-cat!Erm... Did that actually happen?"

Kitty-cat continued to nibble at the cookie.

Short Story- 5

2010-05-06T15:20:00.003+05:30

She wondered where he hid the rainbows. They were probably hidden in one of those million lockers in 'Earth Needs' section. They were so beautiful, she wished her Dad would let her throw them merrily on earth whenever she wanted. He was the chief of everything the world was about. Many told her, they called him 'God' down there and apparently that was the highest post anyone had ever got. She didn't quiet understand all that, but she knew everyone loved and respected her Dad and that was more than enough.

She was very happy today. When she got up, a globule had died and a spectacular show of light was visible in the distance. She loved the way all kinds of colours just burst out in randomness. They had all trooped near the dying globule and had watched the 'death dance', as it was called.

It had made her so jubilant that she felt like throwing some colour down below at the earth. Her Dad however had just given her a stern look and walked away, when she had suggested it.

Now, she slowly sneaked to where he kept all kinds of rainbows hidden. The Rainbow Locker, it was called. She had discovered the small locker, number 203, adjacent to The Unlimitted supply closet of laughter and the Limited extra toe cabinet.

A dread ran through her. Last year, her enthusiastic exploration had resulted in an extra toe being tossed accidentally down on earth and a newborn chewing merrily on it. That her mother couldn't make out what that rubbery thing was that her wee little girl puked, was another story altogether. A whole village of ideas poured forth, but time healed their curiosity and that tale now remained forgotten and buried.

She chided herself for being so reckless and slowly opened The Rainbow Locker, and chanted,

"Give me a rainbow that would span a mile
That would make the world delighted for a while."

A mist developed within the endless locker. Colours stirred within. A faint strain of music slowly built up to an audible symphony. And a thin, wispy and beautiful rainbow emerged. It twirled around her. She touched it and the colours passed through her hand, leaving a pleasant coolness on her palm. She whispered softly, "Go spread joy wherever you wish to". The Mile Rainbow headed towards the earth. She sighed and then readied herself to tell her Dad what she had just done.

Reaching for the rainbows!

2010-04-28T14:21:00.007+05:30

I'm embarking on my journey to Cumbum- my dear native land of simple joys. My excitement knows no boundaries, as this is a return after six years. But the added tag of shooting a travel documentary there is what is making me apprehensive.

Yes, a long aspired wish- almost 5 years of meditating on that later- I'm finally making it. There are still a million ways in which this shoot might not happen, and I'm hoping none of those ways interfere.

I badly want to do this documentary. First and foremost, for my dear Cumbum Thatha- as a dedication to him and his life.
Also for that wonderful gift of childhood that it gave me.
And thirdly, to fill in what my life is missing these days- self-sufficient calm.

I am asking all of you who read this to just send a wish and some strength floating towards me. It is a very important trip, and I hope it goes well.

Please put in a second of prayer for me. This means a whole lot!

Cumbum... here I come...

P.S: In case you want to see what the original inspiration was, these three posts below would help. Reading them, Arvind Caulagi suggested I think of making a film. THAT was the moment that has changed a lot of things in life.

Thank you Arvi!

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

DESPAIR!

2010-04-27T21:11:00.004+05:30

Half our battles are fought alone. Struggling to grapple with people almost takes half our everyday life away- people and their capacity of cruelty, people and their inability to express, people and their non understanding of things.

I'm struggling with this now. I am happy. Really really happy in life. But there are so many things that plague me. Things that bother me.

I don't know where to run to. I see walls or opinions all around me.

I need my mentor. That one person who's always been elusive. MY mentor. The one who shall be there to knock me on my head and drive in some sense as well us thump me on my back and propel me forward.

So confused! So confused!
I feel like a million people are existing inside, ordering me around, telling different things. Does life necessarily have to be so cruel as we grow up? And people crueler?!

Does the world know that nothing cuts open people as much as words. Ah the power of words!!!

And I hate to see people and things drift away from me.

Can't wait for my trip. I just want to find some things out for myself. I want to snuggle back into the childhood space where life was simpler, world was nicer and my own happiness depended on smaller things!

For really, nothing and no one is going to do that for me. There is no mentor. No nothing.

Dreaming on...

Off the top of my head- 6

Lessons in life

A loving adieu

One of those days...

The Best of Quest- a book review

happy random

CRIBFEST-1!!!

Off the top of my head-5

Off the top of my head-4

Waiting for the Winter

Off the top of my head-3

Off the top of my head-2

Off the top of my head-1

To Anoodha Kunnath

Right off my head...

Illundavoor Tale-5: THE NIGHTINGALE POLICE

click, close, click...

Raja's Tales- 1

Book Review: Bombay Duck is a Fish

On a dark cloudy eventide

CHANAKYA’S CHANT- A review

Short Story- 27

Book Review: All and Nothing

BLOODY WORLD

She wants a ticket to ride!

Fistful of dreams

Short Story 26

Short Story 25

Soon

Short Story 24

Short Story 23

Short Story- 22

Illundavoor Tale- 4

Short Story-21

Illundavoor Tale- 3

Short Story- 20

Illundavoor Tale- 2

Mami's Memories: Illundavoor Tale-1

Stories

Now, listen to me Time!

Bye bye Ahmedabad!

Salvation!

Short Story-19

We bled blue on the world cup and how!

Today

light wings

Short Story- 18

I will meet you yet again

Delusional Angel

Random

My first film :)

On a lazy saturday

thinking

Thoughts

Short story- 17

Published!!!!

PresentingKavikala: a visual poetry project, in collaboration with 33 artists and33 poets, aka the Madness Mandali. Check out my illustration at 0:26 secs. Yay! I'm published! :)

Check it out here!

Inklings!

Short story- 16

I

Artsy beginnings

Dear new year,

Short Story 15

Three dwarfs in one

Quote- 1

PART 1: Trichy

Short Story-14

Short Story-13

Short Story- 12

The delight of being home

Poetry in the wee sma' hours- 2

Poetry in the wee sma' hours-1

Short Story-11

Short Story-10

Thoughts-5

Thoughts-4

Thoughts-3

Thoughts-2

Presenting
Kavikala: a visual poetry project, in collaboration with 33 artists and
33 poets, aka the Madness Mandali. Check out my illustration at 0:26 secs. Yay! I'm published! :)